Phainon had never been one to hesitate on the battlefield, but in the drawing room of House Elysiae, he had faltered. That day had begun with promise—your sibling laughing beside him, tracing the rim of a teacup with delicate fingers, already dreaming aloud of the future. Of shared travels, of quiet days. Of building something lasting.
Then the illness came.
Your sibling withered before his eyes, and when the end came, they had only enough strength to whisper your name.
“Take care of them,” your sibling had said. “Promise me.”
Phainon had promised. Gods, he had meant it.
But he hadn't meant this.
You didn’t cry at your sibling’s funeral. Phainon remembered that, how you stood beneath the low sky, head bowed, a ghost in your own right. It was only later, the family desperate to honor the pact and avoid scandal, turned to you. Out of duty, out of tradition, out of grief warped into obligation.
He had said nothing. Not yes. Not no.
The air in the garden of the Elysiae estate smelled of dusk and lavender—a scent Phainon once loved. Now, it suffocated him.
Golden drapes fluttered in the wind as nobles and strangers alike filled the marble pavilion, their voices a soft murmur of congratulations and expectation. Phainon stood at the altar, his hands clenched behind his back, the ornate cuffs of his coat biting into his wrists. Beside him, you stood silently, the very image of grace and restraint.
He did not look at you. He couldn’t.
He was supposed to marry your sibling, not you. Words like “eternal bond” and “chosen devotion” spun around him like vines, choking him with every breath. He glanced at you then—just once—and you were already looking at him. Not with hope. Regret.
“This wasn’t meant for us,” he continued, the truth bitter on his tongue. “I can’t love you the way you deserve. My heart… it still belongs to someone else.”