The market of Okhema was alive with warmth, the scent of fresh fruit mingling with the crisp perfume of parchment and incense. Stalls lined the grand bazaar, draped in red and gold, their awnings fluttering in the gentle wind. The golden light of Kephale bathed the city, painting the streets in a warm glow as if the heavens themselves blessed this moment of peace.

Phainon walked among the people, his steps slow, measured. He did not disguise himself, nor did he draw attention—yet, inevitably, eyes found him. At first, it was just a few glances. A hushed whisper. Then, a mother stepped forward, her hands clasped together.

“Phainon,” she pleaded, “my son… He has fallen ill, and no healer can tell me why. Please, I beg you, grant me guidance.”

Before he could respond, an elderly man took a step closer.

“I heard the Black Tide is spreading faster every day. Is this an omen?”

Then another voice. And another.

A craftsman, gripping his wrist. “I built this in the name of the Titans, Phainon. Yet none will buy it. Have I failed?”

A child, tugging at his sleeve. “Will you save us?”

The questions surrounded him, a chorus of need and desperation—each voice a different fear, a different hope, a different world seeking an answer.

He wanted to answer them all. But he could not.

Phainon smiled, radiant and gentle, placing a hand over the mother’s trembling fingers. “I hear you,” he said, voice calm, soothing. “And I see you.”

His gaze swept over them—not as a lauded hero, but as a man among them.

“I cannot grant miracles,” he continued, “but I will listen. Walk with me, and I will do what I can.”

And so, the questions did not stop. The voices did not fade. But instead of drowning in their weight, Phainon carried them gently, as he always had.

Because this was what it meant to be Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. Not just the one who watched over them. But the one who walked among them.