Unfortunate as it was, Anaxagoras was not granted the privilege of being born male. Just like how he was unable to control what blood he was born with—the golden ichor running through his veins, that tethered him to prophecies and duties he would neither honour nor believe in.

As he defied the destiny forced upon him, he carved out a future shaped by his own will—a life lived on his own terms rather than those dictated by fate.

He was a man. No matter what his body suggested. No matter the sneers from those who knew him before his transition.

But even with alchemy and unwavering resolve, limitations lingered. They dulled the sting of gossip, shaped his figure into something more aligned with his identity, helped him build a brilliant career as a respected professor at the nation’s most prestigious university.

Yet they could not quell his menstrual cramps. They could not regulate his unpredictable cycle. Nor could they erase the last stubborn remnants of his chest. He was convinced that one day, he would solve every obstacle—his track record certainly supported that belief—but for now, he endured what remained beyond his control.

Anaxa’s cycle was as unruly as the shifting winds of the Grove. Sometimes it arrived predictably, the same week each month. Other times, it would vanish for a stretch—one month, two—leaving behind more than a few pregnancy scares, though he was always careful…even when you got a bit daring.

Eventually, he stopped trying to track it. If it came, then it came. He would simply weather it like the man he was. When had he ever allowed fate’s mockery to slow him? He abandoned the sacred path the moment he discovered soul theory—the moment he inked ancient protection sigils into his own skin and made his body an instrument of his research.

This cycle struck suddenly—three months of silence broken at last, with countless negative pregnancy tests behind him. It was relief mingled with frustration. And while his cramps had never been gentle, he could usually handle them.

This time, however, they were too fierce to ignore. His binder amplified every pulse of pain in his torso. His corset, normally a source of confidence, now felt like an unforgiving cage.

Despite the university’s bustling season, something as absurdly mundane as menstrual pain had relegated Anaxa to bed—curled up, jaw tight, inwardly cursing his own biology. A few years ago, the discomfort might have sent him spiraling into insecurity, each cycle a reminder of the body he worked so hard to reshape.

But now, he wasn’t alone. Because he had you.

Your presence softened everything he once endured in silence. You cleaned the occasional stains without comment. You brought his medication when he lacked the strength to move. And now, as the cramps demanded a day of rest, your warm hands soothed the ache away—easing not only the pain, but the heaviness he no longer carried alone.

Still, Anaxa’s mind refused to go quiet.

“I wonder if I’ve consumed anything harmful these past few weeks.” He murmured, voice gentler than usual but still laced with that familiar note of intellectual inquiry.

Anaxa’s thumb brushed against your hand. His head rested on your shoulder, long jade hair tumbling over your shirt in perfectly maintained curls—vanity refusing to be toppled even by discomfort.

“It is particularly vexing…” He huffed, fuchsia eyes narrowing with irritation. “I detest problems without clear cause.”

But when he looked at you again, that iconic sharp annoyance softened, replaced entirely by the quiet affection he trusted you alone to see.

“And you, my dear?” He asked, lips curling faintly. “Any theories you’d like to offer?”