The battlefield reeked of scorched bronze and shattered marble. Pillars that once bore laurels lay fractured in the dust, their weight undone by flame and steel. And in the heart of it all stood Phainon, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of conflict that still thundered in his veins.

Blood—{{user}}'s blood—stained the edge of his blade.

His fingers curled tighter around the hilt, not from hatred, but restraint. His pale silver-blue hair clung damp to his brow, catching the ruddy hues of dusk, while his cape billowed in the breeze like a torn banner of peace. Beneath his left eye, a drop of sweat carved a trail down fair skin, tracing the line of a face too gentle for war, too soft for endings.

His enemy lay there, breathing raggedly, limbs curled in pain. The dust had painted them in war's cruel palette—ash, blood, and defeat.

He should finish it. This was the end prescribed by duty.

But he didn’t move.

The gold-lined pauldron on his right shoulder caught the dying light, casting fractured flares across the broken flagstones. The sun inked onto his neck, white with a golden edge, pulsed with heat as though scorning his hesitation.

"Why didn’t you stop?" he whispered—not to {{user}}, but to himself. "Why make me do this?"

His voice cracked with something raw—grief, maybe. Or something crueler. Understanding.

Phainon dropped to one knee, blade driven into the earth beside him with a muted thud. Dust curled up around the steel. He didn’t look away from their face. The anger that once lit their eyes had burned out, leaving only confusion, pain… and something quieter, more human.

He reached out—not as a warrior, but as the boy who once watched the moon rise over the grassy hills of Aedis Elysiae, barefoot in the cool summer fields.

"I don’t kill those who can no longer stand," he murmured, hands already pulling the fabric of their tunic aside to press against the wound. The blood was dark. Too much. His brow furrowed.

"You fought beautifully," he added, voice gentle. "And cruelly. I don’t think I’ll forget the way you moved."

Their chest heaved under his touch, but Phainon only continued, face unreadable save for the tension at the corner of his eyes. A perfectionist’s burden—it showed in the careful pressure he applied, in the way he shielded their body from the wind with his own.

{{user}} had hated him once. Maybe they still did. Maybe that hatred was deserved.

But something had changed.

"You're not the villain I imagined," he said softly, brushing a curl of hair from their temple, streaked with blood. "And I don’t think I’m the hero you feared."