The journey from Caudiceum to Arqa along the Amber line was widely known to be the fastest of all routes possible between those two ports; even then, it would normally take about week and a half to make the crossing. However, lucky sailors would once in a blue moon come across a very rare phenomenon, one that presented itself when certain conditions where met: at the height of summer, right after the seasonal storms had washed over the southern coasts and the currents of the northern sea had seen enough turmoil, wind would blow favourably throughout seven days and seven nights, with no major rains and a water so calm the crystalline ocean floor would be seen below. It was in that weather that the lucky ship would find itself sighting the shore in no more than five days, with no effort from its crew required.

Hyperion, Phobos and Aristides knew they would not be lucky enough to see it happen this time around, but they were lucky enough to be travelling with someone who could make it happen. Ophelia jumped at the idea, surprised it hadn’t come to her before: she couldn’t say that she was looking forward to spending week and a half in a ship.

It was a task easier said than done: it turns out her mysterious Byzantine powers weren’t as miraculous as one might think. A wind would blow as long as she focused hard on it; it took her several hours of ever-increasing frustration to get it to manifest the way she wanted to. It started small, like a breeze; it would die out, it would blow in the wrong direction. If it was too strong, it could destroy their sails, or sweep the crew off the ship. She needed to carefully control it through dedicated exercises of concentration – which she could only hold for so long.

So it was devised in the end that she’d summon the winds during the day, with certain intervals allowed for her rest. When she wasn’t seeing to it, they’d put the crew to work. That way they alternated wind and mechanical power – and it was enough to get them to Arqa by the seventh day.

“Finally,” she had exclaimed with a sigh when one of the men announced that land was in sight. She collapsed backwards onto the deck where she’d been sitting, allowing the exhaustion of the previous days finally pile on top of her.

“We shall take you first thing to my villa; it’s better if you rest there for a few days,” Hyperion offered with a worried look. “I feel guilty that I suggested this in the first place. I didn’t imagine it’d exert this much.”

“Of course, that’d be the last thing in your mind,” Phobos snorted. “As long as others get the work done for you.”

“It’s fine, I can’t say I was looking forward to staying at sea for much longer,” Ophelia quickly defused the incoming argument. “I just need some rest.”

It wasn’t just rest that she needed in the end. Soon, the shock of her exhaustion took a hold of her body and she began to feel the tell-tale aches of a fever. It came on strong, stronger than she’d ever felt since she was a child, and she deteriorated quickly. They arrived at the port after sunset, and by then she could only lay helpless on top of the skins in Hyperion’s chambers, comfortable beyond belief but too miserable to appreciate it.

“Keep drinking water,” Phobos had stayed with her, going back and forth between the large jar with fresh water and her. Aristides, thankfully, had easily prevented an argument between then prince and the merchant by suggesting that the former stay by her side to take care of her, “as her husband, real or not”. That kept the honourable man entertained, while Aristides negotiated with Hyperion the finer details of their agreement and what was to happen once they landed.

“Please don’t go without saying goodbye,” Ophelia mumbled at some point, half delirious. Phobos looked at her almost frightened, as if she’d uttered a terrible augury.

“I’m not going anywhere yet,” he replied.

Ophelia would not be able to tell exactly all that happened the rest of the night, other than the vague memories of her descending the ship holding onto Phobos for dear life and the uncomfortable bumps of the carriage they rode to Hyperion’s villa. She clearly held on to the moment when she was finally able to fall asleep in a bed; around her she heard the bustling of the maidservants who had helped her bathe, but all she really cared about was the sweet fragrance of the orange trees coming from the garden, and the sea breeze that’d hit her face every so often.

The fever broke at some point during the night; by the morning, all she had left was her exhaustion. After washing her face and dressing up in the loose, fine cotton robes that Hyperion had left for her, she slowly made her way to the garden, where she’d been told the Chaldean merchant was having his breakfast.

“I told them to bring you the food,” he said with a frown, getting up to help her. Ophelia smiled, waving off his concern.

“I insisted; I need the fresh air. Rest assured that I will go back to sleep after this.”

“How are you feeling?” he made a gesture towards the attendants, who were waiting by the edge of the garden. They hurriedly brought forth another cup of tea for her, and another set of cutlery.

“Better,” she helped herself to some of the fruit. “The fever is gone. My body still feels heavy.”

“You’re welcome to stay and rest here as much as you want,” Hyperion repeated his offer. “My servants will attend to you as if you were their master.”

“All I need is somewhere to rest my bones,” she said, intimidated by the other’s hospitality. “But thank you.”

She was served some tea; the hot, savoury liquid worked wonders, breathing life back into her. She closed her eyes, sighing contentedly. “One wonders how people can do without this.”

“Indeed,” the merchant eyed her amusedly. “Although you’d be the first of your kind to say so; it’s not so popular with your lot, I’ve noticed.”

“I’m my own person,” Ophelia said, and none-so-gently decided to change the topic of conversation. “Would you happen to know where…?” she searched for Phobos’ fake name in her memory, but wasn’t able to find it. Hyperion knew about his identity, but she wasn’t quite ready to drop his real name like that: she darted nervous glances about, unsure if she could trust the attendants.

“Our friend is resting in the guests’ annex,” Hyperion winked. “I was told he quite dutifully woke up at dawn to perform the due diligence of a warrior, and I believe that he’s probably now at the baths. He sent his companion away. From my conversation with him yesterday, it seems like his plans are to stay here until you’ve recovered.”

Ophelia didn’t hide her sigh of relief. “What’s that you mentioned? A warrior’s diligence…?”

Hyperion paused for a second at her question, and she had the inkling that she’d somehow revealed something without meaning to. He chose not to speak to it, replying instead “oh, he does his sword routines, honours his training.”

Ophelia nodded, thinking that he’d probably come to see her later in the day. “Is Eon about? It’s strange to see you without him.”

“He’s taking care of some business. I’m afraid that once I arrive at a port, things become quite hectic for me. And these days as well, the city is abuzz with the preparations for the Council,” Hyperion stood up. “This should be my cue to leave. Please stay and enjoy your breakfast; I’d have loved to give you a tour of the villa but that can wait until you’re feeling better.”

With a slight nod of his head and a small curtsy, he departed. As Ophelia munched on some bread and cheese slices, she pondered over the finer details. It didn’t escape her notice that she was being given a royal treatment: well, perhaps something more, given that the actual crown prince of Phrygia was in the guest quarters while she was most likely in the main building. She didn’t think it was just gratitude or guilt after she’d fallen ill; her perceived status as an Elysian surely meant something to the merchant.

As promised, she fell asleep the moment she reached the chambers she’d been given. She woke up during the afternoon feeling more refreshed, and with a nervous attendant standing by the side.

“Is something wrong?” she asked in Chaldean, having used the language with Hyperion earlier. The young woman, however, did not understand her, and instead murmured something in another tongue, which she was able to pick up as an apology.

“Ah, sorry,” Ophelia switched tongues, earning the now-familiar surprised stare of someone who recognizes a native speaker. She asked once again if there was anything she should know.

“My lady, the Phrygian guest came over earlier, and demanded we let him in. We were told by our master not to allow anyone without your explicit permission. He put up quite a fuss, and he had to be escorted away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. Could you please send for him and let him know I’m awake?”

The woman didn’t look too thrilled at the prospect of dealing with Phobos again, but nodded and left. Ophelia wondered how long it had been since he’d visited. It seemed to be enough that the impatience brought him back within minutes.

“Are you all right?!” he rushed into the room, eyes frantically searching for her. He stopped a foot or two from the bed before doing a double-take. Ophelia was dressed in the loose robes that were common for noblewomen in Arqa and the Free Cities; in Phrygia, however, cotton clothing was considered intimate wear. The prince looked away, embarrassed, confusing the woman that was only casually sitting on the bed.

Ophelia checked her clothes, thinking that perhaps something had slipped and she’d revealed more than she’d ever intended; finding no fault, she frowned in confusion. “What’s the matter?”

“Is… this appropriate in Byzantium? This clothing?”

Ophelia sighed. “Yes, and so it seems like it is here. Would you like me to wear something else to make you feel more comfortable?”

The man nodded, but then caught himself. “I’ll try to keep… your customs in mind.”

He slowly turned around, but his eyes still evaded her body. Every now and then they would focus on her face and her eyes, and would stray away to the rest of the room when possible.

“To answer your questions yes, I’m feeling a lot better now. I had some sleep after breakfast, and that helped,” Ophelia answered the initial question. “I heard from one of the attendants that you were causing a ruckus earlier. What’s the matter?”

That seemed to ignite a fire in him. “Did he tell you where you’re staying?”

Ophelia shook her head.

“This is where his harem lives. I thought the sneaky fox would’ve tried something… while you were unable to defend yourself,” he checked her over once again. “He didn’t, did he?”

Ophelia once again denied him. “I might understand your reticence to associate with him; he is a sneaky fellow. But aren’t you going a bit far with the accusations?”

“You don’t understand the position you’re in. He thinks you’re from Elysium; even if he were to find out the truth, there would be a lot to gain if he were to gain control over you. And in Arqa, just like in a lot of the kingdoms he moves in, a woman must do as the husband says.”

“Is that why you wanted me to be your wife?” she bit back cheekily. Phobos’ face paled, and he desperately shook his head.

“Heavens, no!”

“Maybe he’s trying to do the same. Play-pretend.”

That seemed to do the trick; Phobos deflated against the strength of her argument. Seeing him slightly crest-fallen, she couldn’t help but feel guilty. “Thanks for looking out for me,” she said. “I feel like I’m arguing too much with you over Hyperion, but I appreciate your intent.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” he replied, but he seemed pacified that his efforts had been appreciated in one way or another. He’d once away turned away, and was looking over towards the garden. The villa’s buildings surrendered themselves to their environment: there were no doors to speak of. A big arch led outside, decorated with crawling, flowering vines; inside, some privacy was afforded by having a small reception connect the room and the hallway, with a wall blocking direct view into the bedroom.

Ophelia could plainly see then the building’s purpose and its synergy with its design. Everything there felt lavish, infected with a soft, elegant hedonism. Exotic flowers decorated the place, inundating the inside with aromas; lush tapestries covered barren walls, and the floors were tiled in colourful mosaics. It was almost like the place was suspended in time, clearly not knowing anything but the pleasant, moderate heat of an everlasting summer.

She felt slightly self-conscious. Phobos’ tall, broad figure seemed quite imposing, exciting parts of her she hadn’t explored in some time. She wondered if she dared cross a line that had not yet been drawn; she hadn’t really thought about romance in a while, but now that she was in that strange world where she wasn’t invisible things might go differently.