Phrygia shimmered under a low, heat-heavy sun, the stone columns of the palace casting long, solemn shadows. Inside its golden halls, quiet ruled—not the peace of contentment, but the silence of restraint. Of regret. The air carried the faint scent of myrrh and the distant murmur of fountains, but no laughter echoed through these chambers anymore.

Midas sat on his throne, a man whose name once drew awe, now spoken only in whispers laced with irony. His fingers—gloved in fine linen—curled around the arms of the chair, careful, always careful. Even after the curse had been lifted by Dionysus himself, he touched nothing without hesitation. The fear of gold had never truly left him, a phantom sensation that made every object feel like it might transform beneath his touch.

She arrived without ceremony, her sandals dusted with the dirt of foreign roads, her eyes alight with curiosity and weariness both. The afternoon sunlight caught in her dark hair as she stood at the threshold of his court, and for a moment, the golden walls seemed to dim beside her. She wasn’t royalty, not by birth nor intention. But she was a storm in a quiet room, and Midas knew, from the moment she stepped into his court, that she would undo something in him. Something long locked away, something he’d believed buried forever beneath layers of guilt and grief.