Archive of Our Own

When Mydei first hears the news, he’s in disbelief. 

Around him, the cosmos swirls, a blanket of deep blues and light purples. Slow drips echo off the spirit basin and the shifting of many pairs of feet beside him. 

Never has the Vortex of Genesis been a place for outroar, but never has it been so quiet. 

An urgent call by Aglaea had the heirs gathering for an impromptu meeting. Tribbie had foreseen a change in prophecy, bringing huge ramifications for the flame-chase and the future of Amphoreus. 

Coreflames light up the cosmic sky in constellations. A good portion are still dim—coreflames not yet discovered, whereabouts unknown. So, how…? 

How is the flame-chase over? 

“What?” Phainon asks, putting a voice to Mydei’s thoughts. He takes a step forward, the click of his boots echoing off the marble floors. “What do you mean by that, Lady Tribbie? How could it possibly be over? We’re nowhere near done! And what about the Era Nova?”

“It is as the new prophecy states,” Tribbie says, trouble brewing in her wide blue eyes. “The sun will rise once more, and the black tide shall recede. Already, there’s been changes in Okhema. Haven’t you noticed?” 

“The sun is already beginning to return,” Castorice ponders, a delicate hand placed on her chin. She tilts her head, frowning slightly. “I saw it peaking through the skyline, and at first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. There’s also been less titankin attacks recently. None in a month when we used to get at least one a week.” 

Tribbie nods. “Amphoreus will be saved by a force greater than the titans themselves, but a price must be paid.” 

“A price?” Phainon asks. 

Aglaea arms are crossed tightly against her chest. “The entity wants a sacrifice.” 

It’s as Mydei expects. He can’t find himself to be shocked by her words. After all, nothing is free. This sudden shift in events makes no sense, and already, he’s preparing for the worst. A new opponent appearing in an already precarious battle is a bad omen, and this time, what they’re up against seems to be greater than the titans combined. 

It could be that this is nothing more than a delusion brought forth by the black tide itself. It must be, there is no other rational explanation. What kind of being can overtake the titans? Unless, this is all a farce. Perhaps a being beyond the sky, but that’s impossible. 

“It wants Mydeimos.” 

Like puppets on strings, the other heirs snap their heads to stare at him, and he meets their gazes with controlled calm, betraying no shock or emotion on his face, no matter how much he wishes to. A prickle runs down his spine, the thump of his heart against his chest, but he ignores it. As a warrior and protector of Okhema, he will do what he has to. 

If it’s ordained by fate, then there’s little use in running.

“But—What? No!” Phainon splutters, horrified. “How do we know this isn’t some kind of trick? We need confirmation—”

“Prophecy does not lie,” Tribbie says, leaving no room for argument. Her expression is solemn, and never has she ever looked so serious. Gone is her wide smile, the soft glimmer of her wide blue eyes. “I don’t want De to either, but…” 

“I agree with Lord Phainon. This feels like a trap,” Castorice speaks up. “Lord Mydei is a powerful warrior and one of the biggest defenders against the black tide. To sacrifice him without a second thought is folly. I do not mean to offend, Lady Tribbie.” 

Cipher’s kaleidoscope eyes trail Mydei’s figure. Even her usual lax posture has been replaced with a squaring of her shoulders and her tail isn’t swishing anymore. Her gaze pierces like she’s trying to memorize him before it’s too late. He doesn't find any solace in that thought. 

The heirs fall into discussion. Phainon fervently argues against it, and Tribbie defends her position, even if she doesn’t seem too enthused about the prospects of sacrificing their own so callously. Anaxa calls the prophecy a falsehood, which drags Aglaea into the discussion as she lashes out against his blasphemy. 

Their voices are drowned out. All Mydei can think of is necessity. One person for the lives of millions. 

If his sacrifice is necessary for the safety of Amphoreus, then he will do it. If it means the sun will once again light the desolate sky and Amphoreus will settle into peace, then he has no qualms. Even if he’s to shoulder the pain and never once more brave the dawn, he will do so and have no regrets. The answer is simple, straightforward, a light at the end of the tunnel instead of an endless maze of uncertainty. 

“Enough,” Mydei says, stepping forward. Once again, all eyes are on him. “I will do it.” 

Phainon’s eyes grow into saucers. His hand trembles as he steps forward and says, “Mydei—”

“For Amphoreus, I will sacrifice myself,” Mydei states, resolute. “I trust Lady Tribbie and her judgement. If my death is required to bring peace in Amphoreus, then so be it.” 

“There will be time to say goodbye. The entity will first prove itself,” Aglaea says.

Phainon stares, mortified. “But—”

Cyrene places a hand on Phainon’s shoulder, and the words die on his lips. He looks down at her, and she responds with a shake of her head, their communication silent but resounding. The tension striking his muscles melt until he resembles more of a wilted plant than a human, and even his perky hair strand seems to fall flat. He turns away, unable to meet Mydei’s gaze. 

It’s almost pitiful to watch. A part of him wants to reach out to comfort Phainon, but there’s nothing to say when he had so eagerly offered himself. There’s little he can say to remedy this situation, when he’s already accepted his fate. 

“There’s a ritual to summon the entity,” Cyrene says, placing a gentle hand on her chest as she stares up at the dotted constellations. Her turquoise eyes are crescented, and her lips curved, sweet as sugar. The other heirs stare on with solemn expressions, but Cyrene is all brilliant eyes and wide smiles, almost giddy at the prospect of him getting sacrificed.

He’s not too sure how he feels about that.

Unbothered by the silence, Cyrene bounces up to him and pulls him into an impromptu hug. She smells of vanilla and roses, warm and comforting. With a wink, she sings, “I'll be in charge of it! It’ll be perfect! You can count on me~ ♪” 

—𖤓—

He’s still reeling from the meeting when Phainon shows up at his home, unannounced. 

There’s a week until the ritual. A whole seven days and nights until he’s to be claimed by that unknown entity. There’s no telling what his fate will be and when he had asked, he hadn’t been given a concrete answer. Tribbie didn’t seem to know, and Cyrene only smiled in that saccharine way of hers, promising that it wouldn’t be so bad. He’s not sure if he believes her or if it’s her way of staying positive. 

He has little desire to think of the what-ifs nor does he want his last days to be filled with dread. A warrior does not run, does not hide from battle. He will face it with no regrets or fear, even if he does mourn the loss of time he would have with the other heirs, his family. 

“Mydei…” Phainon says, lying flat on Mydei’s bed. His moonlight bangs fall in messy waves over his eyes as he stares at the ceiling with his hand wavering in the air. 

Mydei is laid down beside him, their shoulders and thighs brushing with each small movement. Maybe he should move, give a little space, but he finds he would rather remain here. 

There’s calm in this, what little they have left. When Phainon is with him, he feels warmer. He knows why that is, why Phainon inspires this bone-seeping warmth, knows his feelings for the Deliverer—feelings that aren’t returned. It used to bother him, the idea of his one-sided emotions, but he’s come to terms with it. 

They remain as they always are—comrades, fellow chrysos heirs, rivals, and friends. Phainon will never know of his true feelings, and it’s better this way. An alpha like Phainon has no desire for an omega like him, and Mydei can’t fault him for it. 

“I still think it’s a trap,” Phainon voices. 

“Even if it is, if there’s a chance at saving Amphoreus, I will take the risk.” 

The expression on Phainon’s face is unreadable. Mydei continues, “The so-called god requests me. I will answer its call and find out once and for all what kind of creature it really is. I don’t believe it a god, rather a malevolent deity with the goal of lulling Okhema into a false sense of security, but I will find out for sure when the time comes.” 

Phainon sits up and grabs Mydei by the shoulder, urgency in his tone as he says, “It’s dangerous. I’ll go with you.” 

Bulrushes and spring burn beneath the brilliant sun. Mydei wrinkles his nose at the rapid charring of Phainon’s scent and his own pheromones try to reach out to calm the antsy alpha, even if it’s for null. There’s little he can do when Phainon gets like this. 

Fingers dig into his shoulders. Phainon looms over, a shadow cast over his features, though his eyes remain bright, desperate in a way Mydei has never seen before. It’s almost suffocating to be looked at like this, to see the emotion clouding Phainon’s kind features. 

A shake of his head, a plea to stop the recklessness. It’s too dangerous to bring anyone else along, and besides, the deity had requested Mydei and Mydei alone. 

“You will stay here in Okhema, Deliverer.” Mydei pushes Phainon off and sits up. “The ritual is for one person only.” 

His words don’t seem to help. Phainon stays as he had before, restless. “I’ll ask Cyrene. Surely, she can—”

“Are you underestimating me?” Mydei cuts in. There’s no use for this conversation. None at all. 

“No, I’m not. That’s not it… I just—”

“I will return.”

“But—”

“This will be goodbye for now, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” Mydei says. “But it will not be our end. If in another life, we meet again…” he trails off. There’s little use in these sentiments. “Forget it.” 

—𖤓—

The day has arrived— full of feast and fervor, punctuated by the ominous chill of a foretold ending. 

Already, he feels strange—off. The lights in the room sway, and his body runs hotter than usual. A few days prior, Cyrene had asked him to stop taking all manner of suppressants, and he supposes this is the after effects of being on it for so long, unwilling to brave his heats alone. It doesn’t help the situation. 

Mydei had spent the night at Cyrene’s house, watching as she scurried around, murmuring about how everything had to be perfect. He was woken up early, when the barest cracks of dawn began to peak through the sleeping sky. It was a beautiful sight to witness, the meshing of bright oranges against hazy purples until the sun broke the surface, once again reclaiming its place for the hours to come. On any other day, he would have appreciated it, but on this day, it was a reminder of how the day would end. 

Kephale’s dawn device had dimmed on its own. The world-bearing titan had passed the torch back to the sun, and the sun blessed the world with its eternal radiance. 

There’s little sense in any of this, but the prophecy has come true. Soldiers sent out of Okhema to explore the surrounding city-states have reported no signs of rot, no black and red fester of the black tide. The corruption has been erased as if it never existed to begin with, and the sun, once desolate, now lights up the sky in its searing, real embrace. 

The evernight is no more. 

Cyrene oversees his preparations, smiling and humming to herself as she makes them a breakfast of homemade honeycakes. She places pomegranate arils into the shape of a heart and fills it with whipped cream. It’s a kind gesture, and he can’t help but smile at her antics, even if his appetite is lacking. 

For reasons unknown, he’s kept away from the other heirs. Cyrene tells him it’s a surprise, but it sounds more like a cruel joke than anything else. His last moments are spent in solitude. No one else can see him until the sacrifice. 

“It’ll be worth it!” Cyrene exclaims, clapping her hands together in unbridled joy. “I promise!”

He’s led to the Hero’s baths, golden water perfumed sweet with roses and jasmine. His body is scrubbed raw then covered in the finest of fragrant oils, and his unruly lion’s mane is combed until soft and silken. Cyrene sings to herself as she leads him to a dressing room with a large mirror in the center. 

At first, he’s confused, the swirl of dread a weight on his being. The place resembles more a bridal suite than anything else with the soft whites of the room, the pastel floral decor, and the crystalline chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

His confusion only grows when he’s shown a few different outfits, all sheer and made of the finest silks that Okhema has to offer. The expert tailoring and the intricate designs, curved and elegant, remind him of Aglaea’s work. The robes—more like dresses if he’s being honest—are all white, some shimmering with golden threads whilst others glimmer in shades of silver. 

“These expensive robes shouldn’t be wasted on me,” Mydei voices as he’s made to lift his arms up so Cyrene can pin the silk in place. This one is off the shoulders with a deep cut v neck and overly flowy in a manner that would be detrimental in battle. 

“It’s not a waste,” Cyrene says as she nods to herself. “You look great! This one will do.” 

He’s made to sit down in front of a vanity mirror while Cyrene produces a bag full of powders and blushes. The more this goes on, the more preposterous this situation becomes. It almost feels like he’s being dressed as a bride? But that can’t be it.

She’s only making the best of this situation, Mydei reminds himself. Cyrene is quick to find love and joy in everything, no matter how dire the circumstance. 

While the silks feel soft and breezy against his feverish skin, his upper body and thighs are pretty much exposed given how sheer the material is, but he supposes it’s around as much as he usually wears. His crimson marks glisten beneath the chandelier light as do the gold ornaments that cover the expanse of his chest and arms. 

“You look beautiful,” Cyrene smiles as she dots the last touches of powder on his face. “He’ll be entranced! Wow, I did amazing!” 

He? Mydei tugs on the sheer silk covering his body as he stares at himself in the mirror. A rosy blush covers his cheeks, and his lips are glossy, scented strawberry. Gold shimmers on his eyelids, fading into bronze at the corners of his eyes, lined with sharp eyeliner. He almost can’t recognize himself in the mirror, dolled up like this, for what might be his last moments. 

Cyrene threads gold flowers into his hair and covers him in a silken veil that shimmers rainbow in the sunlight.

By the time they finish, it’s already the first quint of Action Hour. The streets of Okhema have been cleared, decorated with pastel whites and gold. The walls are lined with nymph lights, glowing in soft pinks and whites, and draped with silk ribbons. White rose petals layer over the path to Kephale Plaza.

“Aglaea and your father worked together for this,” Cyrene says, bending down to pluck a rose out of a nearby vase. She brings it to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent. 

Work has been paused for the day, and all are invited all to bear witness to the crown prince’s last moments—his elevation from chrysos heir of the flame-chase to savior of Amphoreus. 

His sacrifice is made a spectacle. He’s not too sure why that is, but there’s little use in voicing it. 

His steps echo down the empty streets to the loud bustle of Kephale Plaza. It’s his last chance to say goodbye. His parents are already there, waiting for him, standing beside the glowing mural of Kephale as he shoulders the weight of the world. 

“You will be Amphoreus’ greatest hero,” Eurypon says, clapping Mydei on the back. Even in the face of death, his voice does not waver. “Take honor in that, my son.” 

His mother hugs him with all her might, until he thinks his bones may crack beneath the weight of her love. She’s a strong woman, but tears fill her golden eyes at the prospect of losing her cherished son. 

His parents are intimately connected with the idea of sacrifice. After all, they had to leave their home behind and begin anew in Okhema, pulling away from their pride to ask for help from what was once their greatest enemy. 

A dance is performed, silk sashes swirling in dazzling color. He’s brought to the top of Kephale’s temple, overseeing the festivities beneath. People dance and sing, eat and laugh, but all of that is cut short when Aglaea announces the start of the ritual. 

All eyes are on him. 

He’s tied to a pillar, his arms pulled behind and tied with rope, grazing against his wrists when he tests the bindings, tight as they are. Somehow, whether fate or dumb luck, his gaze meets Phainon’s, who is little more than an ant in the crowd below. He mouths, “Goodbye, Deliverer.”

The ritual begins. 

Cyrene places a crown of roses and lilies atop Mydei’s head, the soft fragrance filling his senses with an odd sense of calm. She steps to the edge of the roof with her back towards him, and begins to chant, the whirl of candles around her as the air grows thick. She reads from the weathered tome in her hands as if announcing vows to the crowd below, but Mydei barely registers her words. 

In a beam of a bright light, the sky. Blue caves in on itself, and a being emerges out of the glass-like cracks. 

Mydei stares, entranced in a mix of horror and shock. 

White-blonde hair. Golden crevices and purple skin. Humanoid, yet not. A sharp collar of metallic spikes shoots from his neck, and jagged, metallic wings snap open in a show of inhuman power. The air, once light and sweet, thickens with the scent of burning ash. 

It’s too blinding to look at head on, yet Mydei’s eyes remain open, even as tears form in the corner of his eyes. Coreflames flash around the entity before dissipating like a strike of lightning.  

Okhema falls into an uproar. 

Slowly, the deity opens its eyes, revealing sharp amber. For a brief second, there’s a flash of what looks to be surprise before it’s schooled back to a careful, neutral expression. 

Cyrene smiles wide. “Welcome back, Khas.” 

“Cyrene,” the entity says. “You…” His gaze falls to Mydei behind her, tied up and unable to move. 

In an instant, the ropes are burned away. 

Handsome, familiar features gaze back at him, and Mydei’s throat closes. He must be seeing things. There’s no way. 

Phainon..? 

This close, he’s inundated with the smell of flames, burning ashes and scorched, crackling earth. Unfettered destruction yet there’s slight floral notes, reminiscent of a certain Deliverer. 

His veil crumbles into dust right before his eyes. 

“Mydei,” the entity whispers, voice deep and throaty as if this is his first spoken word in years, yet the voice remains recognizable. His golden gaze roams hot over Mydei’s silk covered figure. “It’s you…” 

The entity turns and looks down, his neutral expression darkening as his gaze hones in on one particular spot. Mydei tries to follow, craning his head to see only to seize when a clawed—hot—hand touches his abdomen. Something burns, and even Cyrene gasps, hands placed delicately over her mouth. 

“Mine,” the entity announces, stroking gently at the newly branded sun tattoo that decorates Mydei’s abdomen, a great contrast to the surrounding crimson markings. He appears to be saying it to one particular person, and at this moment, Mydei feels more like a trophy than he does a person. 

The shock is slow to abate, how preposterous of a situation unfolding before him, and he’s moments away from summoning his crystals when he’s lifted off his feet and pulled into an effortless bridal carry. It’s as if he weighs nothing. He can’t help the shivers that roll down his spine despite the burning heat pressed against him. 

The last he hears is Phainon yelling for him and the clamoring of the crowd below. 

—𖤓—

The savior of Amphoreus and demander of Mydei's sacrifice is not at all what he had expected. 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he had expected, but not this. Never this. 

Because it’s Phainon. Only it’s not. 

But it is him. Changed, but still him.

Mydei wakes up in a bed, the feel of soft, freshly washed sheets beneath him. He blinks away the sleepiness clouding his vision and looks around. The sheer silken robes from before still adorn his body, though the veil has long been reduced to null.  

It takes a little while for the surroundings to register, familiar as it is. This is his bedroom—the one had when he was a child, back before black tide claimed Castrum Kremnos and brought down the indestructible city-state. It was a reminder that the Kremnoans, for all their military prowess, were still human in the face of forces greater than Amphoreus itself. 

Moonlight streaks through the windows, the only source of light save for the faint glow of the sun tattoo now decorating his abdomen. He stares down, unsure of what he’s looking at until it dawns on him. His brain is a jumble, but there’s no pain, no missing limbs or wounds. Regardless of the precarious situation and the foreign but familiar surroundings, something tells him that he’s in safe hands. 

He does, however, feel more feverish, but not in a sickly way. A simple brush of his fingers against the sun marking has him clenching his thighs together. 

Careful to keep his steps as light as possible, he makes his way into the hall. He has to leave. Now. He’s a bird in a cage, and the marble floor is cold beneath his bare feet, but the chill barely registers. 

Is this some sort of illusion? Everything has been brought back. The palace—his once home— is as it had been years ago, no longer overrun by titankin lurking in every corner. Instead, it’s spotless and fixed, a perfect replica of how it had been before the black tide overtook the fortress and rendered it to ruins. 

He’s cautious as to not make a sound, his movements slow and steady. Unfortunately, the golden bracelets on his wrists jingle with each step as do the metal plates of his necklace, and he’s starting to regret not pulling them off when he had the chance. The palace remains desolate, empty, not a single soul but him.

The path out is straight ahead. Down the hall is the exit. He knows this place like the back of his hand. He could sneak—

“You’re awake,” a deep voice says from down the hall. In an instant, flames light up the halls, dancing from hanging bronze braziers. 

Mydei winces, the bright light searing his vision. 

“Deliverer,” he tests. It comes out soft, unsure. He clears his throat and repeats, “Deliverer.” 

There’s little fear as he gazes on at the entity before him with barely a drop of apprehension. For some reason, he’s at ease, the same warmth he feels whenever he’s with Phainon. His gut tells him that this is Phainon and not some spectre wearing his face. In the face of battle, his instincts have never failed him. 

“Do not call me by that name,” the man—Phainon but not Phainon—says. “I do not deserve it.” 

The tenor of his voice is oddly robotic, stilted in a manner that Mydei has never heard before. He’s used to Phainon and his loud, boisterous voice, full of sunshine and youth. It’s wrong, like the very fabric of the world is collapsing. 

“What should I call you by then?” Mydei asks, crossing the hall in fast strides. 

No response. 

“If you don’t speak, I’ll continue calling you Deliverer. Don’t try me.”  

Golden eyes narrow. “Khaslana. Call me Khaslana.”

Mydei narrows the distance and stands before this Phainon, dressed like a bride—an offering. This close, he can feel the blistering heat radiating off of the alpha’s body and how the golden crevices shimmer as if molten gold were flowing alive beneath. He doesn’t even want to admit the increase in height difference. Khaslana is larger, taller, by a substantial amount, and it doesn’t help that the metallic wings and pointed halos only add to his already daunting frame. 

“Is that a new nickname? Khaslana.” 

“It’s my real name.” 

Oh. Phainon had cast away his old name, and even then Mydei only ever called him Deliverer. To hear Phainon's real name given so freely, he doesn't how to feel.

His brows pinch. "It’s still you, Deliverer—Khaslana. You can’t lie to me." The urge to reach out to is Khaslana overwhelming. He stops himself short, and instead, asks, “What… What happened? Why do you…” He’s about to say look like that but the words die on his lips. There’s no describing what Khaslana looks like, more eldritch than human.

“Walk with me, Mydeimos,” Khaslana says, leaving no room for argument. 

Khaslana leads him around the palace, acting like a glorified tour guide, as if this isn’t the home that Mydei has been so intimately connected with. This was the place where he was born, a son to powerful parents and prince to one of Amphoreus’ most powerful city-states. Mydei trails behind Khaslana, fingers tracing over smooth marble walls and gold encrusted pillars, memorizing the feel of his childhood beneath his fingertips. His silken robes glide like water across the floor.

As they pass through winding corridors, past the bedrooms that were once his parent’s grand suite to the throne room where his father’s crimson throne lies, Mydei takes the time to study the man before him. If Khaslana isn’t going to answer, then Mydei will have to dig the truths by himself.

Khaslana is Phainon, that much rings true, but there’s none of that zest for life and the blinding brilliance that makes the Deliverer so compelling. Mydei is staring at broken pottery, cracked and rough to the touch, instead of a beautiful glazed vase. The sun can either be an embrace of warmth or a searing burn, and this Phainon is destruction incarnate. 

It doesn’t take a seer to see what’s before him.

The air is thick with the char of smoke. Wherever Khaslana goes, destruction follows, and Mydei is more than intimate with the aftermath of battlefields run dry and of the ruin that follows. The heat must be getting to him, he thinks, as he presses a hand between his thighs. The more he breathes in Khaslana’s scent and takes in his smoldering presence, the faster the symptoms arrive. He’s sure the tattoo on his abdomen is exacerbating the issue. Each brush of the silk against the sun marking has his breath hitching. 

Phainon is an alpha. It rings true that this version of him is one as well. 

Khaslana pauses in front of the grand library, hovering for a moment too long. Emotion flashes for a brief second before it’s schooled back into neutrality. “Let’s go to the garden. The lilies are in bloom this time of year.” 

“Why am I here?” Mydei cuts in. 

Khaslana holds the door open, beckoning Mydei outside. His mother’s garden, like the rest of the palace, is as he remembers. Not a flower out of place. The gold encrusted arches are as they had been before, hanging with vines of wisteria, and even the lion head fountain, carved by Kremnos’ greatest artists, spits water in a steady steam, not too fast, not too slow. 

They sit on a nearby stone bench, the cold stone bringing shivers down Mydei’s spine. He inches closer to Khaslana, wanting to hoard the warmth radiating off of the man, only to receive Khaslana moving away as a response. There’s a wide gap left between them. 

Something twists—the omega side that clamors for what it deemed his alpha. Stubborn and unwilling to give up, even after knowing of the futility of his feelings.

“I figured this was the best place to take you,” Khaslana responds. “You and your people can finally return to your home.” 

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

The evening breeze blows in frigid bursts, bringing goosebumps bursting forth on Mydei’s skin. He wraps his arms around himself in a weak attempt to warm up, cursing at his lack of clothing. “You didn’t plan for this? The prophecy stated—”

“What prophecy?” Khaslana asks. 

The air is sweet, tickling his lungs with pollen. He rubs at his nose, gaze roaming over the rows of beautifully maintained flowers brought from all over Amphoreus. Kremnoans view flowers as victories, and his mother had the most beautiful garden in all of Castrum Kremnos.

“The prophecy where Amphoreus would be saved if I were to sacrifice myself to you.” 

Khaslana pauses, confused. “There’s no such prophecy, not any I’ve heard of. Besides, I wished to stay away. The ritual pulled me to Okhema. I was unaware.” 

Oh. Mydei searches the alpha, trying to dig any weakness in his armor, any lies, but Khaslana remains calm as ever, even as the water of the fountain fizzles away when he reaches over to touch it. The moonlight bathes Khaslana in soft light, rubbing away the sharp edges. He looks a touch forlorn, less stoic and impenetrable, more human. 

“It was Cyrene who planned the ritual,” Mydei says.

Recognition lights up his stony features. “Of course it’s her. She’s always…” He sighs. “She’s been trying to get me to show my face. I keep telling her it’s not a good idea, but she never listens. I never expected her to take such drastic measures.” 

“I wasn’t aware that she had power over prophecy.”

“Cyrene has more power than she leads you to believe. I’m surprised you and the other heirs went along with it. She dressed you up as a bride and had Okhema turned into a grand wedding.” 

Figures. This makes more sense now. He had somehow deluded himself into believing that this was normal when it obviously wasn’t. If he had voiced his concerns, how would Cyrene have reacted?

“Why would it be a bad idea to return?” Mydei asks. “You would be welcomed in Okhema. After all, you’re Okhema’s golden boy.”

“If you knew the things I’ve done, you would not say that,” Khaslana replies. His tone is of defeat, tired as if it seeped into his bones and melded with his very essence. 

“I know you, Phainon.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but the conviction is there. Khaslana is not his Phainon, but he’s still Phainon. 

Khaslana scoffs. “You know your Phainon. We are not the same.” 

Stubborn. Infuriating. Seems like that trait never changed. 

Mydei pulls himself off the bench and steps in front of Khaslana. He’s not sure what possesses him—maybe because he’s freezing dressed in so little and Khaslana runs blisteringly hot—but he pulls the alpha into a tight hug. 

It’s not something that’s crossed his mind before this moment, but somehow, it feels right. The warmth sears into his body, lighting up his nerves. 

Beneath his grasp, Khaslana trembles.

—𖤓—

Khaslana, for all he tries to posture and pretend, is still Phainon. 

He acts like Phainon, even has the same little quirks such as staring off into the distance with those giant fluorescent eyes of his or doing that weird head tilt that causes his stray hair strands to bounce. They’re both puppies with imaginary ears and tails and all, even if Khaslana likes to say otherwise.

In the same vein, he’s not Khaslana’s Mydei either. It’s a strange situation to be in, but fascinating all the same. 

Of course, Khaslana is clingy. Ever since Mydei sprung that impromptu hug on him, he hasn’t been the same. No, he’s taken to holding onto Mydei whenever he can as if afraid that if he were to let go that this would all disappear. 

Neither of them mention the giant elephant in the room. Both are content to ignore the shining sun tattoo decorating Mydei’s abdomen, right where his womb should be. It’s a mark of possession, that much is obvious, and Mydei is hesitant to admit that the tattoo is affecting his body, bringing him into an early heat. He’s not an idiot. These symptoms aren't a cold or a sickness when his thighs are constantly wet with slick. 

He’s sure Khaslana can smell the pheromones pouring out, even if he tries to reign them in. 

Phainon has always been good at controlling his pheromones. Khaslana is too, but his aura is oppressive without even trying. Mydei mourns his losses. His heats are harsh and why he takes suppressants to begin with, though he hasn’t had them for days now because of a certain pink-haired heir. Now that he thinks on it, she probably planned for this. He’s not sure if he can control his presence with Khaslana so close. 

They reside in Mydei’s bedroom. Khaslana takes to sitting at the edge of the bed while Mydei lounges against a stack of thick crimson pillows. There’s a plate of fresh fruit in front of him, and he pops a grape into his mouth every so often. 

Khaslana brings the topic up first. Mydei is content to ignore it for as long as he can, even if there’s a steady trickle of slick between his legs, and he’s growing ever closer to full heat.

“My Mydei was an alpha, but you…” Khaslana swallows. “You are not.” 

“Indeed.” 

“He hasn’t marked you?” Khaslana asks, fingers brushing lightly against Mydei’s undamaged mating gland. 

“No. Why would he?” He’s not interested. 

Khaslana looks visibly disturbed by his answer, the first real emotion he’s shed since bringing Mydei here. 

“He finally has a chance to be with you, and yet…” Khaslana laughs, shaking his head. His metallic halos move along with him. “Truly, astounding. I believe it.” 

“He doesn’t desire me in that way,” Mydei responds. “I’ve made my peace with it. Believe me, I’ve tried to show my interest.” 

“Have you said it to his face?”

“I haven’t.”

Khaslana places a gentle hand on Mydei’s thigh, stroking with light pressure. The touch burns, but it’s not unpleasant. Mydei presses his thighs together. 

“He will not admit to it unless he’s sure you feel the same way. Even then, he might convince himself that you’re doing it out of pity and that you don’t actually like him,” Khaslana says. 

Mydei laughs. Wry and a touch bitter. The words fall before he can reign them in. “But you desire me. That much rings true.” 

Khaslana turns away. His expression wavers. 

The fire is lit. 

“You marked me,” Mydei says, narrowing his eyes as he places a hand on his abdomen. The golden sun pulses, and he has to bite back a moan. His thighs tremble, and already, he’s growing wet, but he doesn’t care. “Why?”

When he receives no response, he continues, “You didn’t like knowing that the other Phainon was there, watching. You had a point to prove.” 

“I do desire you,” Khaslana replies, staring listlessly down at his clawed hands. “I’ve always… It doesn’t matter what I want. You may return to Okhema and tell your countrymen that Castrum Kremnos is no longer overrun by corruption.”

“You mentioned your Mydei… Were you in a relationship with him?”

“No.”  

Oh. 

Khaslana’s eyes are downcast. His voice comes out low, barely a whisper, “In every lifetime, Phainon has only loved you. In the same token, he has always been your undoing.” 

Every lifetime? 

Mydei’s brows pinch. There’s a lot to those words, meaning left ambiguous. He can’t help but say, “Except my Phainon. He’s the exception.” 

Khaslana shakes his head. He grabs a grape, watching as it smokes and begins to disintegrate between his fingers. “Do you actually believe that? I have only had eyes for you, yet you remain wholly convinced.” 

The chance to “I” does not escape Mydei’s notice. It’s a confirmation of what he already knew, yet…

“Cyrene put on this entire spectacle, and my Phainon had no care to intervene.”  

Khaslana frowns. Only a little. 

Silence blankets the room, and Mydei buries himself into the mound of pillows. A million thoughts run through his mind, and the throbbing between his legs is becoming a nuisance, exacerbated by Khaslana’s heady scent and the warmth of his presence. 

“My heat is starting soon,” Mydei blurts out. 

He’s greedy. Maybe the heat is getting to him, clouding his rational mind, but he doesn’t care. “Fuck me, Khaslana.” 

—𖤓—

The scene burns in Phainon’s head—Mydei dressed as a bride, tied up and ready to be sacrificed with sheer, silken robes fluttering around him and thick veil obscuring his fierce yet delicate features from view.

He’s unable to get a wink of sleep, tossing and turning all night. His thoughts are a jumble, a mess of and nothing and everything simultaneously, of what he could and done, what he should have done instead of standing there like an idiot as his rival—his crush—was whisked away by a creature that wore his face. 

They say, if you love someone, let them go, but in this case, he can’t help the crawl of anger brewing hot in his chest. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, repeating for hours, and he wants to scream at something—anything. 

Because what else is he supposed to feel when the entity that Mydei has been sacrificed to looks like him? 

He had to watch, powerless, as Mydei was branded with the sun, a replica of his own tattoo strapped on his neck, and he’s loath to admit that it ignited something inside him. A burning, a desire to march up to the thing wearing his face and proclaim that Mydei was his. 

“Damn it…” Phainon mutters to himself. He pulls himself out of bed and begins planning. 

He will find Mydei, slay the false god, and bring Mydei back to Okhema. Maybe then, he could find the words to confess. 

He leaves for Cyrene’s home, and as if expecting him, Cyrene smiles when she opens her front door. “Good morning, Phainon!” 

“You planned this,” Phainon states. The realization is a harsh slap in the face. Betrayed by his childhood friend. 

“I did~ ♪”

“You sent Mydei off with that creature… that thing—”

“He’s you,” Cyrene replies, simple and easy, as if she hadn’t dropped a bomb on his head. She lets him into her home and continues, “And you will not hurt Mydei.” 

“How is that me?” Phainon chokes. “T-That’s—What?”

“I expected you to get the hint and object,” Cyrene sighs, waving her loose purple sleeves around. Even as an adult, she still favored the same outfit she wore when they were kids. “Or do something rash, not stand there and do nothing. I even tied him to a pillar for the theatrics of it! You know, the whole princess tied to a pillar to be sacrificed and needs to be rescued by her hero type deal! Only the knight did nothing but stand there.” She ends with a shake of her head as if chastising him and goes as far as to flick him on the forehead. 

Phainon frowns and plops down on her living room kline. He grabs the fluffy heart shaped pillow laying in the corner and hugs it to his chest. Maybe he’s sulking. Maybe not. 

Mydei had made his choice clear as day. What kind of friend would Phainon be if he blatantly disregarded Mydei’s decision? He wanted to object, wanted to intervene. He would have easily sacrificed himself for the entity instead of Mydei, but he respected Mydei too much to act so recklessly. 

“Where was Mydei taken?” Phainon asks. 

“Castrum Kremnos.” The response is immediate. 

Confused, Phainon repeats, “Castrum Kremnos?”

“Yes! They’re there right now. You might want to leave right about now before it’s too late~” 

He leaves immediately. 

—𖤓—

Turns out Cyrene is right. He shouldn’t have doubted her. Unfortunately, he finds out in the worst way possible. 

He had left for Castrum Kremnos in a hurry, dubious as to whether or not Cyrene was telling the truth or teasing him in that sneaky manner of hers. There was no time to confirm. She’s not so cruel as to make him travel all the way to Kremnos for nothing, but she also dressed Mydei up as a bride and had him tied to a pillar in front of the entire city so he’s not sure what to believe anymore. 

When he first made it past the gates of the towering fortress, he had been rendered speechless. The once ruinous city-state had been restored to its former glory, looking as it had the first moments he stepped foot here all those years ago. 

Now, he’s in front of the palace, gleaming gold plates and towering marble walls—the stronghold of the Kremnoan royals and Mydei’s once home. 

The lights are lit and he enters, boots clicking against the pristine marble floor. It’s there down the hallway past the throne room where Phainon finds the entity wearing his face… bouncing Mydei on his cock. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes if it weren’t for the lewd moans falling upon his ears, loud and clear. 

The air is hazy with the scents of ashen fire and sweet pomegranate, potent and intoxicating.

The mahogany doors to the bedroom suite are left wide open, as if inviting him in to take a look. He can’t turn away, can’t move. His own cock twitches to life, and his grip on Dawnmaker falters. 

The wet clap of Mydei’s ass against the entity’s thighs is deafening. Mydei cries out and begs for more, faster, deeper, harder—crying out alpha over and over again in the throes of ecstasy. 

He should charge in there and put a stop to it. Pull Mydei off of the thing wearing his face and—

“Khaslana,” Mydei cries out. “Khaslana!”

Phainon can only watch as Mydei’s back arches in a perfect curve, and he squirts all over, making a mess of their entanglement. The orgasm wreaks tremors through his flushed body while Khaslana continues to fuck the omega through the high. In an obvious taunt, a metallic clawed hand roams up to Mydei’s neck, parting the blonde-red strands and revealing the fresh bite marks embedded on his once pristine nape. 

Phainon’s heart drops. He springs into action. 

“Let him go!” Phainon snarls, bursting into the room. He feels sick. There’s no way—Why? What’s going on? 

Khaslana’s golden eyes glint in amusement. “Did you enjoy the show?” 

Phainon glares. Says nothing. He’s in a fighting stance, ready to stick his greatsword into this other version of himself, only to falter when Khaslana turns Mydei over and spreads his swollen, ruined pussy, clenching and unclenching in a steady rhythm. He makes a show out of it, mocking Phainon, as he rubs around the puffy folds, causing Mydei to hiss and arch into the rough touch. A mix of cum and slick drips down the curve of his ass and onto the crimson bedsheets.

The sun tattoo on his womb pulses gold. Mydei turns his head, leaning into Khaslana’s touch, as if he can’t bear to part with it, and Khaslana leans down to murmur into his ear, nibbling at an earlobe, while playing with his braid, beginning to come undone from the frenzy of their entanglement. 

Entranced, though he knows he shouldn’t be, Phainon can only stare. He hates how his body reacts, cock twitching and straining against his pants. Already, he’s watched the entity take Mydei, heard as Mydei screamed “Khaslana” over and over. 

His name. His real name.  

Cyrene had said this entity was him, but the golden cracks and the metallic wings say otherwise. The man in front of him is not human, so what does that say about him?

“Deliverer,” Mydei calls out, beckoning him forward. His lashes flutter, eyes a molten gold beneath the lamplight. “Come here…” 

This has to be some ploy. He should fight back, should brandish his weapon and attack, but instead, he stands there, eyes planted on Mydei’s gaping, used cunt. He can’t look away, and his cock only hardens more. His fangs have elongated, digging into the meat of his lower lip, but the pain barely registers. 

It’s despicable how he’s reacting. He should be ashamed of himself for his vices, but those thoughts are hard to stay when the scent of sweet pomegranate and honeyed jasmine fills his senses, wrapping him in its sweet, sultry embrace. He wavers, weak as he is when it comes to matters of the heart.

Mydei is in heat. That much is obvious. 

He’s never seen the omega prince in such a state of unravel before, yet this version—this tainted version of himself has gotten a taste of the divine before he has. It’s cruel. Unfair. Phainon has never been one to complain, but it’s different when it involves Mydei.  

Because Mydei is his. No one else’s. Not even this twisted version of himself can have him. 

“Let him go,” Phainon hisses, arm shaking as he holds Dawnmaker out in front of him. Anger burns, roaring like a wildflame, flamed by the jealousy that curls in his gut. 

Khaslana’s sharp finger presses against Mydei’s swollen clit, eliciting a sharp keen from the omega’s throat. “He’s giving you a chance. If you don’t want to take it, then I gladly will.” 

“Deliverer, put the weapon down,” Mydei says, tilting his head to the side as he presses a hand to his abdomen. The sun tattoo glows, pulsing in tandem with the crimson markings that decorate his body. His eyes are half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. “Come here.” 

Stubborn, Phainon stays planted in place, refusing to move, even if every cell in his body is screaming—begging for him to have a taste. He can only watch, half disgusted and half aroused, as Khaslana pulls Mydei into another kiss, wet and sloppy. 

Mydei mewls, tattoos pulsing bright when Khaslana roughly pushes himself back inside. Khaslana’s tongue fucks into Mydei’s mouth while he thrusts up, cock pistoning in and out of the omega in a steady but rough rhythm. Drool drips down Mydei’s parted lips as he grinds down, creamy slick making a mess of Khaslana’s lap. 

This is absurd. Is he hallucinating? Is this some sort of a nightmare? Phainon almost wishes he was. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think he’s so unfortunate as to think of something like this. 

It’s a sight to behold—one that not even his wildest dreams could conjure up. Mydei bouncing on cock, crying so prettily, makeup smudged and running down his cheeks as his impressive chest jiggles with each thrust. There’s no gentleness in this, and when Khaslana flicks his clit, Mydei comes in a wanton cry. 

He’s never seen Mydei this undone, never seen the proud prince so drunk on cock. The stoic and calm prince reduced to his barest instincts—an omega in heat begging to be fucked and filled and bred.  

Khaslana grabs Mydei by his thighs and stands, approaching Phainon as he pulls Mydei’s thighs apart in a crude but clear invitation to join. Phainon’s body moves before his mind does, pulling off his clothing until he’s bare save for the collar strapped tight against his throat. He closes the distance, pupils dilated as he breathes in the sweet scent of Mydei in heat. 

“He can take the both of us,” Khaslana says. “Isn’t that right, Mydeimos?”

“Yes.” Mydei wraps his arms around Phainon’s neck and commands, “Deliverer. Cock in me. Now.” 

Possessed, Phainon obliges. Pushes his cock into Mydei’s already filled cunt, stretching him beyond his limits until fingernails claw wildly into his back. There’s no going slow, no gentleness in the way he thrusts his hips into the shared heat. 

It’s a tight squeeze. Mydei’s cunt flutters and convulses, spitting out globs of slick, as Khaslana forces Mydei’s legs further apart. 

“Haah… Deliverer—Khaslana—too much! Too much, ah—” Mydei cries out, tears streaking down his face, and his eyes are wide, almost unseeing. “H-Hurts—“

Phainon continues to push. His cock is only half-way in, yet Khaslana is down to the hilt. The wet heat is hypnotizing and Mydei’s cries even more. 

“You can take it,” Khaslana murmurs into Mydei’s ear. “It’ll be good soon, I promise.” 

Khaslana’s words work like magic. The tension bleeds out of the omega's body, and he nuzzles into Phainon’s neck even as he hiccups and sobs, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

It takes a moment to register what had just happened, but when it does, it hits like a truck. 

The mating bond. 

Khaslana had taken Mydei as his mate, and now the omega is reacting. The flames are stoked, a burning, seething fire. His vision burns red. 

“I’m better than he is,” Phainon says, gritting his teeth as he forces himself deeper, carving out a space for himself until his balls meet Mydei’s ass. “Say you like me better, Mydei.”

“My cock is bigger,” Khaslana replies. Simple and easy. And unfortunately true. 

“So what if your cock is bigger? It doesn't matter if you don’t know how to use it. It’s about technique not size.”

“Why is the virgin lecturing me?”

“I’m not—” Phainon splutters. “You can’t—”

“S-Stop arguing,” Mydei hisses out, tears clinging onto long lashes, eyeliner smudged. He fixes Phainon with a weak glare, and it shoots right up Phainon’s dick—how pretty Mydei is when he cries. “Start moving or so titans help me, I will—”

The words die on his lips. Mydei throws his head back. Phainon fucks with vigor, and so does Khaslana. 

It’s sloppy, messy and wet. A competition between two alphas, equally stubborn and equally possessive. 

A constant stream of slick drips out of Mydei and his thighs tremble from how wide they’re spread open. His tits shine with a thin sheen of sweat, nipples hard and bitten red.

Mydei feels so good wrapped around him, even with Khaslana’s damning presence in the room, and he takes the both of them so well.

“More, ah—” Mydei gasps out, toes curling. “Faster!” 

Phainon obliges. So does Khaslana. 

Mydei bounces between them, back pressed to Khaslana’s front as his arms wrap around Phainon’s neck, clinging for dear life. Soft blonde strands tickle Phainon’s shoulder as tears streak down Mydei’s flushed cheeks, and the moans that fall from his swollen lips are filthy, punctuated by Khaslana’s grunts and Phainon’s little groans. 

Unfortunately, he’s unable to enjoy the moment, aware of Khaslana and his every movement, of the burning heat that radiates from the alternate version of himself. There’s another alpha intruding, taking what is rightfully Phainon’s. 

Phainon bares his fangs while Khaslana keeps a neutral expression as if his other self isn’t worth the effort to react to. It’s fire to gasoline. His pheromones smolder, and Mydei reacts immediately, sweet omega pheromones attempting to calm the storm. 

It does nothing. The air grows thicker. Phainon’s expression darkens, even as the pleasure builds and spreads, setting his nerves alight in a flurry of heat.  

Two alphas fighting for one omega. It’s a shock they haven’t torn each other’s throats out, even if they are technically the same person. Khaslana is patient, unbothered by this entire ordeal. 

And Phainon is loath to admit it but Khaslana is taller, bigger in all ways. His aura is different—inhuman—but that doesn’t matter. No, if anything, this makes him desire to prove himself even more.

As if reading his mind, the increasingly dark thoughts swirling through his head, Mydei reaches up to stroke Phainon’s cheek. His eyes are glassy with pleasure, but his expression is affectionate as he murmurs, “Focus on me, Deliverer… N-Not him...”  

The change is instant. The world around him melts.

His vision is a whirl of color, heart rate spiking as the pressure builds and his movements begin to grow more erratic. Mydei squeezes down so beautifully, milking his cock with his warm, velvety heat. He claims Mydei’s lips in a kiss, frenzied as he takes as much of Mydei as he can. The omega tastes as sweet as he smells, richer than even the most decadent of ambrosia. 

Nothing around him matters. Only the wet warmth of Mydei and the firmness of his body, the soft sweet noises of pleasure that fill his ears, and the saccharine scent of sweet pomegranates fresh in his lungs. Phainon dips down to bring a nipple into his mouth, sucking on the tender nub as if attempting to draw out milk. 

Mydei cries out, music to Phainon’s ears. Blonde bangs fall over his eyes, yet hot tears continue to stream down his face in thin rivulets.

“Mydei, my love,” Phainon groans. “You feel so good. I’m close, I’m close—” 

“Breed me, D-Deliverer,” Mydei gasps, intoxicated by pleasure. “Fill me up… Give me… pups…” 

It doesn’t take long before he’s spilling inside, mixing their fluids together and filling Mydei up with his seed. His vision whites out in a sea of stars, and that primal part of his brain screams to get Mydei pregnant, have the omega round with his pups. He feeds into it, the deep seated desires that he’s had since he met the prince, whilst ignoring the presence of the other man across from him.

If anyone is getting Mydei pregnant, it’s him and not Khaslana. He’ll make sure of it. 

His body is lit up, and his breathing comes out ragged, but he’s not done, yet. This is only the beginning. His cock remains hard, even after spilling inside the omega. 

“Done so early?” Khaslana taunts as he continues to leisurely fuck into Mydei. 

“Not yet,” Phainon says, wiping the sweat off his brow. “I want to try something else. Mydei, sweetheart, can you lie on the bed for me?”

“Hnnn…” Mydei nods or tries to. Even in the haze of heat, he’s still eager to please, so unlike how he usually is. 

“Oh?” Khaslana arches an eyebrow, gently placing Mydei on the bed.

Mydei lies on his back with his legs spread, hair fanning around him in a halo of red and gold. Lovebites cover his skin, his neck, the inside of his thighs, and his nipples stand hard and red against tanned skin. His blinks are slow, content like a pampered housecat. It’s almost a sin, what Phainon’s about to do, but he does it anyway. 

With a surprised squeak, Mydei is pushed onto his knees, and he wobbles in his attempts to keep himself upright. 

The need to claim has overcome all reason. Phainon drags his cock against Mydei’s slick folds, playing with the omega’s greedy pussy. He could easily push back into that wet heat, and it’s tempting with how Mydei’s breath hitches in anticipation as if he hasn’t already been fucked there for hours. 

Instead, Phainon coats his cock in slick and presses the head against Mydei’s puckered pink hole, watching in great satisfaction as Mydei squirms and clenches down, begging to be taken. His ass is tight and untouched, a great contrast to the gaping, fluttering cunt right above. 

A man possessed, Phainon says, “I’m gonna fuck you here.” His finger grazes the tight ring of muscle. “Gonna mold you around my cock. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Mydei gasps, lashes fluttering as he turns his head back and spreads his cheeks, eagerly presenting himself for the taking. “Please, alpha. Fuck me there.” 

Phainon wastes no time in pushing his cock in, taking the part of Mydei that’s saved for him. He wants Mydei molded around him, wants to take that part of Mydei that Khaslana hasn’t yet claimed. Mydei is so tight around him, squeezing down on him, and Phainon can’t help the groan that leaves his lips. He squeezes Mydei’s ass, kneading the flesh, as he sinks himself in. 

Mydei trembles, spreading his legs in an attempt to accommodate. 

“You’re doing good,” Phainon says, trailing his fingers down Mydei’s spine. “Just a little more, okay?” 

Silent yet amused, Khaslana watches on. He kneels before Mydei, his cock tapping lightly against Mydei’s face, smearing precum all over his cheek, as he gazes down at Mydei’s fucked out expression. 

For a moment, Mydei is confused, too distracted by the thick cock breaching his ass that he’s unable to comprehend what’s in front of him. Uncaring of Mydei's lack of response, Khaslana begins to run the head of his cock against Mydei’s lips, painting them in a sheen of precum until Mydei gently takes Khaslana into his hand, fingers unable to wrap fully around the thick shaft. He gives a few appreciative strokes before leaning forward and kissing Khaslana’s cock, the head, all over the shaft, as if worshipping a god.  

It’s a sight to behold and even Khaslana, for all the cycles bygone, isn’t immune to Mydei’s charms. The heady scent of his arousal thickens in the already musky pheromone-filled air. 

“I forget you become like this when you’re in heat,” Khaslana murmurs, thumbing at Mydei’s cheek. 

Mydei whines and gives little kitten licks to the head, unsure of how to proceed. Khaslana guides him by feeding his cock into the omega’s mouth. It’s obscene how small Mydei’s mouth is compared to Khaslana’s thick length, plush lips stretched to the brim as he tries to take Khaslana down.  

One alpha on both ends. Mydei rolls his tongue over Khaslana’s cock, drool beginning to pool down his chin, while Phainon takes him from behind, driving in and out with reckless abandon. 

“He was mine first,” Phainon can’t help but hiss—desperation carved into every word. 

Khaslana scoffs, looking at Phainon as if he were nothing more than an insect. “You left him alone to be claimed by me. What kind of alpha are you?” 

“I-I…” He doesn’t have much of a retort aside from admitting that he was too cowardly to even think about expressing his desire for someone like Mydei. “That’s…” 

Khaslana sighs. He strokes Mydei’s cheek, fingers tracing the crimson marking beneath his eye, and murmurs, “You see? I told you he was afraid.”

“Mnn…” Mydei blinks slowly, distracted as he slurps on cock. He’s pushed forward and back by Phainon’s thrusts, pushing him further onto Khaslana’s cock until his throat seizes and tears stream down his cheeks. 

Khaslana fucks into Mydei’s mouth, rapt attention paid to the way Mydei’s lashes flutter and his eyes begin to roll back. His thrusts become more stilted, more erratic, and he pulls himself out with a pop and a soft, needy whine from Mydei before stroking himself to completion, painting Mydei’s face in ropes of thick white. 

It’s almost disrespectful, but Mydei doesn’t seem to mind with how he immediately licks up the come, moaning softly at the bitter taste on his tongue. 

Satisfied, Khaslana leans back and watches as Phainon pulls Mydei onto his lap, reaching deeper than before. 

“Mydei, you’re mine,” Phainon murmurs. “Say that you’re mine. Not his. Mine.” He presses down on Mydei’s sun brand, causing the omega to squirt slick all over his lap. 

“Y-Yours…” Mydei gasps out. His voice comes out weak, scratchy from overuse.

“That’s right.” His tongue roams over Mydei’s nape, licking over the fresh bite mark—Khaslana’s bite mark—marring the soft, supple skin. 

Khaslana rolls his eyes.

The heat is blistering, and his breaths come out ragged. Mydei’s ass is so tight, squeezing down and milking him for all he’s worth. Mydei grinds down as Phainon thrusts up, wet slapping noises loud in the pheromone thickened air. 

His climax builds. He continues to nip at Mydei’s neck, kissing his nape and prepping the skin beneath until his vision whites and his knot fattens, stretching the omega to the brim.

His arms wrap taut around Mydei’s slim waist. His canines ache, the need to pierce flesh overwhelming. There’s no thoughts in his head other than the need to claim. Mydei is his. His omega. His mate. The future mother of his pups. 

Sealing their fates together, Phainon sinks his fangs into Mydei’s neck.

—𖤓—

When Mydei arrives back in Okhema, he’s greeted by a crowd of anxious cityfolk. He can’t say he’s surprised, but it does cause him to double check if any of the dark bruises and purpling marks littering the expanse of his body are visible. His nape especially, since he’s sitting around with two mating bites that refuse to heal even with his regenerative powers. 

Thankfully, he’s covered. He had the foresight to fully clothe himself, hiding behind a thick cloak, because both Phainon and Khaslana like to bite, the overenthusiastic dogs that they are.  

Aglaea and the other heirs stand at the forefront, followed by Mydei’s parents and his fellow countrymen. Cyrene is off to the side as she plays with the ladybugs crawling on flower vines. 

“De! Snowy!” Tribbie exclaims, waving enthusiastically. “Welcome back! We missed you!”

“Lady Tribbie,” Phainon grins. “Glad to be back.” 

Khaslana hovers outside Okhema’s gates, unsure. It’s cute how he acts akin to a stray dog entering a home for the first time, enough so that it has Mydei smiling, just a little. 

“Khaslana,” Mydei calls out. “Come over.” 

Hesitant, Khaslana walks in, his metallic wings curled protectively beside him. Halfway past the gate, he pauses in his step and glances over at Mydei once more as if asking if it’s okay and only continues when Mydei gives him a nod. 

Cyrene bounces up to Khaslana, her eyes curved into crescents as she beams, “Welcome back, Khaslana! We missed you~” 

There’s the barest quirk of his lips, but it’s present. “Thank you, Cyrene.”