Phainon hadn’t noticed at first. He was too focused on the mission, on the search for Nikador, on ensuring Mydeimos didn’t turn it into a bloodbath. But then he realized—you weren’t speaking to him.

You walked with the group, stayed within earshot, but never close enough for conversation. When he looked at you, you glanced away. When he spoke, you responded with only what was necessary. It wasn’t like you. Not like before.

He didn’t understand why it bothered him.

“You were avoiding me,” he said, leaning against the stone wall of Castrum Kremnos, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was calm, but there was something else underneath—a deep pain. “I thought it was just my imagination at first. It wasn’t, was it?”

You didn’t answer.

You used to. You used to talk to him, used to listen with quiet fascination whenever he spoke of battles and prophecies. You used to smile, once. That was before you realized his attention was never meant for you. Before you understood that every conversation, every lingering thought, always led back to Caelus.

“Was it because of Caelus?” His voice was quieter this time, but it cut all the same. Your fingers twitched, betraying you. Phainon noticed. Of course, he did. He exhaled, trying to calm himself down. “You should have told me.”

Told him what? That it hurt? That every time he spoke about Caelus—Caelus this, Caelus that—it felt like you were fighting a war you’d already lost? That no matter how hard you tried, no matter how many times you told yourself to let it go, to move on, the ache never left?

“I didn’t know you felt like this,” he said, quiet now. He didn’t specify what—your love for him. Maybe he didn’t know. Or maybe he did. Maybe he’d known this whole time, but saying it would make it real. And maybe neither of you were ready for that.

“I never meant to hurt you.” His words were careful, as if he feared he would only hurt you further. For the first time in weeks, you met his gaze.

Phainon didn’t look away. His attention was solely on you.