Chapter Text
The city-state of Okhema shimmered like an unending mirror under the blazing suns of Amphoreus. From the balcony of the Presidential Spire, Phainon watched morning light fracture across glass towers and rivers of silver traffic. The capital seemed born to impress, a masterpiece of unification, each district once its own city-state now folded beneath the same banner of progress.
He should have felt pride. Instead, he felt the slow tightening of an invisible collar. Today was the Inter-City Summit; his mother’s crowning diplomatic project and, by extension, his unspoken performance review before the entire planet.
Ever since Aglaea had become President of Okhema, more and more eyes had turned toward him, waiting for the slightest misstep to be read as proof of her failure. As if to say: What else could one expect from a single mother? If she cannot even raise her adopted son properly, how could she possibly govern a nation? And worse still: Where did Aglaea pick up that boy? Blood will tell, sooner or later.
Phainon had heard enough of those murmurs to know how easily respect could turn into suspicion. But he also knew better. He had seen the exhaustion behind her composure: the sleepless nights, the trembling hands that never showed in public. He never doubted her love; it was constant, quiet, the kind that held entire cities together. But the weight she carried left little room for softness. So when her voice turned cool or her gaze distant, he learned not to take it as rejection, but as endurance.
He did not want to give anyone reason to question her choice. If carrying himself like a symbol could protect her from that scrutiny, if being perfect could make them forget he was not her blood, then he would do it without complaint. Helping her, proving himself worthy of her sacrifices, had become the only way he knew to show his gratitude, and to say he loved her, too.
President Aglaea stood a few paces behind him, calm in a sea-green suit that matched her eyes and complemented her light, golden hair.
“You look thoughtful,” she said, stepping beside him. “That’s good. Thoughtful photographs better than nervous.”
Phainon smiled faintly. “You always sound as if the press is another branch of government.”
“It is,” Aglaea replied. “And today, they will be watching not just me but you. Remember, Okhema’s strength lies in grace. No one out-smiles us.”
He inclined his head, the gesture half-military, half-son. “Understood.”
The Hall of Concord blazed with banners from every major city-state. Transparent walls offered a view of Okhema’s skyline, so that every handshake happened beneath the watch of its reflected towers.
Phainon moved through a tide of dignitaries, shaking hands, reciting names, performing diplomacy as choreography.
From the Grove of Epiphany, Sage Anaxagoras arrived robed in living cloth threaded with faint green light, a walking metaphor for the Grove’s creed of intellect entwined with nature.
“My boy,” the sage declared, gripping Phainon’s arm, “you’ve built a city that mirrors the sun. I have been to Okhema many times, but every time I am still amazed by its splendor. I hope you do not forget, however: mirrors only shine when facing the light.”
“Then we’ll make sure ours never turns away,” Phainon replied smoothly.
Behind the sage, Hyacinthia rolled her eyes, the polite exasperation of a student used to translating metaphors into policy.
Phainon watched the two as they moved toward the president to offer their greetings. Sage Anaxa (though Phainon would never dare call him that to his face) had always been eccentric, but then, he supposed, all geniuses were, in one way or another. Hyacine, on the other hand, was steady and down-to-earth, sharp without arrogance and far easier to negotiate with, which made Phainon’s life as a diplomat considerably simpler when she was the one at the table.
As Anaxagoras and Hyacine moved off to greet Aglaea, Phainon exhaled, half amused, half exhausted. Every conversation here felt like a negotiation — even the friendly ones.
Still, there were faces he didn’t mind seeing again.
Snapping back to attention, Phainon turned to the next arrivals. From Janusopolis came Mayor Tribios, her presence carrying the quiet confidence of someone who’d seen both the rise and ruin of fortunes, and learned from both. She smelled faintly of sea breeze and spiced wine, a blend of familiarity and promise.
“Phainon,” she greeted warmly, her voice as even as he remembered. “You’ve grown well since our last trade conference. I half expected you to still be that restless boy arguing with me about tariffs.”
He chuckled. “I still argue. I’ve just learned to smile while doing it.”
Tribios laughed, a light, airy sound. “Good. The world listens longer when you smile first.”
As she moved to greet Aglaea, Phainon found himself watching her — still struck by how her gentleness seemed at odds with her title. The head of the City of a Thousand Gates, the trading capital of Amphoreus, should have been sharper. But he suspected that beneath her calm tone and kind eyes, she had a few tricks sharper than any merchant’s blade.
Then the cool air shifted as Princess Castorice of Aidonia swept in, her gown glinting like frost under the chandeliers. She rarely ventured beyond her mountain realm, but when she did, she carried herself with the effortless grace of someone who knew her worth.
Phainon had spoken with her a few times before — pleasant, formal exchanges over trade and ceremony — yet each left him wondering how he might draw her kingdom a little closer to Okhema. Aidonia’s mines glittered with gemstones; Okhema, after all, had never been shy about its love for what shines.
Castorice inclined her head, voice smooth and cool as marble. “Okhema seems to grow brighter with every season,” she said. “Perhaps Aidonia’s stones might find a place in that light.”
Phainon returned her smile with diplomatic ease. “The sun welcomes every reflection, Your Highness. Especially those cut from crystal.”
As she drifted away toward the other dignitaries, the temperature of the room seemed to change again, frost giving way to salt and steel. The rhythmic sound of boots on marble marked the arrival of Styxia’s envoy, and with it came the faint, clean scent of the sea.
Hysilens of Styxia entered with the precision of a tide cutting through still water. Tall, poised, and sharp-eyed, she was elegance distilled to discipline — every movement measured, every glance deliberate. She was a lady of few words, but each one carried the weight of command. In Styxia, it was said that her voice could still a council faster than a sword could end a duel, and that her word held the same authority as the Imperator’s.
Her presence reminded Phainon of the city she represented: a realm of ports and warships, where every harbor thrummed with order and danger in equal measure. She clasped his hand once, her grip steady. “Let’s see if this year’s summit sails smoother than the last,” she murmured, her tone balanced perfectly between jest and challenge; a test he couldn’t help but meet with a smile.
Phainon barely had time to breathe before he heard the herald’s voice announce: “His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, accompanied by Commander Krateros.”
The effect was immediate. Conversation died mid-sentence; even the air seemed to hold still, as if the entire hall braced for impact.
The Kremnoan delegation entered like a living blaze, uniforms of deep red and gold catching the chandeliers’ light with every deliberate step. They moved with the discipline of soldiers and the pride of kings, a force that belonged more to legend than ceremony.
At their head walked Mydeimos. The Lion Prince. The embodiment of Kremnos’s fire-forged will.
He was tall, precise, every motion tempered to purpose; his gold insignia gleaming against crimson fabric, not as ornament, but as proof. The light touched him and did not pass through; it held, refracted, became something fiercer.
Phainon had seen him before, of course, in broadcasts, in reports, in all the polished myth of royal propaganda. But up close, the reality was different. Sharper. More human. The severity was still there, but beneath it burned a quiet precision that felt alive.
And when those golden eyes met his across the aisle — blue against gold, sun against flame — the air between them changed. Just a flicker, a heartbeat. But it was enough to make Phainon forget, for a moment, that the Summit was still watching.
Mydeimos bowed first to Aglaea, his posture flawless. “President of Okhema,” he said evenly. “My mother, Queen Gorgo, sends her regards, and her hopes for a fruitful conference in this summit.”
Then his gaze shifted to Phainon. The change was subtle but distinct, like steel catching light. “And to her son,” Mydeimos continued, “whose reputation seems to travel faster than most diplomats.”
Phainon’s smile came easily, practiced, polished. “I hope it’s at least the flattering kind of reputation.”
A faint pause. “Flattering,” Mydei echoed, his tone smooth as glass. “Not always. But rarely undeserved.”
Their words hung between them, courteous on the surface, edged beneath.
Phainon’s grin didn’t waver. “Then perhaps we’ll see whose stories hold truer by the end of the summit.”
For an instant, the air tightened, too sharp, too bright, until both men stepped back into formality’s shelter once more.
A draw. The kind that didn’t end in words, only promised future battlefields.
The banquet unfolded beneath a dome of crystal light. Music drifted from an unseen quartet; servers wove through the tables like clockwork. Conversation shimmered and broke like waves across the room.
Phainon sat beside Mydei, close enough to feel the faint warmth that seemed to radiate from him, like standing too near a sacred forge. Across the table, Sage Anaxagoras was already lecturing Mayor Tribios on the moral philosophy of tariffs, Hyacine translating in crisp annoyance. Princess Castorice nodded politely to every speaker with practiced grace, while Hysilens watched the whole display with the cool amusement of someone who saw more than most would pay attention to.
Phainon did what he always did: he smiled, listened, and performed. But tonight, his focus kept straying, not to the speeches or the glittering plates, but to the stillness beside him.
Mydei ate with mechanical precision, movements efficient yet restrained. Even the act of cutting his food seemed calculated, as if he feared revealing too much humanity in the motion. When spoken to, he answered politely, but his tone carried a quiet finality — a voice used to command, not conversation.
Phainon tilted his glass toward him, breaking the silence with an easy lilt. “So,” he said, “how does the Crown of Might find our City of Light?”
Mydei’s gaze flicked to him, steady and unreadable. “Dazzling,” he replied. “Though light, I’ve found, obscures as much as it reveals.”
Phainon’s smile curved sharper. “And power protects as easily as it destroys. We all have our contradictions.”
“Formality,” Mydei said, setting down his fork, “unlike improvisation, does not crumble under pressure.”
The table quieted; laughter dying mid-breath, glasses stilled halfway. Hyacine winced preemptively; Anaxagoras muttered something about tact and youth.
Phainon inhaled to answer, but as he shifted his glass, his sleeve brushed the base of the decanter. A sudden jolt, a flash of gold, and solar nectar spilled in a gleaming arc across Mydei’s immaculate uniform.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Cameras clicked like insects.
Mydei froze, the heat between them collapsing into a brittle silence. For a heartbeat, disbelief flickered through his composure. Not anger, but something sharper, colder. Then he stood, every motion deliberate, regal.
“Accidents happen,” he said evenly. “I should change.”
Krateros appeared almost instantly, jaw tight. The commander’s hand hovered near Mydei’s shoulder, protective, as he guided Mydei away.
Phainon remained seated, the wet ring of his glass bright against the tablecloth. Around him, whispers bloomed like smoke. Across the hall, Aglaea’s public smile was flawless, but her eyes, even from here, told him exactly how deep the embarrassment cut.
The reception limped on, the music a brittle echo.
Mayor Tribios leaned toward him with a grin that tried too hard to be kind. “Well, you’ve guaranteed tomorrow’s headlines. Not the worst way to make an impression.”
Phainon managed a thin smile. “Pity impressions don’t trade as well as goods.”
From the Grove’s table, Hyacine caught his eye — calm, assessing, never unkind. “You fly close to bright things, Phainon,” she said quietly. “Just remember: the sun doesn’t notice who burns around them.”
He nodded once, accepting the truth in it without defense. “Then I’ll learn to shine brighter than the sun.”
Across the room, Hysilens of Styxia raised her glass in a small, deliberate toast, amusement flickering in her sea-gray eyes. Even Princess Castorice, poised as marble, regarded him with a look that might have been sympathy… or curiosity.
At last, Aglaea’s hand found his shoulder. Her touch was light, her voice even lighter. “Enough damage control for one night. Go. I’ll handle the press.”
He bowed his head. “Mother—”
“Later,” she said, her tone the practiced calm of someone who could not afford anger in public. Then she turned away, her smile already restored, her composure sealing the crack he’d left in the evening’s perfect facade.
Phainon exhaled slowly. The music swelled again, bright and hollow, as he slipped from the room like a shadow no one wanted to follow.
The corridor beyond the banquet hall was mercifully silent. Phainon walked until he found an open balcony and stepped into the night.
Okhema stretched beneath him, rivers of silver and white light, flowing like molten glass, streets pulsing in measured rhythm. From here, the city looked eternal, untouchable. He wished he could believe it.
Somewhere above, a transport engine ignited. He looked up in time to see the Kremnoan vessel ascending, its thrusters burning red-gold, a wound and a promise carved across the indigo sky. The glow traced a fierce path across the indigo sky, dissolving into darkness.
He should have felt only humiliation. Yet what lingered wasn’t shame but the quiet ache of heat — that pulse that remains when brilliance brushes against flame and does not quite let go. He thought of Mydeimos’s composure, the calm intensity in his gaze, the way restraint itself had glowed like tempered fire.
Phainon exhaled, the breath turning to mist in the cool air. Below him, Okhema gleamed, a city of reflection. Above him, the Kremnoan prince disappeared into the dark, leaving behind a faint shimmer of gold, as if even absence could burn.
Between them stretched the whole world of Amphoreus, waiting for its next collision.
He turned back inside, already hearing the chatter of incoming news, already composing apologies that would never sound sincere. And yet, somewhere behind the practiced diplomacy of his smile, another thought sparked and refused to die:
So that’s what it feels like, to be burned, and still wanting to touch the flame again.