He gave a slight bow, executing an impeccable salute. His voice remained gentle and courteous, yet it was like the most lethal poison:
"Then, for the stability of the Holy City and the glory of Okhema, I must trouble you esteed Elders."
"Please... do take care of your health. We have... plenty of ti ahead."
Finally, Phaethon picked up the blood-stained sword and thrust it into the marble floor at the exit.
Then, and only then, did he walk out of the Council of Elders.
That composed silhouette, in the eyes of the Elders, was more terrifying than the deepest demons of hell.
They finally understood—
Phaethon’s "sparing their lives" was a sentence far more cruel than death.
Phaethon wanted them to work for Aglaea until they dropped dead!
And they dared not even think of rebellion, for the blood-stained sword at the door was the clearest warning.
They could only exhaust their lives and wills bit by bit amidst mountains of scrolls, endless argunts, the curses of commoners, and severely deprived sleep.
Becoming the fastest-wearing, most agonizing spare parts on Phaethon’s cold machine of maintaining Holy City "stability."
...
Phaethon had been the Council Elder of the Holy City of Amphoreus for so days now.
Initially, Cyrene, Phainon, and the others were quite worried, fearing this newly ascended Elder would quickly be swallowed up by endless docunts, etings, and power struggles like Lady Aglaea, becoming busy, distant, even acquiring a politician’s cold edge.
However, their worry soon turned into a mix of amusent and helpless exasperation.
They discovered that Elder Phaethon’s most "laborious" and ti-consuming "official duty" each day seed to be struggling out of bed in the morning, tying on an apron, and preparing a veritable feast of a breakfast for Cyrene and Phainon in the kitchen.
As for the mountainous piles of scrolls and headache-inducing agendas in the Council? *Hah*, it seed he never intended to invest much energy in those matters.
"See, soone as lazy as Phaethon—even if you press him into an Elder’s seat, he’ll just find the most comfortable position to slump in. How could he possibly go looking for extra work? ♪" This was Cyrene’s precise comnt, unanimously agreed upon by all.
...
Marmoreal Palace, High-Temperature Baths Corridor.
Warm water stead with mist, the polished, mirror-like marble floors reflecting the do’s reliefs.
Phaethon and Mydei walked side-by-side along the corridor’s edge, having just resolved a minor conflict caused by cultural differences between Castrum Kremnos immigrants and local Okhema residents. The atmosphere was slightly somber.
"Apologies, Phaethon." Mydei, the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos fad for his valor and fortitude, spoke with rare frustration and a hint of barely perceptible weariness. "It’s my failing. I haven’t fulfilled my responsibility to properly restrain and guide my people, allowing such disputes to occur repeatedly and causing you trouble."
His bronze face, distinct in the misty steam, was etched with a deep frown, clearly viewing this small friction as a personal failure.
Hearing this, Phaethon waved a hand dismissively, his relaxed deanor a stark contrast to the brief authority he’d displayed during diation.
"You have no need to apologize, Mydeimos. Ultimately, the people from Castrum Kremnos just need more ti to adjust to Okhema’s rules and way of life."
"Besides..." he shifted tack, "...that farce just now. From what I saw, the responsibility lay seventy or eighty percent with those Okhema hooligans. Your Kremnoans just reacted a bit... vigorously, but their intent was self-defense."
Phaethon stopped walking, his voice softening slightly but gaining a note of seriousness. "At the Citizen’s Assembly, I made a promise to unite everyone. Therefore, it’s my duty to do my utmost to resolve these conflicts born of differences."
Mydei’s tense expression eased a fraction. He nodded. "I believe you, Phaethon."
After a mont, however, he paused. His steely, resolute gaze swept the surroundings with a trace of bewildernt, lingering on the young won in Okhema-style dresses visible at the far end of the corridor and behind so pillars. They seed to keep glancing this way, whispering, their eyes bright.
"But... speaking of which... have you noticed... the looks from the people around seem sowhat... odd?" Mydei searched for the right words, his brow furrowing repeatedly. "Or is it... that Okhema girls are naturally this... uh, friendly and... enthusiastic?"
He finally settled on those two terms, but his tone still sounded strained and perplexed.
"Hmm?" Phaethon raised an eyebrow, looking around with interest following Mydei’s gaze.
Indeed, many young won and ladies of Okhema were pretending to admire the scenery or chat, but their darting eyes and slightly flushed cheeks betrayed their true focus.
Thinking he understood the situation, Phaethon chuckled and nudged the thoroughly uncomfortable Mydei with his elbow.
"Oh, that? Mydeimos, it’s the City of Romance. Having an open, passionate folk culture that knows how to appreciate ’beauty’ is practically a traditional feature here."
He added teasingly, "What’s the matter? Has our serious, rigid Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos had his... heart fluttering from being looked at by girls?"
"Humph!" Mydei reacted like a lion whose tail had been stepped on. He imdiately crossed his arms tightly over his chest, lifted his chin, the line of his jaw taut, his voice stiff as he retorted:
"Preposterous! How could that be? The word ’date’ has never existed in the Kremnoan dictionary!"
Phaethon laughed until his shoulders shook. "Alright, alright, I suspect your Kremnoan dictionary hardly has any words in it at all."
"*Humph—*"
"Fine, I’ll stop teasing you. Well... judging by the ti, I should head back to prepare dinner for Cyrene. I’ll get an earful if I’m late."
...
Carrying groceries he’d bought along the way, Phaethon pushed open the familiar wooden gate to the small courtyard. The scent of flowers and plants was fragrant, but it was unusually quiet inside.
"Huh? Is Sister Cyrene not ho today? Why is it so quiet?"
The house was silent.
Phaethon put the things down and checked the rooms. Finally, in a corner of the study by the window, he discovered the pink-haired figure almost buried in a book at the desk.
Cyrene was sprawled over the desk, utterly absorbed in staring at its surface. She hadn’t even noticed him enter, completely engrossed. Every now and then, she would let out a very soft, incomprehensible giggle or a sharp intake of breath, her fingers unconsciously tracing patterns on the desk.
*Heh, studying so diligently today? Cyrene is really working hard.*
A wave of warmth and affection surged in Phaethon’s heart. *I should make a couple of extra special dishes for her later, a proper reward.*
He lightened his steps, approaching silently, curious to see what fascinating classic or story had her so captivated.
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