Draft 0 Attempt

Phainon stared at the floor of the cart he was inside of, unbothered by the magic-suppressing shackles and chains around his wrists and ankles, and trying to ignore the pouring rain cutting through to his bones, nearly making him shiver out of his skin. He’d been given no cloak, and the cover for the cart did not extend to the back, where he was being kept. His latest “master” had died from the strain of attempting to handle the immense weight of his magic, and so her servants were returning him to the man that “sold” him to her in the first place.

Just as was the intended result, like every other “master” he’d been given to by his Master Lygus.

The itch between his shoulder blades distracted him briefly from the rain, and reminded him that, once alone in his Master’s estate, he needed to take care of his wings. He didn’t remember how long it had been since he last transformed enough to have his wings out - Lygus doesn’t like seeing his transformation, and those he’s “gifted” to are never told about his true nature. He barely had any time alone once returned to his Master, but he needed to clean and straighten his wings soon, before the itch started turning into a rash, and then he’d be chastised for not taking care of himself again and have to go through rough handling during the cleaning session.

He tightened his core as the cart hit a bump in the road, doing his best to remain outwardly unaffected by the trip. His Master’s personal estate was in the part of the suburbs of Okhema that was not only reserved for the richest members of society, but easily the furthest out from the city as possible; as such, the return trip to his estate was always long, and the roads were poorly maintained despite Lygus’s role in the Council of Elders. Of course, the roads were even worse thanks to the heavy rain blocking out the light of Kephale and Aquila above. Luckily, he would recognize that bump even if the Black Tide were to swallow this region: his Master’s estate was close. Dull sky blue eyes blinked open briefly, mostly on instinct to verify his surroundings, before closing again so the rain did not blur his vision. He tucked his chin against his sternum, and grit his teeth as the rain hit the back of his neck to roll down along his spine.

He longed for the warmth of his bare room, the dryness of the blanket he was allowed for his nest, even the few clothes Lygus permitted him when Phainon was not being shown off or acting as his aide in public.

(He longed more for the endless wheat fields of his hometown, the darkened woods of the Membrance Maze, and the reassuring presence of his childhood friend.)

(Such longing was worthless, for they were long gone and so he would never have them again.)

Phainon forced himself to turn his thoughts off, the sounds of the cart’s wheels aiding him in slipping into a near-meditative state. Better to not think than indulge those thoughts and wishes. Master Lygus somehow always knew when he had them.

He let out a deep breath as the cart came to a stop, forcing himself to blink open his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the rough boards of the cart. There was a curse at the front of the cart, but he eventually heard the footsteps come around the side before boots thudded onto the boards. “Right, let’s get you moving, you walking curse,” the guard snarled over the rain as he knelt down to unlock the shackles around Phainon’s ankles. “Try anything funny, and you’ll regret it.”

He already knew that, but the guard likely wanted one last crack at him before he was no longer the guard’s problem. Instead, Phainon rose to his knees after the guard stood, and shuffled after him until he could step down from the cart and onto the muddy pavers, uncaring for the state of his knees and feet. He kept his head down and gaze low as he was led up to his Master’s estate door, letting the guards pull him off balance to give them a sense of satisfaction, made easier by the slick pavers underfoot. Despite that, he remained upright through the whole experience, and fell to his knees before the guards could push him there once before the grand entrance.

The captain of the guard knocked heavily on the doors, which opened within a minute - his Master was expecting his return, as always. “Gentlemen, to what do I owe the honor?” came Master Lygus’s tinny voice, both melodic and ear-scratching to Phainon.

“Theoros, we’ve come to fulfill the last part of our Lady’s contract with you over the familiar you gifted her with,” the captain said with a hidden sneer. “Ah, I see. My condolences, gentlemen, it was far from my intention for this tragedy to befall your house,” Lygus said, placating to the guards, but to Phainon, he could read the smugness behind the cruel sugar-coated lies. “I have been searching for a proper Master for this one for well over a decade now - as you know, we Antikytherians cannot fulfill all of the required functions for such creatures, and had great hope that your Lady could in my stead. I shall, of course, send proper compensation for the harm my actions have caused your house.”

And like all the others, these guards fall for the trap laid before them. Phainon tuned out the discussion from there, familiar with this song and dance, focused instead on his Master’s feet for his cue to stand and follow him within the estate for the debrief. The conversation must end favorably, because his wrists were tugged up so the shackles there could be released before the guards walked off.

A good minute passed afterward before Lygus stepped to the side, prompting Phainon to rise and enter the manor. He stopped at the towel laid out on the floor, clearly intended to ensure he caused as little of a mess as possible once within, and stood still as Lygus took his time closing the doors and walking over to perform his examination of Phainon’s physical condition. Tightening his jaw to prevent the shivers from taking hold, he waited out the slow circle Lygus paced around him once, twice, before the Antikytherian stopped before Phainon. Cold, metallic fingers traced over the golden sun on Phainon’s neck, the source of all of his problems, as Lygus said, “Splendid work, as always. Though the fact that those brutes decided to return you in this weather is of great annoyance to me, given I have another target for you to take out in only the way you can.” A finger touched his chin, and Phainon drew his gaze from a distant column to the helmet of his Master. “Ensure you burn out any illness you may have caught on the way back. I have arranged the meeting with your next target in three days time. Until then, see to yourself; I shall, of course, check in as necessary to make sure you were not… damaged in any way.”

Phainon swallowed around a dry throat with a click, and nodded. “Yes, sir.” “Good. Make use of the extra towel before you return to your room, else you soak the entire place before you get there.” With that, Lygus turned and walked off, hands folding behind his back.

Phainon breathed through the next three minutes, in the event that Lygus returned with further instructions, before he relaxed with a full-body shudder. He gladly reached for the proffered towel and swiftly, but thoroughly, dried himself off - or as well as he could, since his hair always seemed to never dry properly. A couple swipes of his feet against the towel he stood on, and a brief scrub to make sure the mud was removed, and finally he was moving, leaving the towels where they were for the waiting servants to deal with.

He padded down the hallways, taking the most direct route to his room that did not involve the servant’s passages. He had learned early on that he was not welcome there, and that none among their number would do more than what they were ordered to do for him. In fact, they were more likely to report any behaviors or actions he was not permitted to do straight to Lygus, just for a meager bonus and the satisfaction of watching him be punished. Of course, such reports needed to be truthful, and so have tapered off drastically over the decade and a half that Phainon has been owned by Lord Lygus.

(Since the fall of Aedes Elysiae.)

(Since his best friend died.)

(Since his innocence was torn away from him and ripped to shreds alongside his pride and dignity.)

Phainon didn’t so much speed up as lengthened his strides, reaching his room in near-record time. Once behind the closed door, he slumped against a wall and sunk to the floor as the shivers finally took hold in full.