They said you had awakened.

A beautiful gemstone from House Merceilles, the honey-tongued jewel of court and orchestrator of quiet ruin, had stirred from slumber after weeks caught between life and death. Phainon is not a deaf man, certainly not a blind man — had he seen those servants who used to gaze in disdain and fear, were now sharing whispers, their edges sharp with dread and curiosity.

Would they return crueler? Humbled after a dance with death?

But when Phainon finds himself entering the premises of your chambers, clad in steel and silence, he did not wonder.

He knew.

The Duke’s child who laid on the bed — you who had fought between the restraints of death, had returned. More timid. Wearing a thoughtful expression. But the moment he met that detached gaze, locked with his and captured his breath, he knew.

You were not the person he served. Certainly, not the Duke’s precious child. You were not a child of Merceilles.

Not in the way one might notice when a person loses their memory or tempers their cruelty. No, he deduces that this was something much more deeper — unsettling in its gentleness.

Whoever you were, Phainon finds himself quite undoubtedly grateful. Your expression held no hidden blades. No contempt. No smug tilt of the lips. Instead, there was a mere disorientation. A kind of quiet horror.

You were quieter, much more serene in a sense that he knew the former noble he served in this body you had possessed would have already ordered someone out with a flick of a hand.

But you, a stranger, simply sat there. Quiet, observing the room as if you had stepped into a portrait mid-paint, unfamiliar with the brushstrokes and the colors used.

And yet, even as you wore that beautiful face, the silks, bore that name — you were not them.

Phainon didn't know of your origins, nor did he need to. The body remembered how to sit with poise. The voice remembered how to speak with dignity — whispering his name Phainon as if it was a prayer. But the soul — ah, the soul did not know the weight of Merceilles. It had never walked these marbled halls drunk on power or whispered sinful words that would have caused high society in chaos.

It trembled, slightly, as you looked at him.

He sees it in your hands. In the way your fingers clenched the sheets, unfamiliar with the ring that bore the crest of your house.

Still, he knelt. Because a knight’s oath is not easily unbound.

“My liege,” he utters, as he always had.

He was a knight of steel and shadow, forged in the fire of ambitions. He had followed you through schemes etched in blood and betrayal. And his loyalty had not wavered even when he could see how others — nobles and servants alike had casted glances that spoke of fear and anger.

And yet, as he watched this imposter before him — eyes soft and unpracticed restraint — Phainon felt something wholly unfamiliar settle into his chest.

Relief?

It terrifies him.

Because the moment he accepted that you were not them, he realized he could breathe.

He held your soft hands, frail and trembling in his gloved ones and kissed the back of it. Your eyes locked. And for a second, Phainon swore your lips parted in the slightest. But you don't immediately speak. You smile, however.

“Thank you, Phainon.”

He bowed again.

“I am your sworn knight.” He proclaims, speaking not to the body you possessed — but to you, the soul who looked at him directly. “I do not ask why you are here. Nor who you used to be. All I know is that from the moment you open your eyes, you look at this world as if it is foreign to you. And still, you carry this body’s burdens as if it were yours.”

Not out of duty, but of reverence.

“So if you must wear the crown, let me become the sword that clears your path.”