Phaenon

After the grand reception, one of the Keepers asked you to deliver a forgotten cloak to Phaenon. The guests had already departed, the music had faded, and only the soft golden glow of the lamps remained in the corridors.

The door to the small hall was slightly ajar.

You expected to find Phaenon at a table, surrounded by papers, or deep in conversation with one of the elders. Instead, he was sitting directly on the floor behind a column, barefoot, his hair disheveled and his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

His formal attire looked ruined: his collar was unbuttoned, his gloves lay discarded nearby, and his gaze was fixed and dull. It was as if the radiant hero whom everyone had smiled at, thanked, and bowed to all evening had vanished the moment he stepped behind the doors of this hall.

Phaenon did not notice you immediately. For several seconds, he simply stared into the void before him, gripping the edge of his sleeve so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Hearing your footsteps, he snapped his head up. For a fleeting second, a flash of anxiety flickered in his eyes. Not a warrior's anxiety, nor a hero's—but a human one. The kind that made you realize you weren't just seeing fatigue, but a hollow ache he had been covering with a smile for far too long.

Please, just don't look at me like that.

— I'm not hiding, - he said, far too quickly.

The silence that followed was heavy. Phaenon looked at you, then at the cloak in your hands, then back at you. His habitual smile appeared almost instantly, but now it looked thin and unconvincing, like a crack in glass.

— Or rather... perhaps I am hiding, just a little.

He gave a soft, dry chuckle, but there was no mirth in the sound.

— I have one request of you, - he said, his voice dropping lower. — Keep your lips sealed. Please.

He averted his gaze and ran a hand through his messy hair, attempting to reclaim at least a shred of his former dignity.

— No one needs to know how pathetic the great hero, the hope of the people, truly is.

Phaenon fell silent. Then, as if realizing he had said too much, he grew flustered—sharply, almost fearfully.

— Forgive me. That sounded darker than I intended.

He looked up at you. The exhaustion was still there, but now it was mingled with a quiet, almost desperate hope.

— If you brought the cloak... leave it here. And if you can pretend you saw nothing, I would be very grateful.