Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a prince who wanted to chase the stars.

He fought monsters, climbed mountains, and went wherever he pleased, because that’s what princes could do. He traveled far, further than anyone else ever had, and one day, along the way he met a clever scholar who wore an eyepatch and read books thicker than bread loaves.

The scholar said things like “strategy” and “tactics,” which the prince didn’t grasp half the time, but he understood enough to know this scholar was amazing. The prince thought the scholar was wonderful. He made clever plans and the prince swung his sword in the direction the scholar pointed, and so together they teamed up to fight an evil so terrible it made the sky grow murky and dim. Valiantly, these two heroes fought this evil darkness that wanted to swallow the world greedily.

But in the story the adults told Phainon, they didn't win against this evil. The prince and the scholar lost, and the world was left gray forever.

Phainon frowned when he first heard that. Lost? Just like that? That couldn’t be the ending.

Losing didn’t mean stopping. Whenever he fell, his sword instructor always told him to get back up. So obviously the prince and the scholar could just stand up and fight again until they won.

Phainon really didn’t like that ending. So he secretly changed the story in his head. What's the harm in that?

In his ending, he decided that the prince and the scholar won and defeated the great, terrifying evil. They came home, and the King was so proud, and the people cheered so loudly, and afterwards the prince and the scholar ate chocolate together!

Phainon thought chocolate made any story better. Even sad ones. Especially sad ones.

The prince and the scholar deserved to eat lots of chocolate after fighting off such a difficult foe. They should get the good kind too—the soft and sweet kind. That was Phainon's favorite kind of chocolate, so soft it practically melted on your tongue like snowflakes.

Maybe the scholar would even share one of the caramel-filled ones, since the prince had done most of the fighting. Not that the scholar didn't do much, the prince was of course very grateful for all the help.

“Ha!” Phainon exclaimed, slashing at an invisible monster with his similarly invisible sword, as he ducked under a noblewoman’s gown. His white hair gleamed in the chandelier light, his cheeks flushed with mischief.

“Oh, look at the Duke’s boy,” one ladies cooed. “Such a handsome little Alpha pup already.”

“He looks just like his father, doesn’t he?” another murmured.

A few nobles laughed softly as he darted past them, but Phainon barely noticed. He was too busy spinning in a circle, giggling as he stabbed the air with his finger. “Take that! The prince wins again!”

He scampered past a group of amused courtiers, crouched low, and peeked around a chair. His eyes widened.

There it was. His true quest.

The banquet table glittered with mountains of sweets, trays stacked with chocolates in every shape all lined up delicately; round, square, sprinkled with nuts, dusted with cocoa. One in particular glittered like gold in the center, like treasure waiting for its rightful prince.

His mother had said earlier, “No more, Phainon. You’ve had quite enough. Your hands are full!” But what did that even mean? His hands were small, unfairly small, so how could that possibly count?

Unfair rule. Clearly, she hadn’t seen this golden chocolate. This one was shiny and special, so pretty, practically calling his name!

He crouched low, creeping forward on tiptoe, swishing his invisible sword through the air. “The prince sneaks past the dragon,” he narrated in a faux whisper, giggling at his own daring. He rolled behind a chair leg, peeked out dramatically, then darted toward the table.

Almost there. Just a little more. Victory was within reach.

Phainon crept closer to the table. He stretched out his arm, fingers trembling with triumph, just moments from snatching the gleaming chocolate prize firmly into his hand.

That was when it happened.

“You.”

The word rang across the hall, sharp as a bell.

The voice stopped him. Phainon froze, his small hand still hovering over the table. His fingers had just barely curled around the golden chocolate. Slowly, he turned.

Across the room stood a boy at the center of the grand hall, he was positioned right in front of the King himself. His mint-green hair gleamed underneath the chandeliers with his ornate prettily decorated eyepatch glinting playfully. He was dressed in ceremonial robes much finer and fancier than Phainon had ever seen. He also seemed younger than many of the nobles present, but he stood straighter than most adults, voice steady, sure, and impossible to ignore.

Dozens of guests turned their heads as the boy’s finger leveled straight at his direction. The boy’s gaze cut sharp, straight at him.

“You’ll be my fiancé,” the boy declared.

The hall stilled, air tight with scandal.

Then everyone audibly gasped. The King himself leaned forward on his throne, brows raised. A ripple of shocked whispers swept through the nobles—not because the boy had spoken, but because of who he was.

An Omega.

And not just any Omega—the Grove’s youngest to-be sage. The very prodigy that had been granted the rarest of boons: to ask the King for anything, within reason.

Phainon blinked. Once. Twice. The golden chocolate almost slipping out from his fingers back onto the tray. His eyes darted from the boy to the chocolate and back again.

“…Huh?” he squeaked, confused.

The nobles pressed closer, whispering furiously: “Did he just—?”

“Omega’s don’t get to choose!” someone hissed in a whisper that wasn’t quiet enough.

“At his age? Bold—no, outrageous! The Grove clearly doesn't know how to discipline their children!”

“Who is that boy?” “That's the Duke's child.”

“I meant the other one!” “Oh, that's the Grove's little upstart, their latest protégé.”

“The Duke’s Alpha son—paired to him? At his behest? Ridiculous!”

"Oh, my what a development."

“But he’s so young!” “Well, don't we all start young?”

The whispers grew into a storm, nobles pretending to hide their shock behind fans and goblets. The King leaned forward, brows lifted, but he did not rebuke. The boon was real. The choice stood.

Phainon—who was only three years old, with his chocolate-stained fingers and invisible sword long forgotten—did the only thing that made sense.

His lip trembled. His throat wobbled. And then—

He burst into loud, hiccuping tears.

The whole hall went very, very quiet.

Phainon’s ears rang with the sound of his own sobs. He hiccuped, sniffling, wiping his face with his sleeve. When he dared peek through watery eyes, all the nobles were staring at him. At him! Like he’d done something terrible.

The boy with the eyepatch didn’t take it back. He just stood there, finger still pointed like a sword. His voice came again, sharp and certain: “He will be my fiancé.”

Phainon hiccuped harder. Fiancé? The word tasted sour, like the broccoli Mamma made him eat. He didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded long and heavy. Was it like being grounded? Or worse—like that tutor lady with the alphabet cards who made him sit in the small chair? Was he going to be stuck 'engaged' in that chair forever?

“Your Majesty,” one lord gasped, bowing so fast his wig almost slipped. “Surely this is a bit—”

The King raised a hand. The hall stilled. A jarring silence erupted.

His eyes moved from the boy then to Phainon, then back again. “Anaxagoras from the Grove of Epiphany,” the King said slowly, “you have been granted a boon today, for your service to our realm despite your tender age. A rare privilege to ask for anything within reason. And your request is to choose your own marriage partner?”

The boy, Anaxagoras, nodded once. His finger didn’t waver. “Yes. I choose him.”

Phainon’s stomach flipped.

The King’s brow furrowed momentarily. For one long, impossible moment, Phainon thought he might laugh and say no. Say it was silly and a misunderstanding. Say it didn’t count and it was a mistake. No need to involve little Phainon.

Instead, the King said, “Very well. It is within reason. Let it be declared: Phainon from the noble House of Aedes Elysiae, nephew of the King, and Anaxagoras from the Grove of Epiphany, student of Empedocles the Venerationist Sage, are from this day forth, betrothed.”

The hall erupted.

Gasps, murmurs, claps, a few scandalized shrieks.

“An Omega choosing?” one noblewoman hissed behind her fan. “Absurd!”

“Omegas are meant to be passive, not… not this.”

“Bold, too bold—the Grove truly must have let him grow to be so unruly.”

“Preposterous. It should be the Alpha’s family with the final say! How dare he ask for such a thing!”

“But the King decreed it.”

“Ah, but I heard he’s a prodigy. They whisper he outshines even generals twice his age.”

“Even so! An Omega behaving like an Alpha—it’s disgraceful.”

“Exactly, what a disgrace! A prodigy or not, Omegas ought to be docile, not like this.”

“This is why they should not have permitted admission of Omegas to the Grove, look at the audacity!”

“Disgraceful or not, do you not see? If he truly has chosen the King’s nephew… imagine the strength of that bond.”

“A union of brilliance and noble Alpha blood… hm. It could be dangerous.”

Suddenly, his mother cried out, “Your Majesty, he’s but three years old!” but her voice drowned under the storm.

Phainon’s world swam. His tears came harder, faster, hot on his cheeks. Beth-what? Married?

He barely even knew the word. He looked at Anaxagoras, this strange boy, stern and sharp, turning his nose up like he’d already won some sort of game. Nobles bowed to him now, their whispers sharp with both awe and scandal.

Phainon hiccuped and tried to stammer, “I–I d-didn’t… I just wanted chocolate!”

No one listened.

The King was already waving his hand, sealing the announcement. The air thickened with gossip, like smoke curling in every corner. Nobles leaned in to whisper, eyes glittering with heresy.

And Phainon, small and trembling, clutched his invisible sword tight and wished more than anything that he could change this ending too. Couldn't he brandish his sword and fight off whatever was happening?

The hall did not cease to be a storm of voices, only growing ever louder as they passionately discussed what had just transpired. Nobles relentlessly whispered amongst themselves, others were clapping, some still gasping in disbelief. The King’s words still rang in Phainon’s ears like a thunderclap: bethrode or something.

Then arms scooped him up. His mother, soft and warm, pressed him tight against her chest. For a moment, he thought he was safe again. He buried his damp face in her shoulder, hoping to be comforted by her scent as he continued hiccupping miserably.

“Shhh, my darling,” she whispered, rocking him gently. “It’s all right.”

But she didn’t say no. She didn’t say, it’s just a mistake, Phainon, don’t worry.

He peeked over her shoulder. The boy with the eyepatch still stood tall in the middle of the room, expression cool and sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. Nobles circled him, bowing and murmuring praises, as though he’d done something clever instead of something impossible.

Phainon clutched his mother’s sleeve. “M-Mamma?” His voice cracked, small and wet. “What’s… what happened?”

She kissed his hair, shushing him, but her eyes darted toward the boy and the King. Her lips pressed tight. She didn’t argue. She didn’t tell anyone they were wrong.

“Mamma?” He whispered again, more desperate. “Me… do bad? Me? Phainon bad?”

Her arms only tightened. She rocked him, murmuring sweet things in his ear, but once again she never said no. She never said he wasn’t.

And Phainon, confused and frightened, tucked his face against her shoulder and thought miserably that maybe this was all because he’d tried to steal that golden chocolate.

Anaxagoras didn’t stay long after his bold words. He bowed neatly to the King, spoke something about a meeting being arranged between their houses, and then—just like that—turned and strode away from the hall.

Phainon, still tucked in his mother’s arms, peeked out after him.

The boy walked like he owned the floor. Every step smooth, graceful, sure. His mint-green hair gleamed like glass under the chandeliers, his eyepatch caught the light like a jewel, and the nobles parted for him without a word, as though he were a Lord, not a boy barely older than Phainon himself.

Phainon’s throat wobbled again. He sniffled into his mother’s shoulder.

He had to admit—he looked cool.

But cool or not, he was terrifying. That boy hadn’t even smiled. He’d just pointed at him, like picking a toy from a shelf, and now he was leaving like it was already finished.

As the doors closed behind Anaxagoras, the room swelled with even more noise.

“Brazen, isn’t it?” one noble hissed, his fan snapping shut. “An Omega, of all things, making a claim!”

“Not just any Omega. A Grove child.”

“A prodigy, yes, but still an Omega. Choosing for himself instead of waiting for an arrangement? Unheard of.”

“And to choose the King’s nephew! The audacity!”

“A clever move really,” another murmured.

“Indeed a genius,” another whispered low in agreement, voice thick with awe. “He has bound himself to royal blood in one word.”

A lady tittered behind her jeweled fan. “Perhaps it isn’t politics at all. Perhaps he simply wanted something beautiful on his arm. The Duke’s boy is a handsome little Alpha, is he not?”

“Handsome, young, and the King’s kin,” someone else added, a note of envy in his tone. “Any Omega would dream of such a match.”

“Handsome and spoiled,” someone chuckled darkly. “Not that a prodigy would care for temperaments.”

Others leaned closer, their voices sharper, less kind. “Not a proper Omega at all,” a matron sniffed.

“Too much freedom in that household. He comes from a family with a Beta head, right? They must indulge him too much.”

“Yes, yes. No wonder he struts about like a young Lord instead of a sweet thing ready to yield.”

“I'm sure the Grove must be at fault, I heard he's under the tutelage of that Empedocles, no?”

“As expected, his teacher is a Beta as well. Must be teaching him the wrong things.”

“Bold as brass. One day, it will ruin him.”

"Hm, the Duke's young Alpha pup is sure to put him in his place once he is of age though."

“That much is true, we'll see how smug that child is when his Alpha punishes him for his disobedience.”

“No sane Alpha will let him run about so freely, he'll have his comeuppance later.”

“Ah, but isn't this perhaps his plan?” “What plan?”

A rather disgusting snort is heard, “To mold the  boy to his preference of course.”

A matron scoffs at the idea, “What a conniving little slut.”

“Disgusting.”

Phainon blinked through his damp lashes, confused. Handsome? Spoiled? Improper? He didn’t feel spoiled. He didn’t know what “proper” they were talking about. He just wanted chocolate. What were they even going on and on about? Alpha this, Omega that—Phainon just wanted to go home now!

But every time the nobles whispered Alpha or Omega, his mother’s arms tightened around him, as if she were shielding him from something he couldn’t see. Her fingers dug deep into his shoulder, and her smile—bright and delicate for the crowd—was sharp as glass at the edges.

And then there was the smell. Banquets always smelled faintly of flowers from the venue or the wine being served, it was polished, heavy, and impersonal, because everyone wore their scent-patches. That was the rule. That was how things stayed nice and quiet, like perfume without sting.

But pressed against his mother’s chest, Phainon noticed something different. Beneath the sweetness of her hair oil, her heartbeat thumped hard against his cheek, and there was something sharper in the air. Something he didn’t have words for. Bitter, restless, something in her scent just seemed wrong.

It made his stomach twist. He wanted to comfort her despite feeling a whole lot of discomfort himself.

He didn’t understand why, but it was there every time the whispers grew louder. Every time those certain words slipped between strangers' lips like a secret.

At last his mother dipped a curtsy and spoke like honey poured too fast. “Your Majesty, please excuse us. My son is tired. We’ll retire for the night.”

No one stopped her. Too many were still buzzing, gossip piling like bees in a hive.

Phainon was carried from the hall, his cheek pressed against his mother’s shoulder. The noise dulled behind them, leaving only the sound of her hurried footsteps and his own sniffly breaths.

He tugged weakly at her sleeve. “Mamma? Is Phainon bad? I'm sorry.”

She smoothed his hair. “Don’t worry, darling.”

But he did worry. Because no matter how many times he asked, no one ever gave him an answer. A proper answer. And the strange sharpness in her scent told him something indeed was very, very wrong.

The ride back home was quiet. Too quiet.

His mother kept her arms wrapped around him the whole way, her cheek pressed close to his hair, but she didn’t hum or smile like she usually did. Her heartbeat felt too fast. His father sat stiff across from them, hands folded too tightly in his lap, jaw clenched hard enough to make a shadow ripple in his throat.

Phainon thought maybe if he fell asleep, things would go back to normal. But when they got home, it didn’t.

That night, voices rose in the hall outside his room.

His mother’s, sharp with worry, sharp enough that Phainon could almost smell it—something bitter and restless, even through the faint sweetness of her scent-patch. His father’s, low and steady, but strained in a way Phainon had never heard before, his Alpha presence usually calm now taut as a pulled string.

Phainon crept out of bed, clutching his toy sword, and peeked through the crack in the door.

“They’re children, barely more than babies,” his mother was saying. “And he—he can’t just—!”

“The King, my brother agreed,” his father cut in, voice heavy. “It’s done. We can’t undo it.”

“Then we protest—”

“Against the King’s word? Against the Grove of Epiphany itself?” His father’s voice rose for the first time Phainon could remember. “Do you want our house branded disloyal?”

Phainon’s chest squeezed. His parents… fighting? They never fought. They laughed, they kissed, they loved each other. Always.

This was his fault. It had to be his fault!

His throat tightened. Clutching his toy sword to give himself some strength, he shuffled out into the hall, eyes wet again. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out after not knowing what else to say.

Both his parents turned, startled.

Phainon hiccuped, voice wobbling. “I-I didn’t mean to! Phainon was bad! Greedy and wanted golden chocolate, even though Mamma said no, and now–now Papa's mad, it’s all cause of Phainon.” His little hands rubbed furiously at his eyes. “Phainon won't do it again, don’t be mad at Phainon and Mamma—”

His words broke apart in sobs.

His mother dropped to her knees in an instant, gathering him close. “Oh, darling, no, no, it’s not your fault.” Her arms were trembling. Normally her scent was like a soft lilac through the patch, steady and gentle, but tonight it was laced with something sharp, protective, like a shield raised high as though she wanted to claw the whole world away from him. That scared him more than the shouting because his mother was never shaken.

“Yes, it is!” He wailed into her shoulder. “If Phainon was good, that boy wouldn’t be mad at Phainon, and Phainon wouldn’t be… be…” He hiccuped miserably, “Bethrode!”

His father’s face softened. He crouched beside them, laying a steady hand on Phainon’s trembling back. That touch, always so firm but never heavy, made the knot in his chest loosen a little. His father’s presence always balanced his mother’s, like sunlight balancing shade. Together they were unshakable, a fairytale Alpha and Omega who always looked at each other with quiet smiles.

“Betrothed,” his father repeated gently. “It means… promised to marry one day.”

Phainon’s breath hitched. Marry? That scary boy? He squeezed his eyes shut and clung tighter to his mother. “I don’t want to! I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!”

His parents shared a look over his head. The kind of look Phainon was too small to understand but he felt the weight of it all the same.

All he knew was that their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes when they whispered that it would be all right.

Because for the first time, Phainon wondered if they were lying to comfort him.

It had been three whole days since the banquet, and nothing felt right anymore.

The house felt quieter, heavier, as if someone had taken all the laughter and sealed it away. His parents didn’t kiss in the gardens or dance in the corridors when they thought he wasn’t looking. They spoke in hushed voices instead, the kind that stopped whenever he entered a room.

They never said it was his fault, but Phainon knew. It had to be.

And now he was in trouble again.

He sat stiffly in the parlor, feet dangling from the too-tall chair, trying very hard to look like a good noble son. His governess’s lessons rattled in his head: Back straight. Hands folded. Eyes down when addressed. He practiced them all at once, hoping they would somehow protect him from the boy with the eyepatch.

Remember Phainon: Sit and wait for your host to arrive. Be polite. Be poised. Don't scratch at your glands or else your patch may come off.

Inside, though, his stomach twisted and wobbled like the ocean in the middle of a nasty storm. Because the host was that boy. The scary one with the eyepatch. The one who had pointed at him like he was a toy on a shelf anyone could purchase. The one everyone whispered about in tones of awe and scandal.

Phainon fidgeted. Maybe… maybe he was a pirate? Pirates had eyepatches, didn’t they? His mind spun, he bit his lip, thinking hard. But… no. Pirates shouted “Arr!” and “Yo-ho, matey!” and he hadn’t heard the boy say either. They also clomped about with wooden legs and feathered hats. But this boy had looked too neat, too polished, like his shoes would never scuff and his cuffs would never stain.

Not a pirate then.

Phainon’s thoughts tumbled and tangled until they landed on something else: a prince. The boy had walked like a prince, spoken like a prince, even made the King listen like a prince.

A very, very pretty prince.

Phainon wasn’t sure why that thought made his cheeks warm. He’d never seen anyone that pretty before. Pretty and terrifying, all at once.

The parlor door opened.

Phainon’s heart thumped against his ribs, his back snapping straight like a bowstring.

Anaxagoras swept in. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t need to. His steps were smooth and unshakably steady, each one perfectly measured, like he was walking across a stage where everyone already knew he was the star. The eyepatch glinted in the light, decorated with delicate silver thread that caught like starlight. His mint-green hair fell neatly around his face, not a strand out of place.

He carried himself as though the whole room was a stage for him to walk on.

Phainon’s eyes went wide. Definitely not a pirate.

He swallowed hard, throat dry. He's a prince. A really scary prince.

And the prince was walking straight toward him! Oh no!

Phainon tried to adjust how he sat with his little legs still dangling off the edge of the chair, his feet were nowhere near the carpet and he was a little worried he'd accidentally topple over. But his governess had drilled into him to fold his hands neatly in his lap, keep his back straight, and not fidget. So he did just that except his palms were damp from squeezing them so tightly together, and his shoulders twitched with every tick of the grandfather's clock.

He tried to be very still. Very noble. Very good. He sat while obediently staring at the ornate rug waiting for the scary boy to finally say something to him.

But inside, he was freaking out. Because wasn’t he supposed to be the Alpha now? That’s what the grown-ups had whispered after the banquet. “The Duke’s boy—an Alpha, just like his father.”

And if he was the Alpha, then that made him like father. Strong and tall, who carried mother in his arms when she tripped, who kissed her hand reverently in the gardens, who tucked Phainon high on his shoulders so he could see the stars.

Which meant the boy with the eyepatch—Anaxagoras, err too long, Anaxa—was supposed to be the Omega. The mamma. Right?

Phainon peeked at him. He didn’t look like a mamma. His mamma was soft and warm and smelled like flowers. This older boy was sharp edges and cold words, standing tall like he’d swallowed a sword. He looked like he’d give you homework instead of kisses.

The silence stretched. It was awful. It pressed down on him like a particularly heavy and burdensome blanket. The parlor felt too big. Too empty. Too quiet.

Every second that passed made him want to jump out of his seat. He wished—oh, how he desperately wished that his mother was sitting right beside him, humming softly, smoothing his hair the way she always did while she comforted him with her lilac scent. But the servants had said it was to be “a private meeting.”

Just him and… Anaxagoras.

Phainon dared a peek again.

The boy with the eyepatch still didn’t sit. He stood across from Phainon like a statue carved out of something hard and cutting, one hand tucked behind his back, staring icily back at him as if the silence itself belonged to his being. His single eye with the color of pale aqua and magenta pupils flicked over to Phainon, sharp and cool, like he was appraising a horse he wasn’t sure was worth buying. Or a chair that he was inspecting for scratches and defects.

The staring stretched and stretched. It felt like it went on forever.

Phainon’s toes curled in his shoes. He fidgeted and squirmed, his feet kicking the chair legs deliberately. He wanted to run. His legs were already tensing, ready to hop off his seat and bolt for the door. He imagined flexing his knees, just about ready to spring—when at last, the boy spoke.

His voice was smooth and sharp, each syllable clipped like he was slicing apples with a knife.

“You are my fiancé now,” he said. His voice was clear, measured. “My betrothed.”

Phainon’s breath caught. His eyes went wide, his heart jumped into his throat, and his mouth dropped open. Then the words tumbled out, high-pitched and panicked: “I don’t want to marry!”

His hands balled into little fists. He knew what marriage meant. Mamma and Papa were married. It meant sharing. Forever. Sharing rooms, sharing food, sharing chocolates, sharing everything! Phainon didn’t want to have to share his toys or his bed for the rest of his life. Not even with someone really, really pretty. Especially his chocolates.

“You are my fiancé now,” the boy repeated, steady and cold. “That is decided. There are no take-backs.”

He glanced at Anaxa again. He was very pretty, yes. Maybe the prettiest person Phainon had ever seen. But that didn’t mean he wanted to share chocolate with him for the rest of his life! He didn’t want to spend his whole life giving away his chocolate. That sounded like a very nasty punishment.

Phainon shook his head vigorously, cheeks puffing up, trying to be brave enough to say more. To disagree. “No, I don’t wanna marry you!” His voice trembled between a wail and a plea. He opened his mouth once more, courage trembling on his tongue only for Anaxa’s single eye to sharpen, his icy stare pinning him in place like a bug on a pinboard.

“This arrangement has been settled,” he said. “There is not much that can be done to undo it on your part.” His tone carried no anger, just certainty, terrifying in its finality. “Whether you want it or not is irrelevant.”

Mamma didn’t talk like that. Mamma always let him say no if he didn’t want more peas. This “Omega” didn’t even ask.

Phainon’s bravery wilted like a dying flower. His words dried up. He shrank into the chair, staring back down at the ornate rug as his throat wobbled.

His mouth closed up. He nodded meekly, his defiance dying just as quickly as it bloomed. His small hands curled into the fabric of his trousers. Then Anaxa's voice softened only in cadence, never in warmth. It was still as cold as the tiles in the great hall from the palace. “The King has given his blessing. You are already engaged to me,” he went on, unflinching. “But you misunderstand the nature of this union.”

Union. Phainon blinked. Union sounded like a knight’s guild. Did that mean they’d have to fight monsters together? Like the prince and the scholar?

“This marriage will not bind you in chains. It will not prevent you from enjoying your life as you wish.” The boy continued, unfazed. “This marriage is but a formality to me and you. Nothing more. It is of little consequence to me personally that we are engaged. You may do as you like and live your life as you please. Take your amusements where you will. Lovers, companions, friends—it makes no difference to me.”

Phainon tilted his head, blinking furiously. His small hands balled in his lap again. Lovers? Like… people who loved you? Didn’t Mamma and Papa already love him? Wasn’t that enough? Did this boy mean he had to find even more people to love him?

“I do not care for those things,” the older boy went on. “I will not interfere, so long as you do not disturb me and my as stated plans. You are free.”

Phainon’s lip trembled. He didn’t feel free. He felt very, very trapped.

“All I require is that you perform the bare minimum expected of a spouse,” the boy said sharply. “We will attend events together when appearances demand it since attendance at certain functions is needed. You will conduct yourself with dignity. And you will avoid dragging me into any of your scandals past having torrid affairs with others which I  will reiterate I am allowing and will find no offence to. Beyond that, I do not care what you do.”

Functions. Phainon squirmed. He knew what “functions” were, they were the opposite of fun. They were big, boring parties in ballrooms where he wasn’t allowed to touch the cakes. He hated those. Why would they have to attend together? That didn't make sense at all!

Ah, but Papa always spun Mamma around the ballroom, laughing when she laughed. But this boy didn’t sound like he wanted to dance. He didn’t sound like a good mamma at all. So Phainon really didn't want to go with him to these “functions.”

The older boy still wasn’t finished. His gaze didn’t soften and his voice remained flat and unyielding. “There will  only be one heir that comes from me. Only one. That is all that will be permitted for our societal and noble duties should it be required or demanded of us should I prove incapable of getting us divorced in the near future. Though, I believe it would be best if we didn't have to actually produce heirs ourselves so should you sire some illegitimate child out there feel free to pass them off as our own heirs, the mother of those children can live with us too. I will manage the documents to make it possible. Are you in agreement with this proposition?”

Phainon’s mouth fell open. 

He nodded quickly, though he didn’t understand a word that left this boy's mouth. Hairs? He thought of his fluffy white strands that other nobles praised. Did this boy like the ones on his head or something? Or did he mean the rabbit, he remembers they were called that too. He once saw one in the Garden of Life, it had long, soft hairs, very cute.

Then did the boy mean he only wanted one rabbit? Or did he mean one with a single strand of hair? That'll be quite hard to find. Or maybe only one hair? Like a single strand? Did he want Phainon to cut off his hair and give it to him? Surely not, right?

Another thing he was confused about, he didn’t even know what “illegit-mit” meant. Was that supposed to be… toys? So was this actually about getting one toy rabbit? This boy was so strict about such odd things.

Wait! Did this scary prince-like person really want his hair and not a rabbit? His little brow furrowed in terror. Hopefully not, Phainon wanted all of his hairs to remain on his head.

Ah, Phainon truly couldn't comprehend what the older boy was trying to tell him. He wondered if that was finally the end of it because anymore of this yapping and he'd combust, this was way too complicated for his little brain to understand.

But the boy didn't seem close to finishing at all. His eye stayed fixed, his voice still flat but certain with conviction.

“Should you request it,” the boy said, “I will try to fulfill my duties as a spouse diligently. That includes ensuring the heir if there really is no other choice for it. I will not shirk that duty. But if you do not want me specifically—if you prefer others—that is no concern of mine. I would encourage that actually.”

Phainon’s brow wrinkled. Duties? Like cleaning his room? Or finishing his vegetables? Phainon gulped. No carrots, please.

And there was that word again—hairs. Why was he talking about hairs? Again? Did he really want a rabbit? Or maybe it really truly wasn't a rabbit, maybe it was actually hair hair? Did he really really want Phainon's hair?! NO, NOT HIS HAIR!

Why was this person talking about chores and rabbits and hair? Mamma never said anything like that. A  mamma's “omega duties” were hugs and lullabies, not cold scary words!

“However,” the boy pressed on, “outside of that, I do not wish to entangle with you. Should you crave affection, company, or warmth, I advise you to look elsewhere. I think it is best if we do not interact if possible, besides the necessity of it.”

Phainon’s stomach sank. Affection? Warmth? He thought of his mother’s hugs. Did this mean he wouldn’t be allowed hugs anymore? Mamma's hugs were warm. How horrible! Phainon liked hugs a lot, he believed he was a very good hugger.

The boy was still not done. His voice was cold, matter-of-fact and merciless. “If you choose to lay with others, that is your decision. Like I've stated, I will not intervene. But do not bring them into our house unless you're sure you want to be with them because that will be troublesome to cover up. You may take your pleasures elsewhere too, so long as you once again, don't disturb me. And remember to take precautions. Diseases are common in such affairs, and should there be absolutely no choice for me but to lay with you, I will not tolerate contamination of my bloodline and health.”

Phainon’s little head spun. Disease? He thought about the sniffles he sometimes got last winter. Did the older boy mean that? Did he think Phainon was going to sneeze on rabbits? Phainon would never, that would be rude!

And he knew about colds and fevers. But konta-nation? Blood had lines? When did this happen? His stomach curled up like a ball. He wanted to cry. Why was he not making sense?

None of what he was saying made sense.

The older boy’s sharp gaze pinned him, his expression severe, as though to brand every word into his little bones. “Remember this: I will allow you your diversions. Your indulgences. Even your infidelity. But I will only give you one heir. Should I wish to not be touched, you will leave me be. You will uphold the dignity of our bond. And you will not inconveniene me with my work. That is all I ask.”

Phainon sat frozen. His legs dangled uselessly. His chest rose and fell too fast. His throat felt tight.

“Outside of producing an heir, I expect we will remain separate. I will not entangle myself with you in frivolous matters. Should you require comfort, attention, or diversion, I suggest you seek it elsewhere. What I offer is clarity, stability, and a single child from my womb, as is our duty should we really have no options.”

The words rattled in his skull. Comfort? Diversion? Entangled?

He was three. He still had a favorite stuffed toy he took to bed every night. He didn’t know half the words the boy had said. Lovers. Hairs. Illegit-mit. Tangled-something. He didn’t understand a single word.

And this situation didn’t sound like what  his mother and father had. His Papa always wanted to be with his Mamma, they were never ever separated for too long. Mamma always smiled when Papa was near too, she rarely frowned when he was around. They laughed together, shred kissed, whispered things that made their eyes glow with lots of love.

This didn't seem like love. This wasn’t even kind at all.

But the boy spoke with such precision, such certainty like every syllable was carved in stone. And Phainon was too scared to ask what any of it meant. He tried to make sense of them, tried so hard. But all he could come up with was that: This sounds like trouble. And I don’t want trouble.

None of it made sense, but Anaxa sounded so certain, so serious, like everything he said was already law that Phainon didn’t dare to utter anything else. He just swallowed, did the only thing he could, and prayed this was all just some horrible misunderstanding.

So he just nodded his head.

A tiny, shaky nod.

Because the boy was too scary, and too pretty, and too smart, and Phainon didn’t understand—but he thought if he nodded, maybe it would all stop. He continued nodding because he didn't know what else to do, and Phainon was scared. Scared and confused and wishing so badly he had just listened to his mother about the stupid chocolates.

Inside, though, he wanted to cry: What does any of that even mean?! If I’m the Alpha, and he’s the Omega… then why doesn’t he act like Mamma?

Phainon’s head was buzzing.

The scary boy—his fiancé now, apparently—had said so many words. Long words. Sharp words. Words that felt like thorns in his ears. He didn’t understand half of them. Probably more.

And wasn’t that bad? Wasn’t a fiancé supposed to understand?

His little hands twisted in his lap. His cheeks burned hot. I’m already bad at this, he thought miserably. I don’t even wanna be one, but I’m bad at it anyway.

The older boy looked down at him, his lone eye still cool and distant. “That is all. Remember it well.”

Then, without so much as a farewell, he turned and swept from the parlor. His steps didn’t falter, his back didn’t bend. Regal. Final. Gone.

The moment the door clicked shut, Phainon bolted from his chair. He ran down the halls, his slippers slapping against the stone, until he nearly tripped straight into his parents.

“Mamma! Papa!” he cried, clutching his mother’s skirts.

Both knelt immediately, alarmed. His mother smoothed his hair, his father touched his shoulder. “What is it, darling?”

Phainon’s words tumbled out in a frantic rush, almost too fast to follow:

“He—he said I can have lovers, Mamma, but I don’t want them! He said illegit-mit something, Papa, what’s an illegit-mit? He said I can’t bring diseases to his blood lines, but Phainon isn't sick! I eat some veggies! He also said we need one hair, don’t give him my hair please, I like all my hairs! And—and—if I’m the Alpha, that means I’m Papa, right? But he doesn’t act like Mamma at all!”

His parents froze, eyes wide, horror blanching their faces.

Phainon’s lip trembled. His hands clutched tighter at his mother’s gown.

“Mamma, Papa, if Phainon is really really good, can I not marry? Please! Pretty please! I promise Phainon will behave! I’ll eat my peas and no chocolates for this long—” He holds out all his fingers wide for his parents to see, “and—and—” His voice broke into a sob. “I don’t wanna marry! Phainon will be good, promise, please, please—!”

His mother pulled him tight against her chest, shushing softly, though her arms shook. Even through her scent patches, her closeness soothed him, warm, safe like an Omega should. His father stood stiff, jaw tight, face pale with fury he tried to hide.

Phainon buried his face in his mother’s shoulder, still sniffling. He didn’t understand anything. Not the scary words, not the scary boy, not why this was happening at all.

All he knew was he must’ve been very, very bad.

Bad enough that marrying was his punishment.

Phainon hiccupped into his mother’s chest, little fists balled tight against her gown. She rocked him, but she didn’t answer. Neither did Papa.

He lifted his head, cheeks streaked with tears, eyes red. “If Phainon don’t eat chocolates no more… can Phainon not marry him?”

Silence.

“If Phainon is good… can Phainon not marry?”

His father’s jaw flexed. His mother’s eyes shimmered.

Phainon’s voice grew smaller, desperate. “If Phainon is good forever and ever and ever and eats all his veggies… can Phainon not marry? Please? Pretty please?”

Finally, his mother whispered, “Sweetheart, it’s… it’s not a punishment.”

Phainon blinked, bewildered. “But then why do I gotta do it? Only bad boys get punished. It's scary. If I’m Alpha, does that mean I have to? Even if I don’t wanna?”

His father crouched lower, stroking his hair with a trembling hand. “It’s… something that happens to nobles, Phainon. Not because you’re bad.”

“But I am bad!” Phainon insisted, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “I took the golden chocolate when Mamma said no! That’s why! I'm bad, that boy is mad at Phainon! Right? Right?!”

His parents exchanged a look, stricken.

“Darling,” his mother tried again, her voice brittle, “it’s… it’s not about chocolate.”

“Then about?” Phainon pleaded.

Another long pause. His father’s throat bobbed, but no words came. His mother pressed her lips tight, then forced a watery smile. “You’ll… understand when you’re older.”

Phainon’s little heart sank. Older? That sounded forever away. And it didn’t help him now. He buried his face in her shoulder again, sobbing, convinced he had ruined everything and no one would tell him how to fix it.

Phainon’s legs were wobbly as his mother took his hand and led him out of the hallway. He clung tightly, dragging his feet, head swiveling back once as if the cold-eyed boy with the eyepatch might suddenly reappear. He didn’t, but the chill of that gaze lingered on Phainon’s small shoulders.

The ride home was quiet, too quiet. Phainon sat between his parents on the carriage bench, hiccupping now and again. They didn’t argue this time—they didn’t even look at each other. That was worse.

He tried again, voice raw from crying. “I’ll be good forever. I promise. Can’t we… not marry?”

Neither parent answered. His father only pinched the bridge of his nose. His mother smoothed his curls back with a trembling hand, her lips pale.

Phainon curled up against her side, chest aching with confusion and guilt. He was sure now, this was all because of the golden chocolate. Because he’d been greedy. If he’d only listened, Mamma and Papa wouldn’t be so upset, and he wouldn’t be trapped in this scary word he didn’t even understand why he was betrothed.

His eyes grew heavy from crying, his small fists finally unclenching.

Just before sleep claimed him, something pressed lightly into his palm. He blinked blearily down. A small, wrapped chocolate, slipped into his hand by Mamma when Papa wasn’t looking.

“Everything will be alright, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head.

Phainon clutched the sweet tightly even as he drifted off, tears drying on his cheeks. He wanted to believe her. He really did.

Being a fiancé, Phainon quickly learned, was awful. It was very exhausting!

For one, every month he was dressed up in the scratchiest, most uncomfortable outfit possible and carted off to Anaxagoras' (shortened to Anaxa for his convenience as he'd decided on their first meeting after the banquet, though  the older boy didn't seem to like it) manor. His parents called it “mandatory courting tea time sessions.” Phainon called it “four hours of torture.”

And every month, the ritual was exactly the same: sit straight, sip politely, don’t fidget, be noble. Behave like proper noble Alpha should, he'd remember the way his governess would whisper to him sharply while adjusting his collar.

It was awful. It was boring.

He didn’t understand why he had to drink tea with the scary, pretty boy who barely looked at him. Was this what grown-ups actually meant by marriage? Sitting across from someone while they sipped tea and read books and ignored you?

He thought being a fiancé would at least be like a playdate. He’d played with his cousin Cyrene before—tag in the gardens, hide-and-seek in the halls, sometimes even sword-fighting with wooden sticks. That was fun. He wished she would visit more.

But Anaxa never played. Anaxa just sat there, quiet and regal, like a tiny king. He didn’t scold Phainon or say anything mean—he just didn’t do anything. Every time Phainon fidgeted or tried to ask if they could maybe do something else, Anaxa would glance up with that one sharp, cold eye. Phainon would freeze, sit up straighter, and return to being very, very polite.

So, four hours. Four hours of tea. Four hours of silence. Four hours of pretending he wasn’t dying of boredom.

The only part that made it bearable was the food. The trays always seemed to have the good things; honey biscuits, cream-filled tarts, and sugared fruits that made his fingers sticky. Phainon told himself he was lucky. “At least there’s this,” he would mumble before stuffing his mouth full.

The tea itself wasn’t bad either. Not bitter like the kind his tutors made him drink. The one served here was always light and sweet, almost like drinking flowers. “Better than at home,” he admitted once, surprised, very softly, though he still gulped it down quickly just to be done with it.

The flowers displayed on the tea table were always ones he liked too but Cyrene had said Omegas usually picked flowers, and Alphas weren’t supposed to care or judge their tastes. Maybe that was why Anaxa didn’t look at them much and didn't expect him to comment on them too. Phainon thought that was silly. He liked flowers. If Anaxa asked him about it he was sure he'd praise them.

And sometimes, the place they had tea in wasn’t half bad. He thought the seating arrangement was good enough for him to feel comfortable. Once, when the tea was held in the garden pavilion, Phainon privately decided it was his favorite spot yet. He decided he could almost like it.

But mostly, it was dull. Anaxa sat across from him, quiet and graceful, sipping quietly and reading whatever book he’d brought. If Phainon wriggled or leaned too far back, Anaxa would glance up, but he never said anything. He didn’t talk much at all. He never told Phainon not to speak. He never scolded him for wriggling in his chair. He simply sipped his tea and turned his pages. Phainon thought this was terribly boring, reading could be fun, yes but to do it all the time was a bit much. Especially when you had a guest over, and most especially if the said guest was your betrothed.

One time, Phainon tried to break the silence and start a conversation. “Pirates only drink dark tea,” he blurted. He thought Anaxa would ignore him.

But to his shock, Anaxa actually set his book down just a little to peer at him. “What kind of tea do you think they’d serve on a pirate ship?” he asked back, perfectly serious.

Phainon panicked and squeaked out, “Chocolate tea!” and then went bright red, before promptly clamming up and refusing to say another word after that for the rest of the tea session.

And then there were the gifts.

Apparently, having a betrothed or whatever, meant he had to give flowers and trinkets and other “courting” things. Phainon didn’t understand why. He barely remembered to give Mother flowers unless someone reminded him!

His tutors made him write stiff little notes to go with them too, which was even worse. He could barely write his own name without smudging the ink, but now he had to spell out words like devotion and gratitude.

“They’re Alpha things,” one tutor had explained when Phainon groaned not so quietly. “You must court your Omega properly.” Phainon had blinked, baffled. If Anaxa was supposed to be the “Omega” then why did Phainon have to specifically be his "Alpha"? He didn't even like him and Anaxa certainly felt the same.

This whole courting nonsense was ridiculous!

Although Anaxa, for his part, gave him gifts back too. Phainon thought that was the only good thing about the whole business… until he realized they were all the same kinds of repeated gifts; a silver bookmark, a polished pen, a plain brooch, and etc.

They were nice, sure, but boring. Generic.

Like the boy had gone into a shop, closed his lone eye, and grabbed the first thing his hand touched.

Phainon didn’t know much about giving gifts—he just knew he didn’t like them very much. So impersonal!

But he tried to not complain out loud anymore. He had learned fast that saying he didn’t want to do something didn’t matter. The adults would make him do it anyway. So he behaved as best he could. Sat still. Smiled politely. Wrote the letters begrudgingly. Drank the tea like a well-defined little gentleman. And quietly thought to himself that he'd rather not be allowed to eat chocolate than do all this. If he could spend less time here he'd be very grateful.

And so, every month, the two of them sat in silence. The hours passed. Quiet. Proper. Four endless hours until Phainon was finally allowed to go home. Being a fiancé, he decided, was nothing more than a very long boring tea party that you couldn’t leave early, no matter how much you wanted to.

Today Phainon was in a terrible mood.

He’d been scolded that morning—first by his tutor, then by his mother—because he’d gotten all his sums wrong.

Numbers weren't his absolute weakness in terms of subjects (that was history) but sometimes the lessons were so boring he couldn't bring himself to really pay attention, but doing that made it make no sense.

Although all was well for Phainon when his tutor didn't quiz him on it for the next few days, but then he eventually did and Phainon couldn't give the correct answer no matter how hard he wracked his brain over it, that lead to him being scolded (not once but twice) which he really really hated.

And now, on top of that, he had to sit through another four hours of tea with Anaxa who always so cold and unresponsive.

Just his luck! Today was his worst day ever!

He slumped in his chair, sulking as hard as he could.

“I don’t want to be here,” he muttered, arms crossed haughtily. “It’s stupid. Everything’s stupid. Like math, which I’m bad at now, Mamma's mad, and now I have to sit here and drink tea I don’t even like.” Which was a bold-faced lie, he liked the tea very much. Though the older boy didn't need to know that. 

Then he waited for it—for the scolding, the sharp words, the disappointed look. That’s what always came next.

But it didn’t.

Instead, Anaxa blinked once, then calmly set his book aside. “You’re struggling with arithmetic?”

Phainon blinked back, caught off guard. “Uh… maybe?”

“Show me.”

Before he could protest, Anaxa was already rising gracefully, retrieving a slim book and a sheet of paper from a nearby shelf. He returned to the table, slid the paper toward Phainon, and said, “Write one of the sums you were given.”

Phainon hesitated, chewing his lip, but the way Anaxa’s voice wasn’t sharp—just steady, certain—made him obey. He scrawled out the problem in crooked handwriting.

Then Anaxa began explaining. Slowly, carefully. Not like the tutor who went too fast, or his mother who sighed when he got it wrong. Anaxa broke the steps down into little pieces, tracing the numbers with an elegant finger, patient as though they had all the time in the world.

When Phainon got it wrong, Anaxa didn’t frown. He simply said, “Try again. You’ll see it.”

And when Phainon finally got one right, Anaxa’s lips curved just slightly—not a full smile, but enough to make something warm rush into Phainon’s chest.

“Well done,” Anaxa said softly, lips twisted up with the barest hint of a smile.

Phainon blinked at him. Warm. That’s how it felt. Warm and… light. Like maybe he wasn’t hopeless after all.

It was strange, though. Alphas were supposed to be the steady ones, weren’t they?

Mamma always said Papa had strong shoulders, that he carried her things when they were too heavy. But right now, Anaxa—the Omega—was the one holding him steady. Explaining things. Making the numbers less scary.

Phainon’s chest wobbled. Did that mean he was being a bad Alpha already? Omegas weren’t supposed to be the strong ones, right? And yet… he didn’t mind.

As Anaxa leaned in to show him another trick with the numbers, Phainon suddenly thought of the story he always told himself. The prince and the scholar. Anaxa looked just like the scholar when he was explaining things. So calm. So clever.

And if Anaxa was the scholar… then did that make Phainon the prince?

It was weird. He still didn’t like this whole fiancé thing. But sitting here, with Anaxa’s voice soft and steady, his eye gentle for once—it didn’t feel so bad.

In fact, when the four hours were finally up, Phainon found himself pouting. For the very first time, he thought four hours wasn’t nearly long enough.

He couldn't possibly be separated from Anaxa so soon.

The next month, Phainon came to tea with a plan.

He was going to get Anaxa to help him again. Maybe with numbers. Maybe with letters. Something—anything that would make him set his book aside and speak to him the way he had that one time.

He tried. He scribbled a sum in the corner of his paper and pushed it toward Anaxa. “This one’s hard,” he lied but he was hopeful enough that the older boy would indulge him.

Anaxa glanced at it curiously, then at him. “You’ll manage. It's two levels below what we discussed yesterday.” And just like that, the book was open again.

Phainon chewed his lip. He tried again. “I’m… really bad at writing too. Do you want to see?”

“Your tutors should help correct that for you. Work hard.” Calm. Unmoved. A sip of tea.

Phainon’s heart sank.

He thought maybe he could replicate it, like last time. Maybe he had to be all upset again, sulking and complaining, Was that how Anaxa would soften? But it would be odd to do that now, it might came out flat and very unrealistic. His voice just didn’t have the same heat and passion. He couldn’t make himself shout at someone who had once looked at him so kindly. Plus, acting all sulky was a bit embarrassing now that he thought about it. Anaxa might think he was being a bother.

Maybe on next meeting?

And so the hours dragged on. Quiet. Dull. Anaxa sipping tea, reading. Phainon fidgeting, glancing at him again and again, waiting for something that never came.

Inside, his thoughts tangled the longer he sat there. Wasn’t he supposed to be the Alpha? Papa always said Alphas took care of Omegas, not the other way around. But when Anaxa had helped him before, it had felt so safe, so steady, like being carried by his Mamma when he tired himself out after playing all day. He had thought maybe… maybe that was what being betrothed was meant to be like.

But now Anaxa had pulled back, cool and distant again, and Phainon’s chest hurt with a sharp, hollow ache. If he was the Alpha, did that mean he was failing already? Or… was Anaxa just a very bad Omega? Ah, that can't be, Phainon shouldn't blame other people for what was clearly his failings.

By the end, Phainon’s heart ached with a feeling he couldn’t name. He wanted the gentle voice back. The guiding hand over his own. The soft, fond, almost-smile when he got an answer right.

He wanted that warmth again.

But instead, all he got was cold tea and an even colder silence.

And now, having finally known what it could be like, Phainon realized he hated these tea time sessions even more than before.

Stupid tea didn't even taste like the usual one he had been drinking for months!

Phainon was ten now (soon eleven though), which was practically grown-up, at least compared to the little boy he’d been when all this started. His handwriting was better, his tutors said, though he still didn’t like numbers, and history was practically unsalvageable. He’d gotten taller too. Not much taller, but taller. He was sure he’d shoot up soon enough—he’d catch up to Anaxa eventually.

Anaxa was thirteen now, and annoyingly, he still stood taller. Always straight-backed, always graceful, like he’d been born knowing how to be regal. It wasn’t fair, really. Phainon was forever fidgeting with his cuffs or scuffing his shoes when they sat together, while Anaxa looked like he belonged carved in marble.

And beautiful. Unreasonably so. His beauty hadn’t faded in the slightest with age; if anything, it had only sharpened, like every year etched him closer to something divine. The curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes over that one keen eye—Phainon thought it was unfair how pretty he was. Still the prettiest person Phainon had ever set eyes on.

Pretty in a way that didn’t fit neatly into the Alpha/Omega boxes he knew. Omegas, in his mind, were supposed to be soft and loving like his mother, gentle but firm like his governess. Alphas were supposed to be strong like his father, loud when they wanted, quick to command. But Anaxa didn’t match either picture. He was sharp and cold, but also beautiful and quiet. Sometimes, when Phainon stared too long, his little brain tied itself in knots: if he’s the Alpha, does that mean Anaxa is his Omega? He didn’t act like one though. Not at all.

It was, admittedly, one of the few good things about their monthly tea. Four hours of near-silence and boring formality were dreadful, but at least Anaxa’s face wasn’t boring to look at. Even when Phainon wanted to bang his head against the table from sheer tedium, he’d glance up and—there Anaxa was. Calm, poised, sipping tea like a prince out of one of Phainon’s storybooks.

That was almost enough to make the time feel a little less wasted. Almost.

The tea set was the same as always, porcelain painted with delicate gold filigree. The same few locations where they had tea: like the garden pavilion tucked between rosebushes that bloomed early in the season, or the tea room filled with shelves upon shelves of books. The same four hours stretched ahead of them, daunting as ever.

Anaxa sat across from him, posture perfect, one hand curled around a teacup and the other resting lightly on the open book before him. His eyepatch gleamed in the sunlight like a polished black jewel. He hadn’t said much beyond the customary greetings, and Phainon was once again left with nothing but his tea, the biscuits, and the weight of silence.

Except, he was ten now (soon eleven). He wasn’t a baby anymore. He was learning how to hold himself like a proper noble Alpha, how to speak clearly and stand tall like Father said he should. And… well, he was tired of sitting here like a ghost.

So he blurted, “Do you ever get bored, just… reading all the time?”

Anaxa’s eye lifted from the page, cool as the porcelain at his fingertips. “No.”

“Oh.” Phainon fiddled with his napkin. “Because I do. All the time.” Which wasn't a full lie, he liked reading, but the call to adventure was much more tempting. He loved learning but he much preferred hands-on learning rather than reading.

Silence again, except, Anaxa’s mouth twitched. The tiniest, briefest ghost of amusement.

Encouraged, Phainon tried again. “What’s the book even about? Is it spells? Or politics? Or something boring like trade routes?”

“A treatise on celestial harmonics,” Anaxa replied evenly.

Phainon blinked. Then joked: “So… boring, then.”

This time, Anaxa actually set the book down. “Not if you know how to read it.”

Phainon scrunched his nose playfully, pretending to be unconvinced. But Anaxa surprised him by adding, “If you wish, I could explain it. Simply.”

He didn’t, not really. Anaxa’s “simple” explanations were still filled with words Phainon barely grasped, but there was something steady and patient in the way he spoke. He didn’t sound annoyed that Phainon interrupted his reading. He even drew a little diagram on a scrap of paper, outlining circles and lines and dots that were supposed to be stars.

Phainon tried to follow along. He failed, mostly. It was a foreign topic he didn't know existed until now. But Anaxa’s voice was soft when he prompted him, and his eye lit just faintly when Phainon managed to answer something halfway right.

It reminded him—achefully—of that one time, years ago, when Anaxa had taught him numbers so gently. Back then, Phainon hadn’t known if that was what Alphas did for Omegas, or Omegas for Alphas, but it had felt like something right.

By the end of tea, Phainon thought celestial harmonics were a bit boring (although it did seem kind of interesting now, and maybe more so if a certain someone continued to speak to him about it).

But he also thought maybe four hours didn’t feel quite as long when Anaxa actually talked to him.

And, though he’d never admit it aloud, he liked how Anaxa looked when he smiled, just barely, at his clumsy answers.

Phainon had been staring for far too long. He only knew because Anaxa’s one good eye lifted from the page, cool and steady, and pinned him like a naughty thing caught stealing a cookie after being told numerous times he's had too much sweets. And given Phainon's track record that inadvertently roped him into being betrothed. 

Phainon squeaked and nearly choked on his tea. “I—I wasn’t staring!”

Anaxa’s brow arched, flat and a little amused. “You very clearly were.”

Heat flooded Phainon’s ears. “I was just… um… looking at the flowers!” he lied, though of course the flowers were behind Anaxa’s head and the excuse was laughable, pitiful at best. Still, Anaxa didn’t press. He simply glanced back to his book and turned the page, letting the silence fall like a heavy curtain.

Phainon hated that silence. It made him feel restless. It jittered his hands and made his knees bounce against the chair. He wanted—no, needed—Anaxa to speak again, say something else. Not the cold, clipped way he relayed rules from the parlor or the carefully neutral one he always used between them most of the time, but the soft and patient one that had shown him how to do arithmetic numbers once and all about the celestial something he talked about.

Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “I think you look prettier when you smile.”

The words leapt out, ridiculous and bold. He clapped his hands over his mouth, mortified. Who even said things like that to a person like Anaxa?

Anaxa looked up, not angry, nor cold just... unreadable. For a breathless second Phainon thought he might be scolded. He was small and painfully aware that Omegas were supposed to be soft and motherly, that Alphas—like Papa—were the ones who teased and laughed. This older boy wasn’t one to act like an Omega at all. Maybe that was why Phainon felt so strange when he hoped for a smile.

Phainon’s stomach twisted. “I mean—! Not that you’re not already… um… you know, you’re—” He stammered, cheeks aflame. “You’re really pretty already. I just think you're… prettier when you smile.”

There. He said it. He wanted to crawl under the table and die.

For a long, horrible moment, Anaxa said nothing. And then, so tiny, so fleeting he almost missed it because he doubted his eyes saw the sight properly—Anaxa’s mouth tugged at the corner, his lips curved. Barely. Like a sliver of sunlight breaking through cloud cover.

Phainon’s heart did a silly, big thump. He smiled back without meaning to, victorious and light. “See! Way better!”

The smile was gone as quickly as it came. “Stop staring,” Anaxa chided, voice flat, and bent back to his page.

Phainon sulked, he pouted, sinking back into his chair. But his chest felt oddly warm, it felt strangely light. The room still smelled like polished wood and the polite, neutral hush that everyone’s scent patches made—a grown-up rule to keep feelings calm in public. But for that tiny second, the smile had felt like something real, like Mamma's arms after she’d kissed his forehead goodnight.

Phainon had done it though. He made Anaxa smile. And now, he wanted to see it again, and wanted it so badly it made his head spin. He didn’t know why.

And then he realizes, four hours really wasn't long enough anymore.

Phainon decided—today was the day. He was going to make Anaxa laugh. Or at least smile again. He didn’t know why it mattered so much, but it did. More than he wanted chocolate, more than he wanted to get out of boring lessons. More than almost anything.

It was the kind of want that clawed in his chest, sharp and restless, the way young Alphas were supposed to ache for notice. He didn’t know that—he only knew it felt unfair, like some essential part of him was missing if Anaxa kept ignoring him.

The first attempt was a joke. He had heard one from a servant boy in the stables and practiced it three times in the mirror. So when the silence of tea grew unbearable, he leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, “Hey, Anaxa—what do you call a horse that likes to eat cake?”

Anaxa’s eye lifted, cool and expectant. “…What?”

“A short-cake!” Phainon declared, grinning like it was the cleverest thing in the world.

Anaxa blinked once. Twice. Then returned to his book without comment.

Phainon wilted.

The second attempt was… bolder. He tried balancing a spoon on his nose while sipping tea. Which, to be fair, was much harder than he'd expected but the thought of impressing Anaxa had him focusing so hard on the task. The spoon eventually clattered onto the table as he failed, tea splashed on his dress shirt, and the servant standing nearby looked like he might faint.

Anaxa didn’t even raise his eye from his book. “You’re making a mess. Behave.”

Phainon sulked for a full twenty minutes after that.

It wasn’t just being scolded. It was that he’d failed. Alphas weren’t supposed to fail when they tried to draw someone’s eye (particularly an Omega).

And yet Anaxa hadn’t even twitched. The hollow weight of it sat heavy in Phainon’s stomach.

The third attempt… that one mattered most. He was sure it would work. He told Anaxa about his favourite story, the one where there was a brave prince, and a clever scholar (kind of like Anaxa) was his companion. He thought Anaxa might like being the prince’s clever partner. That maybe he’d even want to hear more, especially the special ending he made up. That maybe he’d even want to hear more.

But halfway through his enthusiastic retelling, Anaxa interrupted, voice cool and cutting: “Changing the ending because you don't like it is rather childish, no? The story ends horribly for a reason, which is to teach us a lesson.”

Phainon froze. His cheeks burned, like the words had slapped him across the face. He wanted to argue, to say that Anaxa was wrong, but the words stuck like stones in his throat.

“Guess I’m still a kid then,” he muttered with a grin too wide, too quick, too fake, as though the words didn’t matter at all. 

The rest of tea time he spent kicking the chair leg, unable to sit still, heart aching in ways he didn’t have names for.

That evening, when he returned home he went straight to his room, the grin collapsed the instant the door shut. He buried his face into his pillow, the tightness in his throat finally spilling into hot, ugly sobs.

Anaxa didn’t understand. He couldn’t. The story wasn’t just “chiidish.” It was his. The prince and the scholar, the two heroes who fought side by side together—that was his favorite because Phainon was the prince, brave and bold, and Anaxa… Anaxa was supposed to be the scholar. His partner. His clever other half.

But Anaxa had called it childish. And if the story was childish, then what did that make Phainon? An Alpha who couldn’t be serious? An Alpha who was still a baby? Too soft? Too small to be the Alpha he was supposed to be?

He didn’t know. He only knew the word stung worse than if Anaxa had slapped him.

Phainon was told that the story he liked was a fairytale meant for children. And Phainon was supposed to be older now, he was going to be eleven soon so he was supposed to be a good and proper Alpha noble.

He curled tighter into himself, clutching the pillow like it could muffle the sobs rattling out of him. He wanted so badly for Anaxa to smile at him, to tell him he wasn’t silly, to listen to his story just once and maybe, just maybe, say he wanted to be the scholar to Phainon's prince too. Instead, all he ever got was that same cold distance despite his attempts at closing it.

It hurt. More than he wanted to admit.

That night after crying so hard his eyes were all puffy, Phainon lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t understand it. Why was it so hard to get Anaxa to… care? Not just sit there with him out of duty, not just nod coldly or sip his tea in silence, but actually look at him the way he did that one time—like Phainon mattered.

It wasn’t fair.

Anaxa was so good at making him feel like he was invisible, like he could sit there all afternoon and disappear without being noticed. Like Phainon could be swallowed into the silence and Anaxa wouldn’t even blink. But Phainon couldn’t stop trying, no matter how sharp the hurt when he failed. Some instinct pushed him forward, made him itch with the need to be acknowledged. Something deep in him—something Alpha, maybe—clung to the thought that if he just kept reaching, if he just didn’t give up, Anaxa would have to reach back someday. Even if it hurts a little having to wait so long.

Plus, Alphas weren’t supposed to give up, right? He didn’t even know where that thought came from, just that it was loud inside him.

He wanted that so badly it left his chest hollow. Even if he didn’t know why it mattered so much.

He wished Anaxa would like him a little more.

When his mother peeked in later that night, she found him fast asleep, cheeks still damp, one hand clutching his storybook to his chest like a shield.

The next month, Phainon had a plan. No more silly jokes. No more spoon tricks. No more stories about princes and scholars. If Anaxa thought fairytales were childish, then fine. Phainon would prove he wasn’t a child anymore.

Phainon tried. He really tried.

For weeks he practiced his posture until his back ached. He sat very still, back straight as a board, hands folded primly in his lap. He sipped the bitter tea exactly like his etiquette tutor taught him—small, careful sips, no slurping, no spilling. He didn’t even reach for the cakes and tarts that had always been his favorite part. He refused sweets, even though he loved them, even though he dreamed of sugar-glazed biscuits at night. He didn’t even take a cookie from the plate, though the buttery smell made his stomach twist with longing.

He studied his letters and numbers so hard that his tutor actually praised him. All of it—all of it—was for Anaxa.

He was very mature. He was doing everything Anaxa asked him to be. But nothing changed.

“Big boys don’t need sweets,” he very seriously muttered to himself, as if repeating the words would make them true.

Across from him, Anaxa was as he always was: silent, composed, beautiful. His book was propped neatly in one hand, a finger holding his place as his eye flicked across the page. He didn’t look up. Not once.

Phainon stared and stared, his heart knotting tighter with every second.

Why won’t he say anything? Why won’t he look at me? I’m being good! I’m being the perfect Alpha he wants! Doesn’t he see?

And after the third time Phainon ignored the plate of deserts one of the servants put on their tea table, Anaxa finally looked up from his book. His single sharp eye studied Phainon with something that looked almost like… concern.

“You’re not eating,” he pointed out plainly.

Phainon’s heart leapt. Anaxa was noticing. Finally noticing him. He sat even straighter, fighting the urge to squirm. “I… don’t care for sweets,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’m old and mature enough now. My tastes are more...” Phainon pauses thinking of a fancy word to follow-up, “Sophisticated.”

That was what Alphas did, wasn’t it? They were steady. Controlled. They didn’t reach for treats like children—they waited, they were proper, like Papa always was like that at the dinner table. If he acted like that, then maybe Anaxa would look at him and think: yes, that’s my Alpha.

For a long moment, Anaxa just stared at him. His frown was slight, but it was there, like the words didn’t sit right with him. Then, just as quickly, he lowered his gaze back to the page. “I see. I'll take note of that.”

And that was it.

Phainon’s chest tightened. He thought he’d feel proud, but instead it felt like someone had slipped a heavy stone into his stomach. Anaxa hadn’t praised him, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t even said “well done.” He’d just frowned and gone back to his book.

To Phainon, that could only mean one thing: he still wasn’t good enough.

He clenched his hands in his lap, his throat prickling with a hurt he didn’t want to name. Being mature was supposed to work. So why did it feel worse than ever?

The next tea time rolled around, it came with no cakes. No biscuits. No sugared tarts. Instead, the table was set with delicate little sandwiches, cheese pastries, and other savory things Phainon might like.

Though he barely noticed.

He was too busy trying to sit perfectly straight, too busy practicing his serious noble Alpha face. He thought maybe, if he tried even harder this time, Anaxa would look at him and see he wasn’t a silly child anymore. But all he got was silence. The occasional turn of a page. The faint clink of porcelain.

Four hours later, Phainon left Anaxa's manor feeling even more hollow.

Alphas weren’t supposed to fail. They weren’t supposed to be invisible either. But somehow, no matter how hard he tried, Anaxa still treated him like a ghost.

By the time he reached home, the dam broke. He rushed to find his mother, clutching at her skirts, words spilling out in hiccuping sobs.

“I—I was good! I was really good, I was proper, I didn’t even eat the sweets, I sat like a noble Alpha, and he still—he still—” The rest dissolved into gasps and tears.

His mother knelt, smoothing his hair with worried hands. “Phainon, sweetheart, slow down. What happened?”

“He—he doesn’t care! He just reads his book and doesn’t talk and he doesn’t even look at me anymore!”

“Oh, darling…” His mother sighed, her face crumpling with pity. She hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes… in arranged marriages, the other person might not be too interested in their partner. They might not want to be close. They might only care about the… status of the match.”

Phainon stared at her, sniffling. He didn’t understand half of that. Status of matches? What did that mean?

But one thing cut through clearly enough.

“…He doesn’t want me?” His voice cracked, eyes going wide and wet. “He—he hates me?”

Wasn’t an Omega supposed to want their Alpha? Wasn’t that how it worked? Mamma had chosen Papa. They fit. They loved. Anaxa chose him too. So if Anaxa didn’t want him anymore… then maybe that meant Phainon wasn’t a good Alpha at all.

“No, love, I didn’t say that—”

But Phainon was already sobbing harder, burying his face against her shoulder. To his childish heart, there was only one conclusion: no matter how good he was, no matter how proper, Anaxa would never want him.

Even after trying so hard nothing changed during their monthly tea time. Phainon’s chest was a tight, aching knot.

The parlor smelled of polished wood, faint ink, and the soft drift of tea steam—but nothing human. Not even Anaxa. Everyone was patched, suppressed, as proper etiquette demanded when nobles gathered. Still, Phainon swore he could feel the boy’s presence, heavy and unmovable across the table, like marble carved into flesh.

Anaxa sat as always: composed, elegant, his eyepatch a stark mark against pale skin, one hand curled lightly around a teacup, the other steady on the book before him. Poised like a young Omega heir should be—controlled, immaculate, untouched by anything so disorderly as childish chatter.

Still, silent, and distant. He hadn’t looked at him once after their customary greetings. Phainon’s chest tightened. He wanted… something. A smile, a word, even just a glance. Anything. But Anaxa was like a statue, untouchable, beautiful... And so far, far away.

Four hours. Four endless hours of silence. No smile, no word. Not even a glance.

It pressed down on Phainon until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. And finally, something inside Phainon snapped.

“It’s not fair!” His voice cracked through the air like a whip across the quiet room as he slammed both his little palms on the tea table. The porcelain teacup rattled, amber liquid sloshed across the white cloth. His chair scraped against the polished floor as he half-stood, glaring through the blur of his tears.

The servants stiffened at once. Their eyes darted to Anaxa, their silence sharp with tension. Because an Alpha heir raising his voice in an Omega’s presence—even when they were both children—was no small breach.

It was undignified. It was a loss of composure. It was… dangerous.

Anaxa’s hand paused on the page. Then for the first time in months, slowly, Anaxa lowered the book and set it aside with the deliberate grace and calm of one taught never to betray urgency. For one terrible moment, he raised his gaze, fixing on Phainon as though pinning him in place with that single sharp eye of his—but it was not an unkind look. Despite that, Phainon's knees shook. His throat burned. “You never talk to me! You never laugh, you never smile—you just sit there like I’m not even here!”

Please. Please smile. Please say I’m good. Please don’t hate me.

But the silence that followed was heavy. Nobles did not air weakness in front of staff.

The footman by the door looked like he might faint from how hard he was trying not to be noticed. While the other servants seemed to want to leave them be to whatever this was, eyes darting to Anaxa as though they could telepathically ask to be dismissed.

But Anaxa’s face stayed the same—calm, unreadable, cold as polished glass.

Finally, Anaxa’s voice cut through. “Phainon,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Compose yourself. A young noble Alpha must never throw tantrums.”

The words struck like a lash. Not “stop it.” Not “you’re being silly.” But that—sharp, formal, and damning admonishment. Phainon’s cheeks were hot with shame.

Alphas weren’t supposed to cry. Alphas weren’t supposed to beg. Papa never did—Papa was always steady, always strong. If he broke down, if he shouted and wept like this… maybe that meant he wasn’t an Alpha worth having.

He’d hoped, somehow, Anaxa would finally see him, finally care. He’d imagined, just for a moment, that maybe Anaxa would understand, maybe even soften. But instead, it was just… disappointment.

Cold words, cool eyes.

He was being scolded.

His lip wobbled, his eyes stung. He’d wanted to be seen, to matter, and instead he was being… corrected. Judged. Like he was already failing the role everyone kept telling him he’d grow into.

His little fists curled. He thought he might burst apart from how much it hurt.

“You—you hate me!” The accusation tore out of him, raw and desperate, before he could stop it. “I hate this! I hate all of this!”

Anaxa didn’t move. Didn’t rise, didn’t flinch. Didn’t say anything else. He only sat there, composed as though carved from ice. Watching. Waiting.

Phainon’s heart splintered into tiny little pieces. He wondered if he could pick them back up again after this.

“...you really hate me,” he whispered, blinking back tears. Before anyone could stop him, he shoved his chair back so hard the legs screeched against the floor, then he bolted and ran straight out the door, down the hall, anywhere but here. His polished shoes slapped frantically against the marble floors heedless of the servants who pretended not to watch his escape.

He risked a last glance over his shoulder. Anaxa hadn’t moved. Anaxa was still at the table, his book lying open, untouched. His hand rested on the arm of his chair, fingers curled as if maybe he’d meant to do something, say something but then hadn’t. No words spilled from his mouth. Not a call, nor command, nor plea.

Anaxa didn’t follow. Seriously, not even a word to call him back? Phainon’s breath hitched. He didn’t even care enough to stop me.

That, more than anything, made his chest ache like it was splitting in two. This silence hurt the worst of all than just any scolding

The door slammed behind him, and Phainon ran until his lungs burned. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as he barreled toward his destination.

The carriage waited like a safe little box at the end of the steps, glossy and formal, the crest of his family glinting in gold against the warm rays of the sun.

A safe little box to swallow him whole. He scrambled inside before the footman could even open the door properly.

The velvet cushions engulfed him, too big for his trembling frame. He sank into them feeling small and afraid with his legs dangling far above the floor. He curled into himself, willing the hot tears not to spill as he pressed his sleeves to his face to muffle the ugly sobs spilling out despite everything.

Don’t cry. Nobles don’t cry in front of others. Alphas don’t cry. Mamma says good boys don’t cry in front of others. Be strong. Be good. Be steady. Be…

…be an Alpha.

He bit his lip hard to shut it down but a sob forced its way up anyway, squeaky and ugly. The words beat in his skull with every hiccup, but the tears only came harder. His whole chest ached, his throat tight and raw.

The carriage rocked as the horses carried him away. Hooves clattered steady against the cobblestones, the wheels creaked, the world outside rolled past in soft green blurs. The footman sat stiffly on the driver’s bench, pretending not to hear. Pretending not to notice the little Alpha heir crying like a child where anyone could smell his distress if he hadn’t been patched. All this only made Phainon feel worse.

Even the servants must think I’m horrible. Too wild. Too weak. Anaxa was right. Nobles don’t throw tantrums. I’m not fit to be noble. Not fit to be anyone’s Alpha.

The thought clawed into him, sharp and suffocating. Even when he tried to tell himself: I couldn’t help it—I really really couldn’t!

He had tried. He had sat still, swallowed the bitter tea, bit down on all his words. He had been everything they said he should be. And still, Anaxa hadn’t looked at him. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t wanted him.

Why won’t he ever look at me?

Phainon sat huddled against the velvet seat, clutching his knees to his chest. His small hands scrubbed furiously at his eyes and his wet cheeks, but the more he tried to stop, the more the tears kept coming, dripping hot onto his sleeves.

Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying, he begged himself. Big boys shouldn't cry. Nobles don’t cry. Alphas are supposed to be strong. If I keep crying he’ll hate me more!

But the harder he pressed his palms against his eyes, the hotter the tears spilled. His chest ached with each ragged little sob he tried to bite back.

The carriage jolted over a stone, making him hiccup sharply. He hated that even the footman outside could clearly hear him and was kindly trying not to listen in on his little tantrum. He hated that he couldn’t stop crying like a little baby when he was already ten now (almost eleven).

He swore he'd done everything right. He sat still. He drank the bitter tea. And he still…

His little fists clenched. His mind replayed his mother's soft voice from months ago: “Sometimes arranged matches are for status, not closeness.”

Maybe Mamma was right. Maybe he was only there for “status.” Whatever that meant.

“Does that mean… he hates me?” Phainon whispered into the dim, empty carriage. His own voice shook, breaking around the word.

No one answered.

Only the steady clip-clop of hooves filled the silence, carrying him closer to home, closer to the arms of his mother whom he wanted to run to for comfort.

But the question sat heavy on his chest: What if Anaxa truly did feel like that towards him?

Maybe Omegas were supposed to love their Alphas. Maybe that’s what made everything work. Like Mamma and Papa, the way they fit together, the way they wanted each other. But if Anaxa didn’t want him… then maybe he wasn’t really an Alpha at all.

A heavy, gnawing ache settled. Maybe, no matter how good he was Anaxa never would like him.

That, more than anything, made his chest hurt like it was splitting in two.

By the time the carriage pulled into their estate, Phainon’s face was blotchy and raw, his eyes swollen from tears. He scrubbed his face with his sleeve one last time, desperate to hide the evidence.

He tumbled out before the footman could open the door properly.

“Young master.” His family's old butler greeted him kindly as he opened the door for him but he didn't return the greeting like he usually did and ran past him. His mother was waiting in the hall. The moment she saw him, her face softened with worry. He ran straight towards her, his dress shoes slapping against the floor.

“Mamma!” His voice was high and broken as he flung himself into her skirts. Phainon was a mess of hiccups and snot and red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, darling—” She caught him, gently smoothing his damp hair, but he was already babbling through his sobs. “I messed up!” he wailed, lips quivering. “I-I didn’t mean to!” The words tumbled out in a rush, broken with hiccups.

His voice cracked as he clutched at her waist with desperate little hands. “I messed up so bad, and now he hates me, I know he does!”

His mother dropped to her knees, cradling him close. “Sweetheart, no, no. That isn’t true.” She rocked him gently, shushing softly, but nothing seemed to soothe him. Phainon only clutched tighter, crying into her shoulder.

“I was good, Mamma, I was so good, and then I wasn’t, and he—he doesn’t want me—” His words dissolved into even more frantic babbling, every thought spilling out like a desperate inescapable flood. “He probably doesn’t even want me there too, I know it, he—he—he hates me!”

“Why is it so hard? Why am I so bad at this?” His mother whispered reassurances again that everything would be all right, that Anaxa didn’t truly hate him, but Phainon only shook his head against her chest. “I don’t—I don’t want him to hate me!”

His voice cracked into another wail, he was spiraling, babbling through sobs: “I keep messing up! I’m a terrible fiancé! He’ll never like me! Why can’t he like me?”

The scholar liked the prince in his favorite story, so why not me? Is something wrong with me? Why can’t I be good enough? Phainon wants to ask but doesn't.

Because in his heart, it already felt decided: no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be enough for Anaxa.

His mother shushed him softly, stroking his hair, but her eyes glistened too. She tried to explain in clumsy, half-truthful words—that sometimes arranged marriages weren’t about liking each other, that sometimes they were about status but surely with a bit more time theirs wouldn't have to be like that. But Phainon only heard pieces, twisted them in his child’s mind.

“So… so he only really wants me ‘cause of stupid status?” His voice was shrill with horror. “That’s worse! That’s so much worse!”

The sobs came harder, until he sagged limp in her arms, exhausted. His mother whispered into his hair, “It will be alright, my darling. I promise. You’ll see. Everything will be alright.”

Later that night, when Phainon was scrubbed clean and tucked into his soft bed, his mother slipped into the room. Her gown whispered against the floor as she carried a small porcelain plate, the faintest smile curling her lips.

“Don’t tell your Papa,” she murmured, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush.

On the plate sat a single golden-wrapped chocolate.

Phainon’s swollen eyes widened. He sat up at once, taking it carefully in both hands as though it were a treasure. His lip wobbled, and for the first time all day, a small, shaky smile managed to appear.

His mother brushed his hair back, fingers smoothing over the downy strands with an Omega’s instinctive gentleness. “There’s my little Alpha,” she whispered. “So brave, even when his heart hurts.”

Phainon sniffled, clutching the chocolate like a shield. “Mamma… I think he really doesn’t like me. I tried everything, I was good, I was proper, and he still won’t—won’t even look at me.” His voice cracked, so soft it nearly vanished into the quilts.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She sank onto the edge of the bed, drawing him close. The bed dipped as she leaned in, and he curled against her side, small fists clenched around the sweet. “Listen to me. Lord Anaxa is not much older than you. Thirteen is still a child, even if he looks so composed. He may not know how to act yet, nor how to open his heart. That doesn’t mean he hates you.”

Phainon’s head snapped up, his eyes wet. “But—he never smiles at me. He never talks unless I beg him to. Doesn’t that mean he… he hates me?”

“No.” She kissed his brow, firm and steady.  “Has he told you this? That he hates you?”

“…No.”

“Then that is not so.” She cupped his cheek, thumb wiping at the last lingering tear. “Sometimes an Omega, especially one raised in strict traditions, learn to hide their feelings, to guard themselves very closely. It may take him time to feel safe enough to show you softness. But time does not mean dislike. Do you understand?”

Phainon bit his lip. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to so badly.

Her smile softened, tinged with sadness but also fierce love. “And you, my brave little Alpha… you must remember that caring for an Omega does not always mean rushing or demanding. Sometimes it means patience. Sometimes the greatest strength is simply waiting until they are ready.”

He nodded, small and solemn. “So… I shouldn’t give up?”

“Never.” She tucked the blankets around him, snug and warm. “Bonds grow slowly, like roses. You cannot force them to bloom by pulling on the petals. You must water them, tend them, and let the sun do its work. One day, you may look back and see that what felt like silence was only the quiet before growth.”

Phainon sniffled again, but the ache in his chest eased. He curled around the chocolate, as though it were a promise he could hold onto.

“Plus, didn't he choose you?”

“Huh?”

“Don't you remember that banquet from years ago? Out of everyone in the room he picked you, doesn't that make you special in his eyes?”

“Really?”

“Well, we can't be sure but perhaps there's a reason he chose you.”

“So he does like me?” Phainon asks hopefully. He still had doubts about supposedly being chosen, after all it could have meant nothing to Anaxa.

“I'm certain that to some extent he is fond of you.” His mother bent to kiss his temple once more. “Rest now, my little Alpha. Tomorrow, you will be stronger.”

“Mm…” His eyes drooped, heavy at last with sleep. Just before he drifted off, he whispered, “I’ll definitely wait for him, Mamma. I’ll be super patient.”

And his mother, smoothing the blankets with a tender hand, smiled at the resolve in his small, weary voice.

The following month came much too quickly for Phainon’s liking. Phainon spent the whole morning anxious over the visit. His stomach squirmed even as his nanny fussed with his hair, smoothing every strand into place. The carriage ride to Anaxa’s manor seemed endless, though he would have traded anything to stretch it longer so he wouldn’t have to step foot inside.

He dragged his feet across the marble floors of Anaxa’s manor, the polished stone echoing his dress shoes with every nervous click. His stomach was a restless knot of dread, the same way it always felt before etiquette lessons with his father—but sharper now, heavier. His mother’s words from that night still echoed in his head albeit distorted in what he interpreted of her advice: be patient, good Alphas learn to wait.

He smoothed his jacket over and over, though the tailor had stitched it so stiffly it hardly wrinkled. His tutors had told him an Alpha heir must always look composed. But his palms were damp and his throat tight.

The parlor looked the same as always: a round table gleaming like polished honey, pale sunlight filtering through tall windows, vases of fresh flowers perfuming the air. Yet something was different. The scent of spiced savory pastries drifted from the porcelain plates before him, Phainon’s eyes darted to the table—no sugared cakes, no honey biscuits, not even a single chocolate tart. There were none of the sweet treats that had always been served before; there were only neat rows of sandwiches, crisp golden rolls, and little pastries filled with meat and herbs.

Huh?

He almost blurted out, Where are the tarts? The honey cakes? The chocolate? But he pressed his lips shut. He swallowed hard.

Sweets were always something he could look forward to. He recalled these sweets weren’t just normal tea time treats—they were also Omega-safe treats, part of the unspoken etiquette of courting tea sessions. They were meant to soften an Alpha’s scent, to remind both children that these were supposed to be gentle meetings, not negotiations. Though he liked to believe that Anaxa had it served for them specially because Phainon liked them.

But now… no sweets. Why was this happening?

And really, it wasn’t just the absence of sugar that was making him feel bad—it was the absence of what he'd thought was a gesture of goodwill towards himself. His governess once explained that sweets were a subtle promise: the host for tea courting sessions would declare their gentleness, their willingness to meet halfway through what they served.

To replace them with spiced savories was to change the script entirely, as if this was no longer a comforting meeting, but a negotiation between houses. The thought made Phainon’s chest crumple—because hadn’t Anaxa always been spared that kind of posturing before? Why was he changing them out now?

For a fleeting moment, Phainon thought this might be Anaxa’s way of admonishing him. Had Anaxa taken them away because of his tantrum? Was this punishment? Nobles weren’t supposed to throw fits, especially not in front of their betrothed. Was this Anaxa’s quiet way of saying: you are too childish in asking for sweets and too untrained for courtesy so you don't deserve them anymore!

He must think I’m spoiled. Or disgusting. Or both.

So that was it, then—Anaxa was stripping away the one small sweetness Phainon had secretly cherished.

The door opened with a soft click. Anaxa entered, his movements as soundless and fluid as silk. His mint-green hair gleamed softly in the light, his eyepatch stark against his pale features. Even at thirteen, there was something innately Omega about his grace, that cultivated softness taught to Omegas so they could appear untouchable while seeming endlessly polite. A poised stillness that bespoke training from birth—how to walk, how to sit, how to hide your scent.

He gave no greeting beyond a polite nod and took his seat opposite. He sat with perfect posture, a book bound in soft leather appeared in his hands before the silence even had time to settle. For the briefest moment, his fingers hesitated on the book’s spine, as though he meant to say something. A flicker of warmth—an echo of an unguarded scent—slipped free before the suppression patch muted it again, leaving only the sterile trace of soap. Then, just as quickly, his face smoothed back into marble composure, as if nothing had happened.

Phainon’s stomach twisted. He shuffled to his chair and sat down as primly as he could, hands clasped neatly in his lap. His throat felt tight.

Doesn’t he remember?

He sneaked a glance. Anaxa didn’t look at him, not even once—just flipped a page with the same calm expression. His face was unreadable, cool as marble. A picture of composure, one elbow resting on the carved arm of his chair, the other hand holding his book open. His posture remained graceful, so infuriatingly calm, it made Phainon’s own careful stillness feel childish.

He’s pretending it didn’t happen. Phainon concluded. Pretending I didn’t scream and cry like a baby last time. Pretending I don’t exist again.

He must hate me. He definitely does. I ruined everything. 

Phainon wrung his hands together on his lap, watching Anaxa’s long fingers turn the pages—steady, refined, every movement a picture-perfect Omega gesture drilled into him since childhood. Even his scent was muted to nothing but faint soap, the patch on his neck signaling suppression.

Neither spoke. The silence spread and grew heavy, until it felt like the clink of Anaxa’s spoon against porcelain was loud enough to echo. Even the servants seemed to know better than to intrude. The maid’s hands moved carefully, as if each placement of porcelain was part of a ritual. The footmen at the door stood rigid, their eyes cast down, following the etiquette drilled into them: when heirs were together, the household must become invisible. This wasn’t just tea—it was a social play, even if one of them refused to play the part.

Phainon kept his eyes on the untouched pastries, his chest aching as the maid poured tea for him, and the rising steam fogged his vision for a moment. He clutched the cup too tightly, the porcelain almost slipping in his sweaty hands.

He wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but the words jammed in his throat. What if Anaxa only grows colder? What if he ignores me again? It was worse than scolding because at least getting a scolding proved Anaxa still noticed him.

Phainon shook his head and forced himself to grab some food to distract himself. He ended up nibbling on a ham and cheese roll, chewing even though it tasted like dust in his mouth. He tried not to fidget but the hours seemed to crawl. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked with cruel slowness, dragging out every second.

When he dared to sneak a glance at Anaxa, the older boy was utterly absorbed in his book, his face smooth, unreadable. Beautiful. Untouchable. A scholar in his own world. Phainon’s chest ached with the heavy, awful knowledge: he wasn’t part of that world. Not yet.

Not when Anaxa refused to open the door.

Phainon sat straighter, holding himself perfectly still. The silence pressed down harder than ever. His instincts—those small, confusing Alpha instincts that had been stirring more lately—wanted him to reach across the table, make contact, do something to get Anaxa to look at him.

Every restless part of him wanted to bridge the space; to lean forward, to demand Anaxa’s attention, to prove he was here. But across from him sat an Omega drilled to stillness, to silence, to making himself untouchable. They were being raised into different lessons, opposite halves of a future bond, and the clash made the air between them thrum with tension.

It made Phainon’s chest hurt, because he didn’t want to play lessons—he just wanted Anaxa to look at him.

But his etiquette tutor’s voice echoed loudly in his mind reminding him how he was supposed to act: A noble Alpha must endure. A noble must never falter. Hold steady to etiquette and discipline. Behave.

So he sat. For hours.

And all the while, Anaxa sat across from him, serene and silent, sipping his tea, the picture of composure.

By the time the footmen announced the end of their mandatory four hours together, Phainon’s throat hurt from holding back tears. He bowed stiffly, lips pressed tight, and left the manor feeling smaller than when he’d entered.

When Phainon finally stumbled back into his room that evening, he collapsed face-first into his bed and muffled a groan into the sheets.

“It was worse,” he whispered hoarsely. “So much worse.”

The scholar from the story never ignored the prince. The scholar never sat there acting like he didn’t care. But Anaxa… Anaxa had been colder than winter, and Phainon had never felt lonelier in his life.

He buried his face deeper, a small sob escaping before he could stop it.

He doesn’t care about me at all, Phainon thought miserably.

If only he’d just yelled at me. If only he’d been angry. If only he looked at me. Anything would’ve been better than nothing.

Because wasn’t that what it meant, when an Omega ignored you? In stories, even cold Omegas responded—softened, coaxed, gave some sign that the bond would matter someday. But Anaxa had given him nothing. And nothing felt like the cruelest answer of all.

The next month, Phainon decided he wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. He had to make Anaxa look at him—just once. He couldn’t bear another four hours of being invisible. His mother’s words echoed like a vow in his head: Alphas endure. Alphas wait. But waiting didn’t mean surrender. Phainon resolved he would try harder. He would make Anaxa look at him and speak. He was determined not to let the silence win again.

So when they were seated and their tea was poured, and the maids and footmen slipped away with that ritual quiet of servants trained never to intrude on heirs, Phainon braced himself. He folded his hands properly, breathed as he’d been taught, and then he tried speaking.

He started small, careful, the way a governess might advise. “The garden looked very pretty today!” His voice lifted with forced brightness. He leaned forward, smiling in hope. “I saw roses redder than rubies.”

Anaxa did not look up. A quiet sound hummed from his throat—acknowledgment? dismissal?—and he turned another page of his book.

Phainon’s ears burned, but he pressed on. His governess had always said an Alpha should offer an Omega two kinds of conversation: compliments, or strength. So this time he tried the latter. “I saw the knights training, too. Their swords looked so heavy! Do you think they’re heavier than… a loaf of bread? Or maybe a whole barrel of apples?”

For one instant, Anaxa’s eye lifted. Just a flicker, a single glance across the table. Phainon’s chest leapt—he looked at me! But then it fell just as fast. Anaxa’s gaze returned to the page, lashes lowering like shutters, and he gave nothing more. The faintest trace of scent escaped with the movement: clean, sterile soap. Suppressed. Polished down to nothing. Phainon caught it like a drowning boy clutching a straw, proof he’d been noticed... only to be dismissed.

That was it.

The words in Phainon’s throat dried up. He pressed his lips tight, biting back the sting in his chest. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to slam his hands on the table and shout until Anaxa had no choice but to look at him. Every restless Alpha instinct inside him surged with the need to bridge the space, to command attention.

But his tutor’s cane cracked against memory: a noble Alpha must never beg. Must never falter. Must endure.

So Phainon sat straighter, his cheeks hot, his body trembling from the effort of stillness. He fiddled with the handle of his teacup instead, pretending composure while shame pressed heavier and heavier on his small shoulders.

The silence felt worse than before. Every turn of Anaxa’s page rang louder than a door slamming shut. The savory snacks on the table looked beautiful, but to Phainon they tasted like dust. His tea was no comfort, only bitter in his throat.

Why won’t he answer? Why won’t he look? Doesn’t he see me?

The ache in his chest twisted sharper. Omegas in stories always gave something, even the cold ones. A softened word, a quiet smile, a sign the bond mattered. But Anaxa gave him nothing. Not sweetness. Not anger. Just silence, and silence felt like the cruelest rejection of all.

By the end of the visit, Phainon’s heart screamed what his lips could not: Talk to me! Look at me! But when the footmen returned and the hours were pronounced over, all he could do was bow stiffly. His throat was raw from holding back tears.

He left the manor hollow, ashamed of having tried at all.

The carriage ride blurred in streaks of silent tears he wiped away before anyone could see.

The next month, the silence was even more unbearable.

Phainon felt like a criminal being marched to his sentence, even though he wore his finest jacket and his hair was combed just right.  A new suppressant patch itched faintly under the collar, a reminder from his governess that an Alpha should always be composed, always in control especially in polite company. No matter how nervous he felt, no one should ever smell it on him. What nonsense, no one saw him anyway. Anaxa didn't even care to look at him!

The steward led him down the cool marble hall to the parlor. Phainon’s shoes clicked quietly, echoing off the high ceilings. Everything about Anaxa’s home was quiet. Still. Heavy with the kind of silence that made him feel too loud just for existing. While every step forward made his stomach twist tighter, leaving him just a little nauseous.

When he was finally seated, the table gleamed with its usual array of neat savories and spiced rolls. No sweets. No sign that anyone remembered he liked them. He folded his hands in his lap, chest tight, and dared a glance across the table.

Anaxa sat there, pristine as ever. His mint-green hair caught onto the pale light coming from the sun's rays beyond the open window, his single visible eye focused calmly on the book in his hands. And elegantly, he sipped his tea without a sound, as though Phainon were nothing but another piece of furniture in the parlor.

His scent was completely masked, polite and clean, the faint sterile sweetness of suppressant patches filling the space instead. The absence made Phainon ache. Without scent, there was no warmth, no trace of anything real.

He might as well have been sitting with a statue.

The ache in Phainon’s chest grew sharper with every turn of a page.

Minutes dragged like hours. His throat burned. His chest squeezed tighter and tighter until it hurt to breathe. He gripped the edge of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted Anaxa to look at him. Just once more.

“Why can’t you just like me?!”

The words burst out before he knew he’d spoken. His little fists slammed the table, rattling porcelain, the cry ringing in the quiet parlor, high and trembling, shattering the fragile calm. Even the servants outside the door were startled because it was unthinkable for a young Alpha to raise his voice to an Omega, especially one of which said Alpha has had a history of shouting at.

Anaxa lowered his book slowly. Deliberately. His expression was calm as marble, but his gaze—steady, unwavering—rested fully on Phainon at last. For one terribly fleeting heartbeat, something startled and unguarded softened that gaze. Then he caught himself. The softness vanished as quickly as it had come.

Phainon had thought maybe, finally, he might say something kind. Instead, Anaxa’s voice came out cool and measured, “You were chosen because you’re arguably good-looking, my liking of you does not matter.” With a tone so icy he could feel the chill in his bones. “That’s all. Don’t make a fuss about it.”

His world cracked in half.

Phainon sat frozen, jolted as though a blade had been driven straight into his chest. Though it was only words, it hurt so sharply it almost felt like he was bleeding out. His breath caught, his heart seized hot and cold all at once.

The tears that burned his eyes refused to fall; he was too proud to let them.

“That’s… that’s all I am to you?” he whispered, voice breaking. Phainon sat perfectly still, back rigid, fists clenched in his lap, while inside his heart shattered into pieces so small he thought he might never put them back together.

Anaxa’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the book’s cover. A tremor, barely there, before stillness returned. His throat moved once, as if he’d swallowed something hard. His lashes lowered, shuttering something he didn’t want seen. He looked away, not in disdain, but in self-defense.

“You don’t need to trouble yourself about how I feel and whether I like you or not,” he said at last. His voice was matter-of-fact, yet softened at the edges in a way Phainon’s ears refused to catch. “Just… sit properly. Drink your tea. Endure. That’s all this requires of you.”

Endure again. Phainon couldn't take any of this at all!

The older boy's voice wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even cold. It was careful. Soft. Measured. Every word balanced on the edge between honesty and kindness. But Phainon didn’t hear that; all he heard was the sound of his breath hitching. That faint softness never reached him. All he heard was dismissal. All he felt was the crushing weight of being unseen.

“So it doesn’t matter to you if I’m here or not?!”

For a second, something flickered again in Anaxa’s gaze—a crack, a shadow of hesitation, the faintest of tremors. His lips parted, as if he might say something else, something different. But the moment passed. He shut his mouth and lifted his book again, smoothing out the next page with one gloved hand as his lashes lowered like a curtain.

“It will be easier for both of us,” he murmured, “if you stop expecting anything else.”

The words landed like stones. Phainon’s throat closed around them. The scentless air between them felt suffocating. It wasn’t just quiet... It was empty. Even his own suppressed scent couldn’t fill the space; the patch burned faintly against his skin, as if reminding him to stay composed.

His fists remained clenched on his lap. From this side of the table, he was distraught, in turmoil over feelings and instincts that made him feel small. Across from him, Anaxa turned his page with elegant calm, though his shoulders were held just a fraction too taut, as if the weight of his own mask pressed heavy against him.

Phainon didn’t see it. He only saw the marble mask and that unreadable calm. Only felt the silence pressing down, the terrible distance growing between them. And the hurt that remained laving at his wounded heart like a pest.

The rest of the tea passed in unbearable stillness, so suffocating it made Phainon’s skin prickle. Neither touched the food. Neither spoke. The lone grandfather's clock ticked like a cruel reminder of every second stretching into eternity.

When the four hours ended at last, Phainon rose on trembling legs. He bowed stiffly, lips pressed tight, the motion so sharp it almost felt like mockery. Anaxa inclined his head in return, perfectly composed. Only his fingers, resting on the rim of his teacup, trembled once, before he hid them in his lap.

Phainon, feeling overwhelmed, didn't notice it and left without another word exchanged between them.

The moment the carriage door shut behind him, the tears he’d held back burst. He collapsed onto the seat, fists pressed to his eyes. He tried to bite back the sobs, but they forced their way through, shaking his small frame.

He bit his lip until he tasted blood, scrubbed furiously at his cheeks, but it didn’t stop. His chest hurt, his throat burned. He pressed his forehead to the window, trying to muffle the sounds against the cool glass, but it was useless.

“Why doesn’t he like me?” The thought looped and looped in his head, cruel and relentless.

Why won’t he talk to me? Why can’t he just… just smile at me, like the scholar did for the prince in his favourite story? Why can’t he—why can’t he—

He pressed his forehead to the glass, trying to swallow back the noise. But the patch on his neck couldn’t hide the tiny trace of grief that slipped out: that aching, bitter scent of young heartbreak.

The wheels clattered over cobblestones. His chest ached. His head ached. He curled in on himself, forehead against his knees, trembling with hiccuping sobs he tried to swallow down so the servants wouldn’t hear his shameful crying.

But he couldn’t stop. Not when every beat of his heart screamed it wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t fair, none of it was fair.

By the time the carriage rolled up to his family’s estate, Phainon had forced himself into a fragile calm, though his eyes were red and swollen. He stepped down with his chin up, a small child pretending to be a grown man because he could at least pretend he had some composure... but the moment he saw his mother, he folded.

The second he burst into her parlor, all his pretenses shattered.

“Mamma!” His voice broke as he ran to her, tears spilling again. “He really hates me this time!" He wailed in anguish as he stumbled into her arms, sobbing so hard his words came out a bit slurred or cut off. The broken fragments tumbled out like a half finished puzzle: “He only—because of my face—he doesn’t want me—why—why can’t he—”

His mother dropped her embroidery and gathered him into her lap despite his size. Her little boy had started to grow taller these past few years but he was still so small. He clung to her gown, babbling between hiccups and sobs—half-coherent words spilling too fast: he doesn’t care, he won’t talk, I tried, I tried. What do I do?

She stroked his hair, her own heart breaking. Carefully, she whispered, “Sometimes marriages are about families, darling. Not about love. Sometimes they’re for duty, not happiness.”

But Phainon only sobbed harder, his small voice cracking: “But the scholar liked the prince! Why can’t he like me too?! It’s not fair!”

Her arms tightened around him, but no words could soothe him.

It wasn’t fair. The scholar had liked the prince. They had fought together. They had cared for each other. There was a promise of a future for them.

So why couldn’t Anaxa care for him too?

“Sweetie, the prince and scholar never got together at the end of the story. Remember they both died.”

The month after the outburst was agony.

Phainon stood in front of the mirror for longer than usual that morning. His nanny tugged gently at his hair, combing the white curls into place, while he smoothed his suit jacket for the fifth time. He tried not to squirm as he pursed his lips and practiced not smiling too much. Not pouting either. Just… looking nice. Handsome, like Anaxa had said. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Handsome was why he was chosen. Handsome was what he could give.

... huh, that way of thinking seemed a little petty...

Oh, but Phainon was just doing what he'd been told to. No one could blame him for that. Right, right, Phainon was a good boy, very clever and bright!

That made him smile a little and his reflection in the mirror followed suit which made him suddenly frown. Too childish, he should appear more serious. He fixed his expression, there much better. He was pretty tall for his age, his dance instructor once praised, though not as tall as Anaxa yet. As he tugged his suit jacket straighter he caught a faint glimpse of a suppressant patch just a little bit visible under his collar.

Phainon didn't really like wearing them. He hated the way it smelled. Powdered, sterile, like chalk and soap. It erased everything warm, everything him. But it was proper at this age. His governess had said no Alpha should ever let his scent wander unchecked in another’s home, especially not in an Omega’s. It was fine when he was much younger but he was a growing boy and a lot of things change.

So he wore it, even if it made his stomach twist.

He pursed his lips once more, back to practicing in the mirror: not smiling too much, not frowning either. Just... pleasant. Handsome. That’s what he would be, perfect and handsome. Something worth choosing.

Because Anaxa chose him specifically. Phainon was Anaxa's choice regardless if it was only for his face.

That day, he sat in the parlor perfectly prim, not daring to move too much. His teacup stayed steady in his small hands; his posture, impeccable. Why his tutors would have been so proud had they seen him looking so gentlemanly!

Anaxa arrived with quiet grace, a soft scent of clean linen barely perceptible beneath his own suppressant. He nodded in greeting, that same polite, distant nod, and took his seat with a book.

The silence stretched, thin as glass.

Phainon peeked once, then twice. The faint clink of porcelain seemed too loud in the hush. Anaxa didn’t look up, didn’t scold, didn’t sigh. He just… read.

Phainon’s chest felt hollow. He told himself he wouldn’t cry again. Crying would make him look childish, ruining the “handsome” mask he’d practiced. So he sat straighter, hands folded neatly, and swallowed the lump in his throat until it hurt.

Four hours crawled by.

When the clock chimed, he rose, bowed precisely as etiquette demanded, and left. No tantrum this time. No words. Only silence.

The next month was the same.

Phainon made sure his jacket was brushed free of lint, his boots shined until they gleamed. He had even asked for a new haircut, something more “grown-up.” His mother had cooed and called him dashing.

It didn’t matter.

Anaxa still sat across from him, still turning his pages with elegant calm. Completely unbothered. Phainon told himself not to fidget, not to chatter about the gardens or the knights in his books. He was too old for those, wasn’t he?Those things were too childish. He had to act older, composed, like an Alpha should.

The suppressant on his neck stung faintly, a reminder to stay still, to stay proper. His scent, his feelings, his hope, all of it hidden.

The silence pressed heavier this time. He counted the seconds in his head, counted the number of times Anaxa turned a page, the number of times the clock ticked. Every time Anaxa’s gaze flicked past him without stopping, the ache in his chest deepened.

By the time the visit ended, his chest ached with the effort of holding himself together.

The month after that, he almost didn’t want to go at all.

He dragged his feet when the servants came to fetch him, muttering excuses about feeling unwell. His stomach twisted. Why bother? He’d sit there, look “handsome,” and still feel like nothing more than an ornament.

But duty was duty, and his house prided itself on good manners. He couldn't stand up his fiancé unless there was a good, reasonable excuse for it. After all, Alphas didn’t shirk responsibility, especially not when their intended was an Omega of noble birth.

So he went.

Duty dragged him back to Anaxa's gardens.

One of the same few locations they held their tea sessions. The same faint scent of tea and flowers. The new book in Anaxa’s hands. The same nod, the same suffocating silence.

Phainon sat as straight as ever, but inside he was crumbling. The silence no longer hurt like a wound, it hurt like a scar. Numb and deep. He wanted to ask, Why is it that you can't like me? Why can’t you just look at me? But the words burned in his throat, too raw to touch again.

So he clenched his jaw and said nothing.

When he returned home after this month's visit, his mother’s gentle query on “How did it go, darling?” nearly broke him. He muttered a very unconvincing “fine,” then bowed out, and shut himself in his room. Only when the door clicked did he press his face into his pillow to smother the tears that burned hot behind his eyes, snuffing out the sound of his misery.

It went on like that for months, a hollow ritual of silence and aching hope that never bore fruit.

Phainon wore his finest jackets, perfected his posture, and smiled when spoken to. He played the part of a young handsome Alpha meant for a life of noble duty. But behind every straightened collar and brushed curl, a little more of his heart frayed.

And Anaxa—calm, courteous, impassive—remained a figure just out of reach. A scholar behind a fortress of books.

Until, at last, something shifted.

It began with whispers among the servants, then eager chatter among his tutors when they thought he was far from within their vicinity: the Knight Academy was recruiting new knights, it was that season after all. Many families would be sending out young promising children that could be trained at said special academy for magic, swordsmanship, and discipline to Dawncloud which was located near the Eternal Holy City, Okhema.

Phainon’s ears pricked up.

A school very, very, very, very far from where Aedes Elysiae was and from where Anaxa lived. And it'll be busy days filled with drills and sword training. Which meant no more consistent monthly visits. No more four-hour silences that suffocated him to death.

His heart beat wildly.

That was it. The way out.

He could be a knight or a cool mage knight or something, or really anything preferably with a sword tacked into it.

He'll be brave, strong, and far from Anaxa’s calm, unfeeling gaze. No more pretending to be handsome or perfect, he could have an excuse to not go visit his fiancé!

He didn’t say it that way to his parents, of course. He spoke of honor, of protecting the kingdom, of being worthy of his lineage. His father’s chest had swelled with pride. His mother’s eyes had glistened with fond tears.

And Phainon had smiled, all shining confidence.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He wasn’t chasing glory.

He was leaving.

Leaving far, far away until he stuck back all the little pieces of his fragile heart.

Running from the quiet of Anaxa's estate, from the soft-scented rooms where he’d sat invisible, from the Omega with mint-green hair and a voice too careful to ever sound kind.

If becoming a knight meant never sitting across from Anaxa feeling so invisible, then he would swing a sword until his arms fell off.

In other words... Phainon was running away.