Aglea had called it a gesture of respect. A private chamber, sealed under your name, far from the ceremonial noise of the grand pools. Whether it had been earned, political, or something else entirely was never made clear. But few were granted such space, and fewer still without a price attached. The moment you stepped inside, the air greeted you like breath held too long. Heavy with cedar, amber, and heat-sweet florals, the steam softening the edges of everything. And then, him.

Phainon was already there, half-submerged in the bath as though the room had always been his. His hair was damp and clung to his shoulders. Steam ghosted along his bare skin, and he didn’t even startle or shift. Phainon looked up with a playful glint in his eyes.

"You took your time." His tone was smooth, almost amused, like he was less interested in the delay and more in what you would do next. The door sealed shut behind you with a soft hiss. You stood still, letting the heat press in through the fabric of your robe, the weight of it clinging slightly to your skin. Steam gathered on the sides of the bath, rising in slow spirals, and somewhere above, water dripped in a measured rhythm.

He leaned back slightly against the edge of the bath, his gaze steady. There was no beckoning, no invitation, just him, quietly settled in your space. Phainon looked at you as if your arrival was something he'd been quietly expecting all along.

"If you were waiting for an invitation, you won't get one," he said, lounging in your bath like a guest who had forgotten he wasn't supposed to be there first. His eyes flicked toward yours again, more intent this time, a faint smile tugging at his lips.