Chapter Text
Phainon does not receive summons often. Today is strange. Perhaps it’s the air, chilled and sweet with out of season rain, sky cast with clouds. Perhaps it’s the silence on the overcrowded streets marking the entrance to Okhema. Or perhaps it’s the frown on Lady Aglaea’s face, her golden threads laced through her reception room in Marmoreal Palace, quivering as Phainon brushes past them. Before her, he kneels on cold stone and bows his head in deference. “My Lady.”
“Rise, Phainon,” Aglaea instructs, so he does slowly, lifting his eyes to look at her. Green-gold irises look back at him, and still, she frowns. Rarely does Aglaea ever seem troubled.
“I am honored to answer my Lady’s summons,” Phainon says, folding his hands neatly in front of him, unafraid but uncomfortable. He can smell incense trailing in from the other rooms, sage and myrrh. Aglaea’s threads vibrate as if plucked, testament to his unease.
“I’ve received word from Castrum Kremnos,” Aglaea begins. “Nikador has lost their Reason and Honor, and grows restless. Their insanity is tantamount to Kremnos' destruction.”
Nikador would not be the first titan to lose their sanity. Nor will they be the last, as the black tide stretches across Amphoreus. By the day, Okhema floods with refugees, and the rest of the world falls bit by bit. Phainon’s fingers curl into a fist. The threads buzz, and he squeezes harder. Forces himself to take a breath. “My Lady, if I may, we must aid them before it’s too late—”
“Silence.” She doesn’t raise her voice, but he quiets without question. Her threads still. She sighs, dipping her head to rub her temple. “Their crown prince has spoken to me,” she continues. “He comes seeking aid, as you are so willing to offer. A promise of his people’s survival.”
She pauses there, and Phainon knows there’s more to it than that. There are threads to all things; Aglaea knows this better than he does. Nothing this important can be freely given. He parts his lips to speak. “And what do we ask of him in return?” We, though Aglaea is the one who makes these decisions. Phainon, despite his prophecies and the fates that try to point otherwise, does not have what it takes to lead an entire people. Aglaea is ruthless when need be. She is the best person for this job, and Phainon, almost, sometimes, hates her for it.
“The coreflame,” she says, and Phainon nods, expecting this much. Her eyes trace him, though he’s unsure what, if anything, she sees. “And something to ensure the longevity of the newfound alliance between our peoples.” Again, she pauses. Hesitates, perhaps, though Aglaea has never been one to hesitate. She searches Phainon for something, threads humming with his unease.
“And that is?”
“His hand in marriage,” Aglaea finishes, “bequeathed to you.”
△
Phainon kneels in the plaza outside of Marmoreal Palace with his hands on his thighs and his head bowed for a long time. Voices stir around him, about him, but he doesn’t care. Even when it begins to rain and the streets empty out, he stays, feeling himself get soaked through. His hair drips into his eyes. The stone ground steals the warmth from his legs and replaces it with stiffness. Soon, he is numb and unfeeling but for the cold and this emotion like grief but louder. Rage but quieter. He is furious and indignant and sad. Humiliatingly devastated.
He kneels here, and he feels like a child.
The rain patters. Over it, he can’t hear a single footstep. The rest of the world has already gone inside, and there’s no one to witness him do this. No one to care. Even so, he stays, whether out of stubbornness or a sheer loss of how to proceed from here. Phainon, married to someone he doesn’t know, who doesn’t love him, all for the sake of political nuances he couldn’t care less about. A prince like a bargaining chip. Phainon himself, a pawn. How nice if things could just happen without ceremony.
His teeth chatter. His hair pastes to his skull and blinds him. The rain roars around him. He keeps his head bowed, and soon, the numbness lends itself to pain.
Time passes like this. Silent tears mix with the rain. Someone holds an umbrella over him, and the torrent, if only in this spot, ceases.
“She won’t see you again,” says a soft voice. It’s Trinnon, her bangs covering her eyes, the crown of flowers in her red hair slightly crooked. She leaves herself partly uncovered to shield him from the rain, and there are tear tracks on her cheeks, noticeable only because her face is still dry.
Phainon sighs. His eyes sting. He’s so cold, frozen through, and he’s made a child cry. “I’m sorry,” he says, and sniffs through a running nose.
“We weep for your pain,” Trinnon says. “We wish we could ease it.”
“You have,” Phainon promises. Gentle, he takes her hand and pushes the umbrella to cover her the rest of the way. Again, rain pelts on him, but he’s already soaked, and it hardly matters. He’s struck by the warmth of her tiny hand. The feeling it brings him near to tears, and he realizes what this must look like. A tantrum. An heir unwilling to do one of the most important duties asked of him. He’s been outside far too long. Aglaea will not come out and rescind her words. He’s known this from the start, and yet he sunk to his knees here and hasn’t been able to heave himself up. “Thank you, Trinnon.”
“You’re freezing,” she says, shifting the umbrella over him again. Her face is expressionless, those tear tracks drying. “Let us help.”
“There’s no need for both of us to be soaked.” Still, she remains unmoving. Phainon laughs a little, a sad, pathetic thing. It sends him into a sneeze, and then he’s wiping his wet eyes and nose on an equally wet arm and struggles to his feet. He nearly falls, legs stiff and cramped and unfeeling. Trinnon drops the umbrella to catch him. Again, this nearly sends him to tears, and truly, he feels like a child. He is a child, to react like this.
Between the two of them, they manage to hobble inside.
△
He sleeps fitfully, and wakes in the morning with a cold. A mild punishment, considering his stunt last night. His nose is stuffed and his body aches, but he isn’t fevered or unable to keep his breakfast down. He bathes quickly in too cold water and dresses for the day in a blue coat with gold detailing because his white one is still drying from the night before. This one pulls too tightly at his shoulders, but he doesn’t notice until he’s already out for the day.
Tribbie glares at him when he meets her outside. The air still smells like rain. Too cold. The street is gray and puddled with moisture. “Snowy,” she says, and then pauses, frowns harder. She’s looking at his blue coat. “Yesterday. What was that?”
Phainon sniffles and then tries to laugh. It comes out fake, though he does his best. They walk, sticking to the side of the thoroughfare as a droma passes, shaking the ground in its wake. “A tantrum,” he answers, sniffling again. “I’ve accepted the consequences. Think nothing of it.”
She seems upset by this, whether by the actions themselves or how Phainon is attempting to write them off. Hands on her hips, she huffs. “Is it really so bad?” she asks. “Agy wouldn’t ask you to do this if it were going to be terrible.”
She can’t know that, not really. None of them can. Aglaea isn’t omniscient. Prince Mydeimos is a mystery to them all, though his prophecies entwine with their own. He’ll be a powerful ally, certainly, but there’s nothing to say he won’t make a terrible husband.
Phainon feels a sneeze coming on. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lady Aglaea does what’s necessary. I—” He cuts himself off, cringing as the sneeze comes and goes without any relief. He sniffs with a disgusting wet sound. “Yesterday was a lapse of judgement. I’m… prepared, now, to accept my duty. I’m sorry for worrying you, Tribbie.”
“We’ve heard,” she starts, still, endlessly, frowning, “that Prince Mydeimos is the best warrior Castrum Kremnos has. Strong and noble and just, and willing to do anything for his people.”
“Yes,” Phainon says, sucking in a breath. A good warrior, certainly. He’s heard the stories of Mydeimos The Undying, the man with an immortal body and the bloodlust of an entire army. He sounds wonderful at small talk. “He must care about his people a great deal, to agree to this.”
Resigned, he makes the turn to put himself on the path to Marmoreal Palace, glancing down to see Tribbie follow. He folds his arms tight to him, still cold, afraid he’ll never be warm again, and sniffles. Tribbie hops over a puddle, dancing around another and running to catch up to him. Phainon almost wishes he were a child again too, with only dreams for the future, no fears. Finally, that sneeze comes, and he turns his face into his elbow, leaving an unfortunate amount of snot smeared there. It stands out horribly on the cobalt of his coat. Tribbie reaches up to offer him a handkerchief.
“You don’t need to love him,” she says optimistically. “Only get along well enough to cohabitate.”
“Sure,” Phainon laughs, wiping his nose on the cloth first, then mopping up the mess on his sleeve. But he’ll never be allowed to give his heart to another. Not openly, not properly. Titans, he’s never even been in love. This is nothing. He sighs and folds the handkerchief. “I’ll wash this before I return it,” he says, tucking it into a pocket.
“Keep it,” Tribbie says. “We have others. Ones that haven’t been filled with your snot.”
“I’m sure.” Phainon smiles. Almost means it. He stops at the place where he’d kneeled the night before and turns to her. “Thank you, Tribbie.”
She smiles and reaches to take his gloved hand with both of hers, so much smaller. “No more goodbyes,” she says. “May you find your way with Janus’ blessings.” He bows his head to her. She lets his hands go and steps back, and when he looks, she’s smiling wide. “All stops are important to the journey. You’ll end up exactly where you need to be.”
“Thank you,” he says again, because it’s really all he can say, and then he watches her wave and skip away. When she’s gone, he turns back to face the palace. A heavy breath. He wipes his nose with the handkerchief again and makes his way inside.
Aglaea is waiting, expecting him in her reception chamber. This time, her strings are not strung about. There’s only the way she watches him as he comes in, neatly folding her needlework and setting her hands in her lap. “Lord Phainon,” she greets. A garment maker takes the fabric she’d been sewing and whisks away.
He bows his head. “Lady Aglaea.”
She stands from her seat and smooths her dress. “That was quite a scene you put on last night.” She steps closer, heels clicking on the stone floor. “I see you’ve made yourself ill.”
“Yes,” Phainon says, fighting the urge to sniffle and trying not to drown in his own embarrassment. A child, he thinks. All these years and all this responsibility, and you still act like a child. His fate has never been his own. He would do well to remember that. “I… apologize for last night. I’ve come to my senses and I’m ready to do my duty as a Chrysos Heir.”
Aglaea is quiet. She paces a slow circle around him, and it makes him inexplicably nervous. When she returns to his front, she stops, and he’s forced to face the green-gold of her eyes. “I wouldn’t force you,” she says firmly. “I asked you to consider. A marriage is the safest way I can think to secure an alliance, but I would never force you.”
“I understand,” Phainon says, gaze dipping to the floor. The relationship between Okhema and Castrum Kremnos has been strained for a long time. An alliance on the basis of desperation and death alone will be tumultuous at best. His people will pillage, theirs will fight tooth and nail. He understands, he does, he just wishes it could have been someone else in his place. Aglaea inclines her head for him to continue. He presses his tongue hard into the roof of his mouth to suppress a sneeze. “And I…” His voice wavers. “...Am prepared to do whatever you ask of me.”
“Phainon,” she says heavily, “you sound near to tears. I—”
He sneezes hard enough to hurt his throat, barely managing to catch it in the pit of his elbow. “I—” Another sneeze, and he has to turn away from her, heat climbing to his face. “Apologize. I’m simply unwell, not—”
She laughs, softly, so he stops speaking. He keeps his arm over the lower half of his face as he turns back to her. A slender hand holds out a crisp white handkerchief. The second he’s had to borrow today. “To think,” she says, smiling when he takes it, “I thought you’d been about to cry.”
“No, Lady Aglaea,” he says apologetically, mortified beyond belief as he wipes his nose. “Only about to sneeze.”
“Wash your hands and face,” she dismisses him, “and then we will finish this conversation.”
He bows shortly and steps out, finding his way to water and clean cloths, where he blows his nose and washes up as instructed. He finds his own face, still flushed in the mirror, and tries to swallow down his embarrassment.
Aglaea smiles. “Come sit,” she invites him, gesturing to a spot on the stone bench beside her. When he does, she spreads her fingers and fills the space around them with her golden threads. “There is no need to be alarmed,” she says, closing her eyes as she does. “I would only know the truth as you speak it.” Still, the threads hum with his unease. They always do, just lightly. Aglaea knows they make him nervous.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Not quite, but it’ll do.”
Again, she smiles, eyes peeling open. Gently, she touches his left hand with both of hers, chilled slightly below body temperature, winding one of her strings around his pinky finger. It’s translucent and insubstantial but for a slight warmth that radiates from it. “What’s this?” he asks.
“Mnestia’s blessings,” she answers, releasing his hand. “An oath, should you choose to swear it.”
Phainon flexes his fingers and finds nothing different. Just the warmth, slight as it is. “I… see.”
“Are you willing?”
He takes a breath. The rest of the threads hum, glistening gold around them. “Yes,” he says, and the one around his finger grows a little brighter, less wispy.
Aglaea seems pleased. “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, are you willing to accept the hand of Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos?” she continues. The threads around them buzz louder. She notes this and studies him. “I will not force you.”
“I am willing,” Phainon says, though his stomach flips on itself. The strings get louder, so he swallows thickly and tries to explain. “I am willing to do this to save his people, and to secure the coreflame for ours, but…” His throat bobs. “I am not willing to force myself to love a stranger.”
The buzzing quiets. “I understand,” Aglaea says. The string on his pinky finger solidifies a bit more. “You will marry him, but you don’t believe yourself capable of loving him?”
“Yes,” Phainon murmurs.
“That is enough.” Aglaea pulls the string taut and plucks it once, releasing a soft, resonant sound. “Will you make the oath?” she asks.
Heat wraps around his hand. Phainon takes a breath so deep it strains his lungs. “Yes,” he swears. Again, Aglaea plucks the string, fully substantial now. “I accept the hand of Prince Mydeimos in marriage.”
One more time, another sweet, resonant sound. Aglaea releases the string, and the heat settles into something soft and neutral. “Mnestia’s blessings,” Aglaea says reverently. “With this, you are bound.”
△
The thread remains on his finger. It’s invisible when he doesn’t think about it, but when he does it appears with soft translucence and a sensation like body heat. A tie to Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos. An oath to an entire people in need of saving. Phainon sighs and, run dry, leaves the palace.
The clouds have cleared up by now. The path outside is lit by the sun and beginning to dry out. It smells like beginnings—even through Phainon’s stuffed nose—and he tries to be optimistic.
A noble man, he thinks, hands slipping into his pockets only to withdraw upon discovering two sullied handkerchiefs. He imagines a faceless stranger, someone broad and armored and bold. Someone desperate and full of vengeance, with the bloodlust of an entire army contained in an immortal body. And then he stops, because he doesn’t know this crown prince, and it doesn’t feel fair to use rumors to try.
“Lord Phainon.” He’s stopped by a voice. He turns to find Castorice there, hands clasped in front of her. She looks like she’d been considering whether or not to approach for a long time.
“Castorice,” he greets her, inclining his head.
“I… apologize, for listening in, but I wanted to offer my blessings.” She seems saddened, perhaps for him, though her expression is carefully neutral. “And… My congratulations as well.”
He smiles, and tries to mean it. “Thank you,” he says, and thinks of the souls he will prevent her from guiding. This will save people, he thinks. Hardly anything will change anyway. There’s no love to hold him back, and there’s room enough for another in his home. They’ll be powerful allies, and perhaps they’ll become friends.
Castorice bids him farewell, never one to linger, and he drags himself home to sleep the rest of the night away. His body aches and difficulty breathing makes it hard to rest, but he tries. Succeeds in pieces. He forces himself up for lunch and dinner and finds the time to launder his borrowed handkerchiefs, stuffing the pockets of his too tight cobalt coat with a few of his own.
Late, he finds himself toying with the string on his finger. It glows faintly as he lays in bed and wills it to appear. Translucence, and a sensation like body heat. He wonders what an oath like this spells for his impending future. It feels, he thinks, like something dangerous.
With a sigh, he slips his hands under the covers and resigns himself to sleep.
△
In the morning, he is marginally less stuffy. He blows his nose and washes his face, then subjects himself to a breakfast of dried fruit and bread. Today, his appetite deserts him, but he forces down as much as he can before he pulls on his white coat, freshly washed and dried, and makes his way to the baths.
According to a mother Phainon hasn’t seen in a long time, there’s nothing better for a sick man than a hot bath and a cup of apple cider vinegar. He’ll skip the vinegar, but the bath feels overdue. He rinses off in cold water first, and then sinks into the soothing, golden heat of the Chrysos Heirs’ bath.
It’s humid, smelling like salt and incense. Phainon is the only one here at the moment, so he leans back with his eyes closed and nothing to listen to but the sound of running water. The steam curling off the hot water helps to clear his sinuses and ease his aches. There’s nothing to focus on but this, nothing to worry about. Just this place and its peace, its comfort. This lasts for all of three minutes before the sound of another set of footsteps disturbs it. Phainon opens his eyes and is met not with Aglaea or Castorice or Tribbie or another of the Chrysos Heirs, but with an unfamiliar face.
“This is the Chrysos Heirs’ bath chamber,” he says, casual in his correction. This would not be the first time someone attempted to sneak in, and Phainon has never found it to be worth a fight. The newcomer looks at him with slanted eyes, the right lined in red, and an unkind expression, though perhaps that’s just his face.
“Yes,” he says, and strips out of his robe and trousers to sink into the bath a reasonable distance away. His entire torso has been made a canvas for crimson markings, another on his cheek that had been hidden by his hair. When he settles, his sigh is as heavy as if he carried Kephale’s burden of the world himself. There’s something familiar about the way he melts into the bath, an exhaustion Phainon has been intimately familiar with after a drawn out battle.
He carries himself like a warrior, and just for that, Phainon doesn’t care to kick him out. No one who fights in this long and bloody war should be denied a moment of respite.
There’s a long silence between them. Phainon stretches his legs out and observes for a moment. A build like a soldier, tall and muscled. He’s broad in the shoulders and chest, in the arms. Phainon tries to decide what kind of weapon he wields based on the distribution of his mass, but he comes up empty. Moments later, this stranger cracks an eye open. “I have an invitation,” he explains, and then goes silent again.
Slowly, Phainon nods. He doesn’t ask more, though he’s curious. There isn’t a single scar on this man to be seen. Curious. Phainon himself is covered in them, from tiny nicks to giant gashes. No soldier comes out of their service unharmed, and yet… “That’s your cue to stop staring,” the stranger speaks again, leveling Phainon with an amber gaze. He looks like a challenge. Phainon can’t help tracing his red over again in search of scars, and still, he can’t find a single one. Curious.
“That braid,” Phainon starts, eyeing the strawberry blond plait behind the man’s ear, “you’re Kremnoan, aren’t you? A refugee?”
A breath huffed like a laugh. The stranger props his jaw on his fist and stares lazily. “Kremnoan, yes,” he says, and his voice is deep, a little gravelly. “A refugee… Well, I suppose you could call it that.”
“I’ve heard Nikador has gone mad,” Phainon says, turning to face the man properly now that a conversation has opened up. “How bad is it there? What of King Eurypon?”
Something like a scoff. The Kremnoan’s lip curls. “Dead,” he says. “And you, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, are considerably less bright than they make you out to be.”
He only has a second to process the news before the sting of insult distracts him. Phainon’s eyes narrow. “You know me?” he asks.
“Amphoreus’ perfect vessel.” His gaze dips to Phainon’s chest, back up to the mark on his throat. “‘The nameless hero embarking on a grand mission of deliverance.’ The best hope Castrum Kremnos has left. I’d have to be an idiot not to.”
He recites that piece of Phainon’s prophecy like a curse. There’s something hot boiling in his eyes, and Phainon finds his own anger kindled in turn. He bites his tongue and crosses his arms in an unintentionally defensive posture. “‘The best hope Castrum Kremnos has left’,” he echoes, raising an eyebrow. “And what of you, if you’re strong enough to provoke me? Or are you just as stupid as you seem to think I am?”
This earns him a grin. This stranger, whoever he is, is enjoying this. He lifts his free hand out of the water, holding it out, and Phainon… Phainon is enjoying this too. Water drips from that palm and spills down a muscled forearm, and there, extending from the man’s little finger is a thread, thin and translucent, and everything starts to make sense.
The prince, then. Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, The Undying, Mydeimos. Phainon’s… betrothed.
“I could take you in a fight, Deliverer.” Mydeimos says, tongue as sharp as his teeth. His smile is cruel. “I might even win.”
And Phainon, astounded, can only laugh. He runs a hand through his wet hair, the one with the matching string, and says, “you’ll do well not to call me that.”
Mydeimos grins wider, venom behind it, the bloodlust of an entire army. “And what would you prefer, future husband? Because I can think of a hundred things that you are, and not one lives up to your reputation.”
Phainon scoffs, finding himself closer and thrilling with something hot and angry. “What a first impression you’re making,” he says, looking Mydeimos up and down. “That eager to test Okhema’s fighting prowess? Or is ridicule how you always begin a courtship?”
“My apologies,” Mydeimos says, looking wicked with wet hair and this look in his eyes. “Is prostrating in the rain a better way to make a man feel wanted? Okhema’s culture is certainly a bit diff—”
Phainon’s fists curl. “You—”
In an instant, they’re on each other, grappling in the water. Phainon throws a punch that Mydeimos catches, using the momentum to pull him forward into his knee. Phainon twists and throws them sideways into the bath, hooking an ankle around Mydeimos’ legs to take his balance. They land with a splash, spray in their eyes, and Phainon wrenches his wrist free and blindly shoves Mydeimos underwater. There’s a brief struggle and he’s bucked off. Mydeimos throws him under instead, pinning him with his weight, trying to get a hold of his wrists. Phainon thrashes. Liquid floods his nose and mouth. Adrenaline sings. He rams his knee into Mydeimos’ stomach and throws himself back to the surface, vision blurred from the water in his eyes, blindly throwing a punch. Mydeimos slips away from it, catches the kick he sends next, and sends him stumbling backwards.
He blinks the last of the water away and tries to catch his breath, fingers slipping in a puddle outside the pool, over the edge, and in moments, he’s backed into the wall of the bath with a thin red crystal at his throat. When his vision focuses, it’s to Mydeimos gritting his teeth, a look in his eyes that could make a room full of children cry.
“You, future husband,” he growls, water dripping into his eyes, panting hard, “fight dirty.”
Phainon finally catches his breath, holding careful eye contact for a handful of seconds. He swallows, and the crystal at his throat almost pricks him. Then, a dagger, slipped from his discarded pile of clothes outside the bath, rests just above Mydeimos’ naval. “You do too,” he says, watching Mydeimos realize it’s there. Whatever this is, it’s petty and immature and it’s the youngest Phainon has felt in a long time.
Slow, Mydeimos grins. “Ruthless,” he breathes, and it sounds like praise.
Phainon grins back. “Bloodthirsty,” he replies.
After a breath, Mydeimos withdraws, pulling away and plunking back into the bath at Phainon’s side. It’s with reluctant respect that he says, “Perhaps you are half as strong as they say you are.”
Phainon laughs and tosses the dagger back on his clothes. He shoves dripping hair out of his eyes and slides down, slinging his arms across the edge of the bath. “Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos,” he says, cocking his head, “I think I quite like you.”
Half-lidded eyes study him in return. “Mydei,” comes the correction. “Mydeimos is far too long.”
“Mydei, then,” Phainon assents. He leans back and shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath of humid air. “Here’s to a successful partnership.”
△
“You’ll have to court him,” Aglaea says, needle and thread between her fingers. She’s swift as she stitches. “There are rules you must follow.”
“Yes,” Phainon says. “Only… I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with these things.”
Aglaea sighs and lowers the fabric to her lap. “Gifts come first,” she says, holding up one finger. “Fruits and wine, then finery. Clothing, jewelry. Weaponry, if you think he’d be keener. You will write to each other—letters, poetry if you can find the inspiration—and spend at least some amount of time in each other’s company. Your house will need to be prepared for him to occupy it immediately after you marry.”
“And when will that be exactly?”
“Reasonably, six months from now. Realistically, one. We cannot afford to dally when Nikador runs amok.”
“I… see.”
“Lord Phainon,” Aglaea says, firmer than before. “I understand this is inconvenient, but this is important, and you must treat it as such.”
“I know,” he says, and suppresses a curse. “I am, I was just… thinking, I guess. I apologize.”
She lifts her work again so he won’t be subjected to the intensity of her gaze. “Do you regret this?” she asks, untangling her thread.
Phainon wets his lips. “No,” he says, and means it. “It’s just strange. The thought of myself… married.” He thinks of Mydei and the word husband feels out of place. That wicked grin and the soft domesticity Phainon associates with marriage are irreconcilable with each other. Not that their marriage was ever going to be a soft, domestic thing.
Aglaea considers this, humming softly. “If it’s any solace,” she begins, “I don’t believe he will be a terrible husband to you.”
“No,” Phainon breathes. “I don’t suppose he will.” A sigh, and he straightens up. “Thank you, Aglaea. I’ll look for suitable gifts immediately.”
“Good,” she says, and levels him with a stare. “Are you prepared for the engagement to go public?”
Phainon takes a deep breath, then nods, pursing his lips. “Yes,” he says, more to himself than to her. “I’m ready.” And suddenly this feels very, very real.