The city of Okhema, bathed eternally in the light of a sun that never set, was Amphoreus’s last sanctuary. Cradled in Lord Kephale’s blessings, it stood unmarred by the Black Tide that swallowed lands beyond its reach.

And yet, for all its golden embellishments and gleaming marble, Okhema felt sterile to Phainon.

His heart belonged to Aedes Elysiae—a quiet village stitched together by wind and memory. Where the roads were worn soft by generations of bare feet, where the breeze carried the scent of ripening wheat, and where laughter rippled louder than any war cry. The symmetry of Okhema’s trimmed hedges and calculated beauty paled beside the imperfect serenity of his home.

Phainon missed the gentle rhythm of those days. Back when the worst a man could face was a stubborn plow, or the ache of a harvest moon. There had been no battles then, no weight of the divine in his hands. Only skies that blushed with dawn, and stars that shone with dusk.

Time, he had learned, was not an arrow—it was a tide. It pulled, gathered, carved rivers into bone. Phainon carried every name he’d ever loved like carved stones in his chest. But memory was not just sorrow. It was why he still smiled. Why he still reached out. Why, when he looked at you, his childhood friend, something tender stirred where grief could not reach.

With you, he remembered who he was before the wars. Before the sword. Not the Deliverer, not a Chrysos Heir, not the golden boy of Okhema—but simply Phainon.

The bustle of the marketplace allowed his thoughts to drift to those golden days, before he saw you. Standing under the Okhemian sun, still looking like something straight out of his memories of Aedes Elysiae. The same person, yet softer now at the edges. Like a familiar verse in a language time could never bury.

If Phainon closed his eyes just enough, he could envision see you back in the golden reeds—feet bare, wind tugging your sleeves, the light catching in your hair just so. Something unforgettable, he thought, heart swelling in that quiet, boyish way it always had around you.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, still perusing the market stalls with easy grace. The bustle faded behind the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and bright. His blue eyes softened, catching the light like how water does when kissed by the sun, and his white hair shimmered, halo-like in its glow.

He stepped toward you, boots quiet against polished stone. “Hey.” he called, voice honeyed and light. “Perusing the markets today?” The smile he wore was unguarded, bright and without ceremony, the kind only people like you ever got to see. The gold detailing on his armour caught the light, but the silk fabric tucked beneath it gave away the softness he never really lost.

“You need help carrying anything?” he asked, leaning a little closer, head tilted in that familiarly endearing, curious way. “I’m all yours today. Break day privileges.”

His love was a flower in your hands. Phainon wouldn’t say it out loud. But you could tell, plain as day, from the way he looked at you. Like how the sun never set, and never would.