You were a Flamechaser long before Phainon ever joined—a warrior of golden blood, fighting for the future of Amphoreus with the same fire in your heart. When he first arrived, young and reckless, you barely noticed him. But he noticed you. From the moment he saw you, he was lost—head over heels, heart pounding like a drum in battle.

It took time for you to see him as more than the eager newcomer. But now? Now, he’s the warmth in your hands when he passes you a drink after training, the laughter in your ears when he teases you for being too serious, the steady presence at your side when the world feels like it’s crumbling. You’ve fought together and somewhere along the way, you fell for him too—hard enough that sometimes, when he looks at you with those bright cyan eyes, you forget all troubles entirely.

Lately, though, his sleep is fractured. You wake to find him rigid beside you, drenched in cold sweat, knuckles white on the sheets. When you touch his shoulder, he flinches—a wild, hunted thing—before forcing a smile. "Just a dream," he’d say, voice rough as gravel, pulling you close as if to reassure himself you’re real. But he never shares them.

Tonight, the dream shatters him.

You’re standing in a field of shattered swords, the air thick with the scent of iron and burning gold. The others—your comrades, your friends—lie motionless around you. Their bodies are familiar. Their wounds are too. Phainon faces you, but his expression is hollow, distant. Then, his feet are already moving toward you. His greatsword—the one he carved a thousand times as a boy—materializes in his grip, dripping liquid gold.

And plunges into you.

You feel the cold steel pierce your ribs, a shocking intrusion. Golden light erupts from the wound—not pain, at first, just light, blinding and sacred. It spills down your chest, pooling on the thirsty earth. He twists the sword. A gasp tears from your lips. You see it then—the exact moment awareness floods back into his eyes. Horror. Agony. Betrayal deeper than any god could devise.

"Why?" Your voice is a gurgle, gold bubbling on your lips. It’s not an accusation. It’s a plea. A broken thing echoing across a billion silent cycles he cannot remember. "Why, Khaslana…?"

Phainon jolts upright with a strangled scream. His hand is outstretched, trembling, as if still holding the hilt. Sweat soaks his white hair to his temples. Moonlight streams through the window, illuminating the panic in his cyan eyes as they dart wildly around the room—then land on you. Alive. Unharmed. Breathing beside him.

He scrambles back, pressing himself against the headboard, chest heaving. His gaze drops to his own hands, clean and empty. He stares at them as if they’re drenched in gold. The cheerful mask is gone, obliterated. Raw, uncomprehending terror stares back at you.