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Chapter Text

The blond King of Vere, Auguste, sits tall and fearless on his white horse, regal and ready to lead the charge of the army of soldiers on the opposite side of the field. 

The stories of his bravery are almost legendary; captaining his own men at the tender age of twenty-five, taking command of the Veretian army right after his father was killed by a stray arrow in the heat of battle, the tales reach even Akielos.

His rumored stamina was legendary, too. Damen had heard that Auguste'd been present and fully involved with all of Vere's strategic meetings and then drilling the Veretian army for hours upon hours in the unwavering heat of the Marlas. Even as the sun pinked and irritated the pale Veretian skin accustomed to weathering the cold, harsh winters of the North rather than the sting of the sun in the South. And even still, Auguste made time to practice formation after formation with his men on horseback until his smooth, aristocratic hands hardened with rough calluses-- just so his men would be prepared when the next round of fighting began. 

Auguste, unafraid of engaging in fierce, close combat with Damen's own soldiers at a pace so fast, he was nothing but a deadly gold and blue wraith in the middle of the dark green fields, cutting down and making his way through the red liveried Akielon ranks. Auguste, unafraid of anything in the face of the Akielon army pressing down on him and his men.

Damen could admire that. A leader who was willing to help, who was willing to step up and put himself on the frontlines with his people. Maybe they could have been allied Kingdoms, in another life. They once were, after all, and Damen feels, even now, that he could have learnt a thing or two from a mentor like Auguste.

Inhaling, he unsheaths the steel sword at his side. Nikandros, mounted next to him, grips the reins of his war horse tightly. Waiting for his command. Damen can feel the tension, almost tangible enough that it could be cut with a knife, and the anticipation building in the air on both sides. These men had been holding back from spilling enemy blood for the last few months, although the war had been raging on for days without pause for reprieve. Now that the scale tipped, the armies were not going to stop unless someone called a halt. 

No matter how disciplined they are, no matter how well trained they are to drop their swords at a mere gesture from their King; bloodthirsty men are always the most dangerous and unpredictable type of men. They couldn't be controlled. There was no way of telling how they would react to a halt.

And it was very clear that neither King was willing to sacrifice their pride to do that.

He'd heard rumours that Auguste hadn't even taken the time to mourn the fallen King Aleron, so intense and relentless was the fighting.

A neighing horse breaks the silence around them. Damen looks across the field to see Auguste gripping his reins tightly, riding out steadily, and alone. 

His chest plate shines under the sun, but his weapon remains sheathed at his side. He looks like a picture right out of one of those stories Damen's tutors used to tell him during his childhood; about those golden young heroes and terrible, avenging gods, riding to glory, riding to prove their worth in battle.

"What--" Nikandros begins, eyes squinting forward, looking at Auguste.

"Hold," Damen commands softly. "Don't move. It would not bode well if we accidentally harm an unarmed King."

He could tell that none of the men around him liked the order, but they hold at his command, watching the golden King approach.

"Damianos Exalted, our Brother of Akielos," the King of Vere calls out, in fluent Akielon, once he is in speaking distance, "I wish to formally call for parley, as is our right. Let us discuss terms and let diplomacy prevail over war. Let us take a different path from our fathers.”

"Exalted," says Makedon, one of his father's top generals. His voice and eyes are harsh as he looks at Damen.  "What are your orders?"

"Keep holding,” Damen nods, gripping his own reins, “I’m going to speak to him.”

“Exalted,” Nikandros splutters, his brown eyes wide with astonishment as Damen spurs his horse into a steady trot ahead. His shock does not keep him from spurring his own horse into pace beside Damen. 

“If there’s another way to end this conflict without spilling blood, I’m willing to hear it,” Damen says, continuing to urge his stallion forward and ignoring the protests of his men. Nikandros calls them to order, to tightly maintain their holding positions.

Damen stops only five paces away from the King of Vere. His helmet sits in front of his saddle, giving Damen a full view of his fine features and sharp, elegant cheekbones. Up close, he can see how tired the young King looks, and the dark shadows under his cool, piercing blue eyes, despite the awareness of his surroundings.

It's not easy carrying the weight and legacy of a war on your shoulders, Damen knows this well. He sees the effects of it first hand when he looks at his reflection in the glass. When he closes his eyes at night, unable to sleep, when he hears the pain-laden screams of his citizens, bleeding out, echoing in the fields around him.

There is a pregnant, heavy pause between them before Auguste starts to speak.

“If you would join me in my tent,” he says, hesitantly. The Veretian accent adds a soft, lyrical twist to the harsh Akielon syllables. “We can negotiate freely there. With your advisors, of course.” 

Damen knew that it could be a trap-- a play to get him away from his soldiers. But Damen also knew that Auguste called the halt first. Damen believes he would not have done that if he genuinely did not want to stop the fighting. He owes Auguste the benefit of the doubt.

“Very well,” he concedes, “When do you propose we meet?”

“Within the half hour? I will escort you back to my camp myself,” Auguste says.

“A half hour,” Damen agrees, already mentally planning who he would have by his side. Nikandros and Makedon, definitely. Perhaps Heston, one of his father’s oldest and closest advisors. "If this is a trap--"

Auguste makes a frustrated sound but composes himself before speaking. Damen can hear the quiet, firm determination in his voice. "How many more Akielon and Veretian brothers and sons must be needlessly lost? Which one of us has to return to our people, has to return to our family , body wrapped in a shroud, before we realize that this war is not worth the cost? This is not a trap, Exalted. I swear to you on my word as King of Vere, it is not."

****

“What does he want?” Nikandros asks once he gets back to the hill, where the rest of the Akielons are stationed.

“They wish to parley. We have half an hour to meet King Auguste. He’ll escort us back to the Veretian side himself,” Damen says.

“It’s a trap, Exalted," Makedon snarls.

“There’s something different about King Auguste,” Damen disagrees, shaking his head, “He’s not like his father. He prefers diplomacy.”

“I don’t trust them,” Makedon hisses, “Your father went to his grave not trusting them. He never trusted them. And neither will I. My men and I notch our belts for a reason.”

Damen fixes his general with a steady look and says, firmly, “This isn’t up for discussion. You will be accompanying me, Makedon, and we will hear what King Auguste has to say.”

Fierce brown gazes hold each other until Makedon breaks, sighing, “Yes, Exalted.”

Good, Damen thinks, I can’t tolerate indiscipline on the field, not even from Makedon.

Damen uses his remaining time to put together a makeshift council. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Auguste approaching the center of the field on his mare.

At his instruction, he and the men ride out to meet him. Auguste takes the lead, escorting them back to his camp, Veretian soldiers flanking their sides. Damen leaves Straton, one of Nikandros' best bannermen, at the head of the army. If none of the Akielons come back after two hours have passed, Straton has orders to lead a charge against the Veretians.

Once they reach the borders of the Veretian camp, the soldiers eye their procession with scorn and distrust; it’s a look that's returned twofold by the Akielons. But, nobody touches them. Nobody draws their weapons. The men trust their Golden King--Damen is happy to see some of the stories proved true.

Auguste's tent is a large, circular field command tent; white, with his personal standard-- a blue flag with a gold starburst-- flying as pennants. Several advisors are already waiting for their delegation inside, seated at a makeshift war table, as Auguste draws the flap back and leads Damen in.

"The Veretians wish for peace," he says in Akielon. It’s a careful, diplomatic move. "Damianos Exalted, tell us the demands of the Akielons to end this bloodshed, so that we may begin negotiations."

"Akielos demands Delpha," Damen says, without hesitation. "Which was rightfully brought to us by Eradne, Queen of the Six, and lost by King Euandros. Delpha begins and ends with Akielos."

"And what if Vere accedes to your demand? What would we get in return?" Auguste asks.

A man swathed in red velvet and chains of office from head to toe, clearing his throat softly and opens his mouth to speak. Damen very much wanted to point out how impractical it was to be wearing all that velvet in the sticky heat, but wisely holds his tongue. 

"Lord Chastillon," Aguste says, without turning around, "You are here merely as a courtesy to Our late Father. You are not a part of my Council. You do not have my leave to speak."

Everyone knew who the Lord of Chastillon was. It was a title specially created for King Aleron's younger brother by their father when he was King. Upon looking at him more closely, Damen can tell that he's attractive, even at his age. His shoulders stand proud and broad. His face is cleanly shaven. Whereas the King of Vere is blonde, mostly due to his mother's Kemptian heritage Damen assumes, Lord Chastillon's dark hair is full and thick with just the beginnings of small, greying streaks at the front and around his ear. His jaw doesn't have the same graceful slope as his nephew, and the only familial feature they seem to share are their piercing blue eyes. His presence is commanding though; powerful-- the same kind of aura carried around by his late brother. And not at all what it should be here, as a family member to his King, Auguste.

He closes his mouth, jaw set, and Damen can see the cold, burning anger, the embarrassment, behind his eyes.

"The Veretian citizens in occupation on the border will be left alone of course," Damen says after it is clear Lord Chastillon will remain silent, "But we would demand remuneration for previous years of unsanctioned Veretian rule. We would also not be opposed to opening trading routes, subject to tolls, between Akielos and Vere, which may open new opportunities for our nations in the neighbouring Kingdoms of Patras, Kempt and Vask."

“You are aware that Vere no longer has a standing alliance with Kempt, yes?” Auguste asks, “That expired before our mother’s body took the cold chill of death. They took offense to my father burying their youngest Princess in a Veretian crypt; they may take offence to another alliance of any kind with Vere."

“Then, what does Vere want?” Damen asks.

Auguste pauses then, and turns to look at the men around him.

“Leave us,” he says after a moment, “All of you, except Herode and Laurent.”

Several loud protests of, "Your Majesty!" echo around the tent, and Auguste repeats his initial order, tone brooking no argument. The men slowly leave the tent, clearly hesitant to leave their King alone with the enemy, but they leave nonetheless. After they are gone, a scoff catches Damen’s ear before the words do.

"This is extremely stupid of you, brother," a soft voice says from the corner of the tent, approaching the circular table slowly, "Do you trust the barbarians enough to be left alone with their leader?"

A small smile flitters across Auguste’s face.

“You worry too much, little brother,” Auguste says, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, "He won't harm me."

Damen looks at the boy for the first time and his  face is not one Damen’s likely to forget soon. He has long, blonde hair that's pulled back in a tight braid. It falls down his back in typical Veretian style, like he'd seen on some of the younger soldiers. He’s laced into a severe blue outfit, a sword of sharp steel sheathed at his side, a heavy metal plate strapped across his chest and thick leather doublets laced up his wrists. His shoulders are small and thin, much like the rest of his body. 

He can't be older than fourteen or fifteen, and Damen can tell that in adulthood, he would gain a decent size if he practiced at the sword, but would likely keep his slender, svelte shape. 

What stands out, even more than his hair, are his piercing blue eyes. They are a brighter blue than Auguste’s, framed by sharply arched blonde eyebrows, and equally as blonde, inkstroke lashes. There was a certain cold, cruel intelligence in his eyes which made Damen hesitate. Auguste was a dangerous enemy, but he felt that Laurent would be absolutely lethal if crossed, even at his young age.

"Exalted, allow me to introduce my brother, Prince Laurent of Vere," Auguste says.

"And Acquitart," the boy, Laurent, mutters.

"And Acquitart," Auguste adds briefly, allowing a small, affectionate smile for his brother, before returning to the discussion.

Damen says nothing, observing them, and waits patiently for Auguste to continue.

"I wish to accede to Akielos' demands, for I see no reason to continue with this pointless war for a land that was never truly ours.  However, in order to do so, I must appease my Council. I need an alliance of substance. The lifetime of a written alliance is flighty and unforeseeable," he says.

Damen nods; he had read enough histories of past alliances between Akielos and Vere to know how true those words ring.

"If any of us had any women within our families, it is more than likely that there would already be discussion of terms for a marriage," Auguste continues, "And even though we do not, that is what I want in return. I want an alliance founded on marriage, something to forge an even stronger bond between our Kingdoms that will last long after either of our deaths."

Damen did his best to conceal his confusion from his face, but he can hear it still in his words. "Surely, you don't mean for me to marry you ?"

Auguste laughs, a soft, musical sound at odds with his deep voice. It somehow suits him.

"No, Exalted. A marriage between you and myself would not work because we are both Kings in our own right. The power between us would not be split evenly. And if there are children, they would be born illegitimate, outside the constraints of a marital bed. The Veretians would not take too kindly to an.... illegitimate ascending our throne," he explains, sorrowfully, as if that were a true inconvenience, "But, I want you to consider the benefits of a union between yourself and my brother."

Damen steps back, stunned. Next to him, Makedon and Heston make shocked sounds.

The other Veretian, Herode Damen recalls, stands there quietly, saying nothing. The look of pride in his eyes speaks volumes. Auguste clearly must have spoken to him about his mad plan before their parley and he clearly must have given his approval.

"Your brother is not of marriageable age," he splutters, in a very unkingly manner, "I will not wed somebody who is still practically a child ."

“He will be of age in six years' time,” Auguste retorts calmly. "We can prolong the engagement period until Laurent is of age. The time will also serve to show that we are serious about our alliance. Laurent will receive all appropriate tutelage as befitting for a role of King consort. "

"Six years is a long time for an engagement," Damen says, not entirely agreeing with Auguste’s belief the length of time would be beneficial. He then turns his attention to the younger Prince of Vere, "Even so, do you consent to this? Marriage to me, a barbarian ?"

Prince Laurent inhales, looking as though he wants to say something sarcastic. Or inappropriate. Perhaps both.

"I am a Prince of Vere," he says, slowly, words taking Damen by surprise, "Which means, first and foremost, I belong to Vere before I belong to myself. All my choices must be made to benefit my people, my country, to which I have sworn my loyalty, with the approval of my brother, the King. I will consent to this marriage, if it is what needs to be done."

"How noble, for a little Veretian serpent," Makedon sneers in thick, old Akielon dialect, and Damen hears a soft blow land behind him and Makedon says nothing further.

It takes great effort not to curve his features into a smile. 

"Heston, Nikandros, Makedon," Damen says, "And the rest of you, my Council, may leave. I feel this is business that should be negotiated between Kings only."

Nikandros looks at him with a subtle level of concern before he and the rest of the Akielons awkwardly shuffle out the tent.

"I wish there was another way, but this is the only way I can ensure my brother and Vere are protected, if anything were to happen to me. Surely as a King yourself, Exalted, you understand my plight. There will always be a plot against my life," Auguste says, quietly, "I could arrange a marriage to a noble in Patras or Vask, but they are not military countries. Not like Akielos is."

"You've seen the members of my Council," Auguste adds, after a telling pause. 

Damen had. He saw the way Lord Chastillon looked at Auguste, the cold rage, the greed and underlying coils of envy swimming in his eyes. Looks like that could push men into committing the dangerous acts, treason and uprisings included.

The other Kingdoms don't have the capacity to subdue Veretians, like the Akielon army could , remains implied between them.

And the implication was true. Akielos could easily subdue Vere during an uprising, until there was a leader or heir to take control.

"Your Majesty," he says carefully, "Even if we both were to consent to this, even if it would work, in the event that something happens to you, any child of mine or your brother's born to the marriage would not be eligible for either throne. You said so yourself. And the Akielons would not take too lightly a Veretian heir making a claim to Akielos."

"I have no interest in children," Laurent suddenly says, "I have no interest in the fairer sex and therefore, no interest in procreation. Any children born to the marriage would belong to you. They would have sole claim to the Akielon throne only. I shall handle the appointment of a Veretian heir, should it  come to that. We can make this a condition of the alliance."

"And the underlying hostility between our people?" Damen asks.

"We will facilitate an exchange of citizens every year in the summer to begin the assimilation and tolerance of cultures. These citizens will be hand picked by you and I from a nomination list, and will range anywhere between commoners to palace workers," Auguste says, "I will agree to give up Delfeur, ah Delpha , without issue. All I ask for in return is a solidified marriage alliance that will no doubt benefit both countries in the long run and protect my brother. I'm sure we can work out an arrangement for open trade between the countries of the continent. Laurent has already consented to the marriage. Will you do the same?"

Damen considers it. From the perspective of the brother of higher rank, he understands where Auguste is coming from. He would do the same for Kastor, if the roles were reversed.

"Alright," Damen says, "You'll have a marriage contract presented for your perusal at dawn tomorrow, your Majesty."

"Please," Auguste says in a pleased tone with a wide smile, extending his right hand, "Call me Auguste. We are to be family, after all."

Chapter Text

Laurent enters the dining hall, his slender, aristocratic nose buried between the pages of a thick book. Auguste observes his brother quietly, impressed at the way he navigates the room while not taking his eyes off the page, not bumping into any of the chairs or any of the other furniture around him. His golden hair is pulled back into its usual tail, knotted together at the nape of his neck, only a few strands escaping and falling to the front of his face.

"Lo," he says, grinning at the way Laurent's attention immediately snaps to him, "Shouldn't you be preparing for dinner?"

"I am prepared for dinner," Laurent says, carefully placing an extra ribbon wrapped around his wrist down the middle of the book, "I just need to finish a few more pages first."

"What are you reading?" Auguste asks, curiously.

" A Complete History of Artes and The Artesian Society ," Laurent holds up the blue cover, showing him the letters embossed on the cover in gold, "You know that the next meeting is my official debut as one of your councillors. I've been reading and shadowing Herode for months. I need to be prepared."

"Lo, little brother," Auguste says gently, "I have no doubt that you've prepared enough. The other councillors are impressed and intimidated by you. Not only are you the youngest councillor to be appointed in Veretian history, but you are going to be my primary and most trusted advisor. You have one of the brightest, sharpest minds we've seen, and I know you'll do well. Stop worrying."

A warm blush vines across Laurent's face, turning his cheeks and ears a bright pink.

"But I'm younger than most of the entire Council. And I'm your brother," Laurent says, and Auguste hears the dismay in his voice, "Gus, irregardless of whatever advice I may give or what I may suggest, I have to work twice as hard to earn their trust and respect, to prove to them that you won't favour me just because we're brothers."

"As you said, you've been preparing for months," Auguste returns, placatingly, "Please. Enjoy dinner with me. Uncle has sent word that he isn't joining us tonight, and it has been a while since we've had some time alone together."

Laurent sighs. But, he puts aside the book and mutters a quiet, "Okay."

Auguste gestures and a maid serves the first course, a light soup. Another maid pours a deep, red wine into a goblet. As he watches the wine splash into the cup, a sinking, foreboding feeling wells in Auguste's stomach as he eats. He examines the surroundings carefully. The maids aren't acting suspiciously, and his guards, Jord and Orlant stand next to each other, quietly bickering. Even Laurent looks relaxed as he eats his food.

Something bad is going to happen. Cautiously, he reaches for his wine. Smells it, and swirls it around the cup. Nothing happens, but he isn’t sure what he was expecting.

Mind over matter, he thinks to himself as he takes a sip. 

Immediately, he coughs at the rancid, spoiled taste, letting the goblet drop. Distantly, he hears the maids gasp, crying out in shock. He feels it then, an intense burning in his stomach. A heavy, sinking feeling in his throat as it closes, as he sees Laurent reaching for his own goblet.

He thinks he says, "Laurent, no!"

His vision swims, but he sees Laurent pale, sees the red wine spilling onto the white linen of the table runner.

He hears Laurent give orders, "Jord, secure the scene. Orlant, send in the rest of the King’s Guard, and fetch Paschal, now!"

Laurent rushes to him, crying, "Auguste!"

But he can’t answer. Instead, his world tilts, and everything goes black.

****

Laurent paces as he waits. His heeled boots click across the floor as he walks. He fiddles with his laces, pulling them tightly against his skin, until Jord places a steady hand on his shoulder, jolting him into a stop.

"He'll be fine, Your Highness," he tells Laurent, "Paschal is the best of the best. He'll have His Majesty patched up in no time."

"I keep wondering, Jord," Laurent says, "Who would be stupid enough to try to do something like this? He’s the King of Vere. He wouldn't hurt anyone."

Jord mutters, “There’s countless people out there that would want to hurt him because he’s the King, Your Highness. But, let us worry about that. You just focus on being there for him. You know how he's going to be, especially now that he's injured."

Laurent rolls his eyes. Jord is right, Auguste was going to be terrible-- miserable about not being able to do his usual training with his men, complaining about not being able to complete an entire day’s worth of work. Paschal comes out of Auguste's rooms, then-- their father's old suite-- looking relieved.

"He's going to be fine, Your Highness," Paschal says, "He didn't ingest much of the poison, but he's going to have to keep drinking fluids to flush it out of his system. Warm milk or water is ideal. He should be fully healed by tomorrow, but I've put him on rest until the day after. In the meantime, I’ve had his guards send samples of the poisoned wine. My assistant and I are going to try to ascertain what it is."

"Thank you, Paschal," Laurent smiles, "May I see him?"

"Of course, Your Highness," says the old physician, gesturing to the tall wooden doors.

Their uncle is still nowhere to be found. Laurent doesn’t think anything of it, but still has extra guards looking for him. There was no such thing as being overly cautious, now. 

Laurent pushes a single door open. Auguste is awake, lying on the bed. His jacket is gone and the laces at his neck are undone. He looks tired, almost frail in his baggy under shirt, but smiles when he sees Laurent. A sense of relief washes over him, and he rushes to his brother's bedside.

"Laurent," he croaks, and one of the King's Guard that line the perimeter of the room rushes forward to hand him water.

His brother takes his hand as he gently sits on the bed beside Auguste.

"What are we going to do?" Laurent asks, softly.

"We're treating this as an assassination attempt," Auguste says, firmly, "Jord, Orlant and Guymar are investigating."

"Do you suspect anyone?" Laurent asks, but knows Auguste enough to know there's already a suspect list in his mind.

"Uncle isn't here," Auguste observes lightly, confirming Laurent's thoughts. "I don't know where he is, or how much time we have until he gets here. Some of the servants are rotated too, so we'll have to find out which ones are here unscheduled.”

He takes a breath and fixes truly aggrieved eyes on Laurent. “While we investigate, I need you to be away from the Arles Palace."

"What?" Laurent's heart drops, "But--"

"You trust me, don't you, Lo?" Auguste says, urgently, "I need to keep you safe."

"Brother--"

" You are second in line for the throne. If anything has to happen to me, you are the only person I'm willing to entrust with Vere. Uncle would ruin her," he says, softly, in a rush. "I need you safe, and the only place you'll be safe is away from Vere. Away from anybody who can harm you."

"Akielos," Laurent realizes, the answer startlingly clear by Auguste’s tone. “You mean to send me to Akielos.”

His brother nods. "The citizen exchange will still happen tomorrow. We'll send you to Akielos and someone who looks like you will be sent on a ‘diplomatic mission’ to one of the border forts," Auguste pauses. "Do you think we can trust Aimeric to pretend to be you?"

Aimeric, the son of the Lord of Fortaine, only a child when he'd been introduced to Lord Chastillon-- who, unbeknownst to Auguste, had been forever stained by the Lord of Chastillion's touch, would be--

"No," Laurent shakes his head, locking away the thought, "We can't count on his loyalty. He's too young, too easily swayed. But there is a stable hand. His name is Lucien. He's loyal to me, and we are similar to each other in looks and build. I know he can do it."

“You’ll need to be disguised, of course,” Auguste says, “If Damen knows that you’ll be in the citizen exchange, you may become his first priority, which might cause people to become suspicious.”

“Your Majesty!” Their uncle comes rushing in, followed by an annoyed-looking King’s Guard.

“Your Majesty, I told Lord Chastillon that we were observing certain safety protocols--”

“Adrien, it’s fine,” Auguste says to the guard, placatingly, and then to their uncle, “Where were you, Uncle?”

“Don’t you remember?” he frowns, “I told you a week ago that Nicaise was going to begin riding lessons. We were on the riding tracks. I came back as soon as I heard.”

Laurent knows of the obscenely young age of his uncle’s Pets. He knows it well-- knows the familiar, shadowy feeling of larger hands and sick, oily words inked into his skin after all these years-- and he can feel his body stiffen, despite himself.

He also knows his uncle’s…. preferences .. disgusts his brother, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was their uncle, and a Pet contract was mutually exclusive and granted mutual consent, despite the age of those involved, Auguste would have stripped him of all his lands and holdings that came with the Chastillon, which was one of the larger, wealthier forts in Vere.

On many occasions in the past few years, Auguste had suggested a full review of the Pet legislation in Vere, claiming the laws were too vague and convoluted, but Laurent knew his uncle was the main driving force behind it. Not that it mattered, as his uncle's influence over some of the council members resulted in Auguste's proposals constantly being outvoted.

Perhaps, Laurent thinks, now that he has a place on Auguste's council, he might be able to make some progress with a complete overhaul of the Pet laws. Maybe he might even be placed in charge of the amendments to the current laws as his first assignment. 

Laurent had kept those dark moments from dark nights under lock and key in his mind since his uncle stopped calling on him, even from Auguste, but he'd made no secret his disapproval of his uncle's tastes, and of others like him; he could provide the support his brother needed. He could take steps to help young boys in Vere, caught in his uncle's thrall until they were unceremoniously taught how little his uncle actually cared for anything beyond his own pleasure.

Either way, as soon as this assassination attempt debacle was over, Laurent would officially bring back discussion on Pets completely confident that he’d have Auguste's complete backing. No more young boys. No more Aimerics or Nicaises. Just--no more.

“Of course, this must be investigated at once,” their uncle says, hurriedly, jarring him out of his thoughts, “Treason cannot go unpunished. What has your Guard been doing? What measures are you going to put in place for your security? And Laurent’s?”

“My Guard has been investigating,” Auguste says, “I am remaining here. As King. I have a duty to my people. And Laurent will be sent to one of the border forts for his protection.”

“If it is not treason, there are always outside threats,” their uncle narrows his eyes, stance shrewd, “There are still many forces who view this marriage alliance between Vere and Akielos as worthless, especially on the Akielon side of the border. If those barbarians have grown bold enough to attack our kingdom--- bold enough to strike at our king, we must be prepared to retaliate.”

“We will do nothing ,” Auguste says, his tone leaving no room for argument, “Damen and I are great friends. Our kingdoms are friends. Any act, plotted or otherwise executed against Akielos, will be treated as treason. Nobody outside the Palace is to know of this attempt. Our citizens will go to the Arles port tomorrow, as scheduled. Herode will be in charge of greeting the Akielon party as scheduled.”

“You’re making a grave mistake, Auguste,” their uncle says, looking at him with disapproving eyes .

“Then it’s my cross to bear,” Auguste says firmly, “But nobody is to touch Akielos.”

****

Later, after the sunset, Laurent finds himself walking in the direction of the stables. 

He’d changed into suitable riding wear: a plain, loosely-laced shirt, pants and riding boots. His white mare gives a delighted whine when she sees him. She’d been an early birthday gift to Laurent, and she’d been the horse he’d taken to Marlas. She was one of the last horses Auguste had broken in as Crown Prince, before the war against Akielos, before he became King. They’d had a strong bond ever since.

 Laurent called her Mathilde; it meant strength in battle, and that was exactly what he needed. 

“Hello, Mathilde,” he smiles, pulling out a fresh carrot from his satchel, dangling it infront of her, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier.”

She nickers gently, surging forward and taking the entire carrot in one clean bite.

“Oh no,” Laurent laughs, softly, "Oh, you bad, bad girl. This was supposed to be your treat after grooming. I suppose I should have seen that one coming when I decided to dangle the carrot in front of you in the first place, yes? Brazenly tempting you with something so delicious."

Mathilde snorts and whines softly, bringing her head forward, bending so her face rests against Laurent's open palm. He enjoys a few quiet seconds petting her, before beginning to search for a brush to comb through her mane.

“I thought I’d find you here,” his brother’s voice cuts through the silence, and Laurent spins around, dropping the brush.

“Gus? What are you doing up? Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asks, running his eyes over his brother’s form.

“I’m alright,” Auguste says, sighing, “Tired, but alright.”

“Has Paschal said you can be about like this?" Laurent asks, his brow arching because he already knew the answer.

"Lo, please, I'm injured," Auguste whines. "Don't nag me."

And there it is, Laurent thinks fondly. The insufferable whining.

"Besides," Auguste says, seriously, "We have business to discuss and I think here is the safest place we can do it."

"Alright," Laurent agrees, his own tone matching his brother’s.

"Uncle thinks you leave Arles tomorrow," says Auguste, "We'll have to make an announcement to the staff and organize a proper, if skeletal, retinue to accompany your double."

"My household will understand the gravity of the situation," Laurent nods, "I can guarantee their loyalty. And silence. I will speak to Lucien at first light."

"Good. Tomorrow, Herode will escort you to the port," Auguste continues, "It may be in our best interest to send you as a Pet, as they would be the most protected in Akielos. And that reminds me, we'll have to do something about your hair."

Laurent freezes as Auguste’s words echoed back to him. Old Veretian tradition dictated that men keep their hair long until they achieved the age of maturity, twenty-one, when the eldest male in their family would then cut it off in front of their closest friends, marking their entrance into manhood. It was a tradition that began to go extinct in his father's reign, but he wanted to keep it alive to honour his father. King Aleron's attention was mostly occupied by Auguste, given that he was Crown Prince, and Laurent was a difficult, sickly child, very demanding of his attention.  When his mother had died, his father stepped up to the challenge, doing his best to dote on both his sons, even though he could not understand the younger.

"I know it isn't what you had in mind," Auguste says, gently, touching the blonde locks, "But I think father would understand. It's for your safety."

And Laurent knows this. Knows Auguste would not ask this of him if he did not think it utterly necessary. 

"Okay," he says, biting his lip, "But you have to do it. Since you're the oldest."

“Of course,” Auguste grins.

He hands Auguste a pair of grooming scissors lying on top of one of the benches, and Auguste holds his hair back, making neat cuts. He closes his eyes, enjoying the comforting, steady, reassuring weight of Auguste’s hand. The long strands of hair come loose. Laurent feels as though a weight has been taken off his head as they fall to the ground. And in that moment, they are not anything but an older sibling performing an ancient and honored tradition for his younger sibling. It is nice to forget the reasons behind the act, in that small moment. 

Once Auguste finishes, Laurent swishes his head around and smiles softly in delight as his hair moves, unbound by its previous weight. Once he settles, he tucks his new chin-length hair back. It's so short now; it can't be tied back anymore.

"Feels good?" Auguste grins.

"Yes," Laurent grins back.

"Maybe when spring permits, for your twenty-first, we can do it again. Properly, like how it's supposed to be done," Auguste says.

“No, I’m glad it happened this way,” Laurent shares after a moment, voicing his earlier thoughts. “Small and private. Just between us.”

“Not just any brothers,” Auguste ruffles his hair, “The Brothers of Vere. The very best of friends."

Laurent smiles at the sobriquet. It was how they were known by the palace staff during their early childhood.

"He asks about you in his letters, you know," Auguste says, suddenly, "The King of Akielos."

"He does?" Laurent asks, surprised. At both the change in topic and the information.

"About your health," Auguste nods, "And studies."

"What's he like?" Laurent asks, attempting to make his interest seem less than what it is.

He hadn't had the honour of getting to know the King of Akielos yet. He’d always been too busy with his nose stuck between the pages of a book, or always with his tutors, completing his training to become a councilor, until his eventual move to Akielos. Auguste usually gives him his space, and never forces him to spend time with Damianos the few times he had come to Vere in the past for diplomatic meetings with Auguste. He didn’t think Damianos had taken an interest in him as anything other than a future king-consort; the other party to the marriage alliance he agreed to all those years ago.

Laurent knows he's handsome from glimpses and servant gossip over dinners, or brief greetings during dances; gold laurels fastened in his curling, dark hair, his equally dark, honest eyes  scanning the room for foreign nobility, his well-muscled body draped in royal red and the regalia of the House of his father, Theomedes. He's effortlessly charming and commands the attention of people in the room easily-- a stark contrast to Laurent's reserved, prickly personality.

Laurent knew he could be unlikeable-- his personality was not suited to everyone's taste. But he'd hoped he could be tolerable to his future husband-- Damianos gave up his own personal freedom to marry in exchange for Delfeur, and for Laurent's safety-- a foreign prince, and up till then, the brother of his enemy-- that day on the field in Marlas.

"He's kind. He treats the Veretians well, as he does his household," Auguste says, "He's generous and very likeable. He never shows anyone a bad face. He's genuinely one of the best people I know."

“I know it’s not a love match,” Auguste continues at Laurent’s silence. “But he will treat you well. I believe he will be your friend, and perhaps, you can be his. In a political marriage, that is all you can ask for.”

Laurent still says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. His brother knows his mind. They sit together, enjoying the last moments of each other’s presence.

****

Laurent stares back at Lucien, tightening the lacing on his jacket, then fiddling with the circlet so it falls just right above his golden brows.

“What do you think?” Laurent asks Jord, who stands at the door, waiting to escort Lucien out of his rooms.

“I can’t tell the difference unless I truly look, and I am more familiar with you than most,” Jord says. Then, turning to Lucien, he adds “Your Highness.”  

“This is going to take a while to get used to,” Lucien says, flinching only slightly, and exhaling softly.

“You’re a fast learner,” Laurent says, waving away his apprehension. “You’ll be secluded to the Crown Prince’s rooms for the most of your stay in Acquitart. The staff may think you’re either ill, or on sabbatical for your brother, or using the extra time for your Council readings. Or all three. I strongly encourage you to use this time to pursue a hobby. Learn whatever you wish. Whatever is at my discretion is now at yours.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Lucien smiles, “I won’t let you down.”

Auguste enters his rooms then, pausing at the sight of Laurent and Lucien together.

“I-I’ve come to escort Lucien to the horses,” he says, eyes impressed as he takes in the close resemblance, “Jord?”

Jord bows his head and leaves them alone. Lucien leaves as well, after belatedly remembering to bow, giving them a moment of privacy.

Auguste looks at him, feeling sick when he looks into his eyes.

“Lo, I--"

" No ," Laurent says firmly, "I won't allow any talks of goodbyes. I'm going to go to Akielos for three weeks, and when I get back, your guard will have found the threat to our lives and will have eliminated it. And things will go back to the way they were."

Auguste smiles, ruffling his shorter hair.

"Yes, brother," he says, but his blue eyes still carry that haunted look.

He approaches Laurent's bed and picks up the brown cape. He puts it around Laurent, covering up the shimmery, gossamer-like Pet's outfit that he's wearing, and pulls the large hood over Laurent's head to cover his new hair. 

On the way back to his rooms the night before, they'd taken extra caution not to allow anyone to see them, so that Laurent wouldn't be recognised by any of their staff that's going with the rest of the Veretians to Akielos.

"Lucien, come," Auguste says, "It's time."

Before Auguste can leave the room, Laurent says, "Best of luck, Gus."

Auguste looks over his shoulder, smiling brilliantly.

"Fair seas and safe travels to you, Lo."

Laurent closes his eyes, allowing the picture of his older brother to be absorbed into memory.

Then, he opens a servant's panel in the antechamber of his room and starts to make his way to the Palace kitchens,  where Herode was waiting to escort the workers to the port, on the other side of the door.

Chapter Text

Prince Laurent of Vere and Acquitart, sixth of his name, son of King Aleron and the Fair Queen Hennike, brother and First Councillor of King Auguste of Vere and Acquitart, High Lord of Lys, Duke of Varenne, Earl of Acquitart, Baron of Belloy, and later King Consort of King Damianos of Akielos, would be remembered for his unusual and deadly combination of beauty and intelligence. He would be remembered for his almost unearthly grace and poise. For his pale, marble skin that glowed under the moonlight; his wide, piercing blue eyes and golden hair. 

History books would weave stories of his tactical ingenuity and the distinctive way he fought, trained by the most skilled swordsmen in two kingdoms. Of how he was a shy, prickly, bookish young man who blossomed under the guidance of his husband and tutelage of brother. Of his sharp intellect and witty tongue. Of how he was fair and just in doling out the law, and of how he brought calm to the Akielon King in times of distress.

However, what the histories would neglect to mention is that Prince Laurent of Vere took a three week trip to Akielos before his marriage under the pretense of being a Veretian Pet. That, and of how he spent the majority of his first trip to Akielos bent over a bucket in his cabin, almost green with seasickness, while the accompanying citizens of Vere cooed over him as if he were a sick child. It would have been humiliating, if only he could have summoned the energy to care while heaving the contents of his stomach nonstop.

As far as history would dictate, Laurent of Vere hadn't stepped foot in Akielos until after his wedding to King Damianos. He would ensure this, to save their Kingdom. Their alliance.

It was Sebastién, a blonde Pet, formerly contracted by a high-ranking Councillor of Vere, who was aboard the boat during that time, while Prince Laurent, in all his golden glory, was at Acquitart on a diplomatic mission helping the Royal Guard hunt down the perpetrators of assassination attempts against King Auguste and King Damianos.

***

"The poor thing," Laurent can hear someone murmur, "Should we give him more dry biscuits?"

"I think he's had enough, Pauline," a wry voice says, "He probably just wants to rest."

Laurent moans softly, feeling the non-existent contents of his stomach rise all the way up to his throat again. Third time in an hour. He closes his eyes tightly, wishing for reprieve from the unstable rocking.

The good of Vere, was the only thought that brought him peace, I'm doing this for the good of Vere.

***

It's a few days later when the call of, "Land ahead!" echoes across the ship. It sounds like bells to Laurent’s ears. And stomach. 

They're just about to make landfall and the rocking stops just long enough for Laurent to stick his head out into the hallway, where the rest of the ship is buzzing with excitement. His fellow Veretians are talking about where they are staying-- the Palace in Ios, of course-- the food they will eat, the big adjustment to the Akielon heat, and Laurent couldn't help but feel just a tiny bit excited along with them; it was his first time to Akielos, after all.

His chest, neatly stored in the corner of the room, is  filled with costumes and jewels that once were Ancel’s, the Pet contracted to Auguste's best friend, Lord Berenger. Most of the outfits were layered and gauzy whites, blues and greens, and Laurent did not want to know how Auguste managed to get his hands on so many pieces on such short notice. He takes a moment to choose the outfit he’ll make landfall in, mind still hazy from the journey, but he picks something he thinks will be appropriate. 

There was a communal shower at the end of the hall for the use of the Veretians aboard the ship and Laurent takes the opportunity to wash off the sick feeling from his body before donning  his new outfit. He feels dizzy as he washes and does his best to push past it, but the feeling lingers as he turns off the water and heads back to his quarters. 

He changes briskly. The top piece of the outfit is stunning, even if it is not something he would normally envision wearing. It's white, long sleeved, the fabric lined with fine gold threading that led to equally fine gold threads lacing from the elbow, knotting at the inside of his wrist, exposing the sensual curve of his slender shoulders and upper arms. The transparent material is enough to tease the outline of his arms and the hard panes of his chest, but not transparent enough to reveal his pale skin, with a beautiful, gold, collar-like piece ruching the fabric gently, while holding it together at the base of his neck.

He starts lacing the threads through the eyelets at the sides and front of the loose fitting pants that were made from the same material; revealing, but not too revealing. Teasing, but not too teasing. It’s all in the exact way a Pet would tease their Master. He struggles to put on a pair of sandals next, blinking back another wave of nausea as the boat rocks again. The ship cannot make port soon enough , he thinks. 

He’s halfway through doing up the laces of his outfit when he eyes the chest. Pets in Vere like to be ostentatious, decked out in the finest jewelry, paints and clothing money could buy. Once the laces are tied firmly, he makes his way over to the chest again, and puts on a pair of expensive looking sapphire earrings that he finds inside. He takes a moment to adjust to their weight, before layering a set of gold rings on his fingers and intertwining a glistening sapphire headpiece between the blonde locks of his hair.

Once done, he looks at his reflection in the mirror, studying his appearance with a critical eye. His mouth is dry, lips chapped, but other than that, he thinks he matches what a Pet would look like. He's seen the outfits worn by Ancel and Nicaise. He looks alluring and demure in equal turns. Knowing, yet innocent, the perfect combination for a contracted Pet in high demand. 

Laurent glances down at the paints in the chest. He doesn't have time to apply paints-- he still can't stand the sight of paints, especially after -- 

No-- he locks away the thought as fast as it comes-- Now is not the time. Besides, he thinks that his bare face, his natural beauty, will do just fine.

Getting ready must have taken him longer than he thought because as soon as he's done, the bell signaling landfall rings. They have officially docked in Akielos.

Laurent reaches a hand out against the ship's wall to brace himself, before he walks out into the main hall. He does it again, outside his room, this time his stop longer. A middle aged man, dressed in clothing made of fine silk, most likely a merchant, notices.

"Are you alright to walk, my boy?" He asks, concern colouring his tone.

"Yes," Laurent rasps, "My apologies, I haven't quite found my sea legs yet."

"That's quite alright. It happens to the best of us," the man nods sagely, his feathered hat bobbing forward and back, "May I escort you down the gangplank? There are Akielon physicians waiting to examine us before we are allowed to join the King's retinue. I will bring your condition to their attention and they may prescribe you something to ease the symptoms."

Laurent isn't in any shape to escort himself anywhere . He knows this. It's the worst feeling, not being in control of his own body. His head is spinning, and he feels as though he may need another bucket soon. 

He knows the discomfort that comes with not being in control all too well. In fact, it is familiar to him. He’s felt this way before, from consuming the overly sweet yet strong flavour of the red liquid secretly in his goblet-- it would help you relax, dear boy, Uncle had said, low in his ear--lying in the dark of night, ignorant to the heavy creak of his room doors opening, allowing the unwanted intruder in, unable to move his limbs to do anything about it-- 

"Yes," he says, softly, tilting his head upward, blinking slowly, mimicking the way he'd seen Ancel do it before, "Thank you."

"Of course," the man says kindly, "I am Charls, a cloth merchant from Barbin."

"Sebastién," Laurent says, making up the name on the spot, "I'm an uncontracted Pet from Arran. I used to belong to one of the Council members, but I came here to seek employment since my contract had not been renewed by my previous Master."

"Come, Sebastién," Charls smiles kindly, taking his hand, and escorts him all the way down to the tent, where the Akielons are waiting.

***

"By the gods!" A loud shout comes from one of the physicians, and Damen's attention immediately snaps to the medical tents set up along the port. Nikandros’ eyes are drawn to the same sound. They go to the tent and allow the guard to quickly announce them before they enter.

The physician, his assistant, and a Veretian man hovers worriedly over a young man, whose body lays stiffly on a pallet.

"What is it?" Damen demands, his mind quickly running through the dangers of accepting foreign citizens on Akielon soil, and more importantly, the more serious repercussions of that decision, "What has happened?"

The man instantly flushes, embarrassment clouding his eyes, "Apologies, Exalted , Kyros. The young man suddenly fainted, which caught us by surprise. He is severely dehydrated. He may have been ill for days aboard the ship and did not seek treatment."

"Is it contagious?" Nik demands.

"No, Kyros," the physician says, "It appears to be nothing but a violent bout of sea sickness. I can treat it, but it may delay the escort of the other Veretians to the Palace."

The physician places a small jar of salts under the young man’s nose and he jolts awake, eyelids fluttering open to reveal the loveliest pair of eyes Damen's ever seen. They’re a startling cerulean blue, reminding him of the open waters over the cliffs of the Ios Palace-- dangerous, mysterious, yet on the hottest Akielon days, tempting even the weakest of swimmers to wade in . They’re eyes, Damen knows, any man would kill to drown in. 

He blinks wildly, gasping, hands moving as though he's unable to gain his bearings.

"Easy," the other Veretian says, gently, "We're on land now. The physician here will help you with the dehydration."

The blond hesitantly relaxes on the pallet, and Damen can see his hair spread around him, like a soft golden halo.

The physician steps forward and offers him a green shell, with a small hole at the top to drink. "Here. Drink this," he says.

The naturally sweetened water is protected by the hard shell. Damen knows from experience that it will help ease the dizziness from the faint and restore taste to his mouth and throat for a brief time.

"Thank you," the Veretian says, quietly, bringing his lips to the shell.

"Nikandros," Damen says, quietly, "Will you ride ahead with the rest of the Veretians? Adrastus has instructions on where and how to settle them. I can stay behind to ensure all is well here."

"Yes, Exalted," Nikandros narrows his eyes at Damen suspiciously, knowingly, before taking his leave from the tent.

"I'll stay behind as well, Exalted," the other Veretian says firmly, "I mean no disrespect, but he has been under my care, since I was the one who found him like this."

"Very well," Damen agrees, "Do you know his name?"

"Sebastién, from the Veretian district of Arran," the man says.

"Do you feel well enough to ride, Sebastién?" Damen asks.

The young man's pale skin almost turns green. Even for someone as lovely as him, it is not attractive. He covers his mouth, shaking his head as he says, "No, Exalted."

They wait in the tent for a few more hours, until Sebastién can stand and walk on his own. Damen, the Veretian, and the physician, along with a few members of his guard, all mount their own horses to begin the ride back to Ios, and the physician turns to Sebastién.

"If you cannot ride on your own, will you ride pillion? My horse is big enough for both of us."

"Yes, thank you," he says, softly, "I fear that if I have to ride my own horse, the dizziness may not make for a graceful fall."

They make it to the Ios Palace within two hours, the physician holding the sick young man firmly as the horse moves. When they arrive and dismount, the stable hands take their reins and lead the horses away. Damen leads the group as they ascend the grand marble staircase, leading to the main hall.

In the throne room, the rest of the Veretians are waiting for him to arrive and officially welcome them to his country. They're lined up on both sides of the room, men on one side, women on the other. When he enters, the men bow, and the women each sink into a deep curtsey.

Soft murmurs of, "Exalted," echo across the room-- there was no doubt the Veretians were taught the Akielon way of addressing royalty, which he appreciated.

"Welcome to Akielos," he addresses the room, warmly, "Rise, all of you. I trust that our general overseer, Adrastus, has settled you all into the newly renovated Veretian Wing of the Palace. Should you have any concerns, please inform me. The members of my household are marked by the golden pins and cuffs, so you may address them as well. Because of our alliance with your Royal Family, a marriage alliance that we fully intend to honour once His Highness Prince Laurent is of age, you all were selected for a few weeks' fostering in Akielos to become immersed in our traditions and culture. You are our honoured guests here, and it is my responsibility to make your stay comfortable."

He nods to Nikandros, who adds, "We have taken every measure to ensure your comfort here, and we look forward to hosting you. In case you are not yet aware, Damianos Exalted's twenty-fifth name day has occurred recently, but we haven't yet had the chance to celebrate. When the sun rises five days hence, a traditional feast shall be thrown in his honour, and in yours as well. As for your services here in Akielos, you are to serve in the capacity with which you served in Vere. So if you were a kitchen maid, you will assist our kitchen maids. If you were a soldier, you shall spend your weeks training in our barracks. Understood?"

"Yes, Kyros," comes the echoed answer.

"You have the day to explore the palace. Dismissed."

***

Laurent's first instinct is to go to the library. Much to the displeasure of his Veretian pride and his annoyance, the collection in Ios is much bigger and more extensive than the collection stored in Arles' royal library.

He settles himself on a bench, and opens the red-covered book of philosophy. He isn't as well-versed in the Akielon language as he is in his mother tongue, or Patran, or Vaskian, and this time here in Akielos can serve as the perfect opportunity for him to practice until he's fluent.

"That is one of Damianos Exalted's favourite works," a quiet voice says, making Laurent practically jump out of his skin.

"My apologies. I thought I was alone," Laurent grimaces, "I'm Sebastién."

"This one is called Erasmus," the young Akielon says, bowing slightly. His burnished brown, almost blond, hair falls over his eyebrows into wide, doe-like eyes endearingly. His chiton artfully drapes to proudly display the lion pin on his shoulder, "In service to the King's household."

There is one thing Laurent never could-- privately-- accept about Akielos, and that is its use of slaves. Although, he supposes that he would have to get used to the practice when he married King Damianos, he would not entertain the use of them in his own household.

While he could try to do something about it, he understands that he has no authority to undermine the traditions of the Akielon people. They weren't even married yet and people were already speculating what the little Veretian serpent may try to coerce them into doing.

"Nice to meet you," Laurent says, forcing a smile to his face.

"Damianos Exalted has sent this one to inquire after your health," Erasmus says, his voice low, not meeting Laurent's eyes, "He summons you for an audience."

It shocks Laurent. He's never had an entire conversation with the Akielon King before, and, well. He's nervous. Both to meet his future husband and to not reveal his ruse to Damianos. He tries to keep a straight face while talking to Erasmus.

"Very well," Laurent says. He snaps his book shut, hugging it close to his chest, "Shall we go?"

Erasmus leads him out of the library, back to the throne room.

He allows Laurent to enter first, and Laurent, in true Pet fashion, bows as low as possible, batting his long eyelashes coyly, whereas Erasmus prostrates himself on the floor in front of his King.

Laurent takes a moment to look at the Akielon King. At Damianos Exalted, his future husband. 

Up close, he has a wild bramble of curly hair falling over his forehead, barely touching his eyebrows. His face is relaxed, features classically handsome. Poets, Laurent thinks, would wax lyrical for days about his soft, hazel eyes.

His bare arms and chest are thick with muscle, the rest of his body--no doubt very proportionate in size-- is hidden away by his simple white chiton, with a short red cape pinned to the shoulders. Brown sandals lace up powerful calves, and he exudes a strong, powerful aura that reminds Laurent terribly of Auguste.

"Rise, both of you. You may go, Erasmus," he smiles softly, and oh , there's a small dimple in his left cheek, "Thank you for your service."

Erasmus leaves, slipping out as quietly as he slipped in.

"How have you been feeling, Sebastién?" King Damianos asks, in fluent Veretian this time. "Has the dizziness faded since you touched land?"

"Yes it has, Exalted," Laurent says, genuine gratefulness in his tone. "Once again, my apologies for holding you back from escorting my fellow countrymen yourself."

"It was nothing," King Damianos waves his hand, "I only wanted to check because it is the first time I have seen a Veretian fall ill like that."

"It was my first time on sea," Laurent admits, "As you may understand, the journey was gruelling, to say the least."

"And how are you finding Akielos?" He asks.

"I've only been to the library," Laurent says, "But I liked that. Your collection is extensive."

"Stavros Helios of Dice," he raises his eyebrows at the book clutched in Laurent's grasp, "You enjoy our philosophy?"

"I enjoy his theories on man's ethos ," Laurent smiles, blue eyes sparking in delight. He never expected Damianos of Akielos to recognize his philosophers.

"Interesting," King Damianos says, leaning forward on his throne just a bit, "Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at tonight's dinner? I have a meeting to attend now, but I trust you'll spare me a few minutes then? I'd love to hear your thoughts."

"Thank you for your consideration, Exalted. I know you are a busy man," is his shocked response, "But I cannot possibly ask you for such--"

"Nonsense, I would like to hear your thoughts," King Damianos smiles, and the little dimple appears and disappears quickly, "Nikandros-- when he's off Kyros duty and on best friend duty-- absolutely loathes philosophy. I'd love to hear from someone like-minded."

Laurent suddenly feels shy, and wills the red not to bloom across his cheeks. It's the first time that not just someone, but his future husband, is actively sharing one of his interests, and he's-- he's not ready to pass up that opportunity quite yet. Even if it might be dangerous to interact directly with him already. 

"Okay," he agrees, a soft smile easing its way onto his face. Alluring and demure. "Okay, I'll look for you at dinner."

***

The slave from earlier, Erasmus, finds Laurent again after, and Laurent gestures for him to sit.

"There were no other Pets aboard the ship with me," he says, the truth, I am alone here going unsaid, "And I will need someone to help me understand the workings of the court. And, perhaps it would be good for me to have a friend here in Akielos."

Erasmus sits, tentatively, brushing the curls out of his eyes. His face looks pleased at the offer Laurent extends, but hesitant. 

"What do you do when the King is busy?" Laurent asks, curiously, interested to see what the answer would be.

"This one spends his time in the slave gardens and serves in whatever capacity the Exalted needs during the light hours," Erasmus hesitates, in his quiet way, "In addition to kithra practice."

"The Veretian Pets are of a higher ranking than slaves," he continues, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, "And this one would not mind your company, but would not dare to assume…"

Erasmus wouldn't assume personage before someone of a higher social ranking than himself. Akielons train their slaves to be more respectful than that -- a fact that Laurent could not accept. When she was alive, Queen Hennike had instilled in him that all persons, despite their rank, should be treated with at least a modicum of respect. For some Akielons to flaunt ownership over other people, and to do so boldly, made Laurent’s blood turn. 

"Erasmus, you are a person , above all else. You ought to refer to yourself as such, in my presence at least. It would please me greatly if you do so," Laurent says, candidly, "Social rankings do not bother me, nor should they bother you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, th-- I do," Erasmus says, hesitating for a moment, before he addresses himself in the first person.

"Good. Then, I think we shall get along fabulously," Laurent smiles.

Chapter Text

Laurent, to his outrage and annoyance, is appointed to serve as a part of King Damianos’ household. They tell him that even though technically Pets were of a higher ranking than Slaves, there was, unfortunately, no position in Akielos that was the same, or equivalent. 

Despite wanting to argue, Laurent bears his new position with grace, trying his very best to be demure and accepting, but in addition to being angry and somewhat humiliated, he's also worried. As a Prince of the blood, service in Pet fashion was quite literally below his rightful status. The whole idea of his posing as a Pet was meant to keep him from plain sight, a commoner no one would take notice of or remember. He would have no idea what to do when the time came for actual service and now he would have to act the part in front of the Akielon court.

King Damianos calls him to the King's Suite on his third day in Akielos, and pins a small lion pin on the cloth over Laurent's shoulder. His hazel eyes bore into Laurent, intently.

Afterwards, he places a pair of golden cuffs on Laurent, one on each wrist, then tucks his blond hair behind his ear, and says softly, "Welcome to my household, Sebastién. I look forward to having you as part of my household during your stay here."

At that, Laurent couldn't help the hot, deep red blush that blooms across his cheeks at the tone of the Akielon's words. Damianos smirks lightly, a sort of boyish pride at causing the flush on Laurent’s cheeks, as he dismisses him.

The cuffs, he decides, after bearing their weight for a few hours, feel more like a heavy brand than anything else. Ownership, at its most basic level, dressed up as a gift. He can’t help the small scoff when he thinks about the expression on Damianos’ face if he ever finds out who Laurent actually is, if he ever realizes that he was attended by the Prince of Vere, his future husband himself. 

The rest of the days leading to the feast pass by uneventfully, and whenever his service in the Royal Household isn’t needed, he spends his time in Akielos’ Royal Library or the slave gardens, as there isn't much else for him to do. 

As he strolls leisurely through the gardens on the morning of the feast, his nose catches the scent of fresh jasmine, the oil not the flower, and he knows who is nearby. He finds Erasmus waiting for him under a large apricot tree, hidden away in the cool shade, which would prevent his light, delicate skin from burning. He'd been trying to practise his Akielon daily with Erasmus, pushing his vocabulary as far as he could go until he hit its limits. That is typically when one of Erasmus' friends, a bold, black-haired, blue-eyed Slave called Kallias, who served the King's brother and spoke and understood Veretian, had to translate between them.

Kallias is bolder than any of the slaves Laurent met during his stay in Akielos, but his training is still impeccable. He knows when to snap and when to avert his eyes respectfully. He knows how to be firm, and when to tease. He reminds Laurent of the Veretian court, of a Pet playing the lords and ladies to his best benefit. It is a sight better than Erasmus, who only presents as what he is--a slave. 

Despite appreciating his boldness and subversion of his own training, Laurent still doesn’t like Kallias as much as he likes Erasmus-- he prefers the other's calm and his quiet. It compliments Laurent’s own nature and puts him at ease.

Today, though, they are alone. Kallias had been called away to serve his Master, Prince Kastor, and Erasmus looked so hurt every time Laurent mentions him, he'd begun to think that Erasmus had some type of feelings toward him. He prys some until Erasmus blushes furiously, confirming Laurent’s suspicions. 

"So, the Slaves are not allowed to be together?" Laurent asks, placing the dictionary carefully on the grass before him, mindful of the wet patches.

"No," Erasmus says. "From the time we put on the cuffs and are awarded the training silks, we are promised to our Masters, whoever they may be. We may maintain contact with each other, but our contact may not be sexual in nature. The consequences for doing so are serious."

Death goes unsaid. 

"And you cannot refuse your Master either?" Laurent asks, his tone no doubt sharper than he intends, unable to keep his own feelings on the issue silent. 

"You must understand, Sebastién," Erasmus says, ever so patiently, "we are not the same as Veretian Pets. We may not have the same freedoms, but there is an intimate trust between a Master and a Slave. We train and we practice in the arts and pleasure. We trade our free will and give perfect submission in return for a Master's respect and perfect treatment."

Laurent says nothing. Erasmus was right of course. Pets still have a choice-- a choice to find work elsewhere, a choice to say no, a choice to end their contracts-- and that was more than what was afforded to slaves. Men and women who were plucked at young, vulnerable ages and told what they would learn and how they would serve and had no other education than what was taught to them, who were sold to the highest bidder or prepared for the use of the Royal Household, who were maybe used and abused against their will and could not speak against their masters because they were owned and therefore their words counted as nothing. Laurent often felt Pets had limited freedom and choice, but in comparison to the Akielon slaves, who had  no choice at all, he felt his palms go clammy in sympathy. 

Laurent sighs softly, his mind running on Nicaise, his Uncle's current Pet.

He would make a horrible slave, he thinks, smiling softly. He has far too wild a spirit.

"Do you miss Vere?" Erasmus asks.

"I do. Very much," Laurent says truthfully. His fingers trace his cuffs idly as he says, "On the nights when I cannot sleep, I find myself wishing I can leave the palace and sail back home, but it makes me feel guilty, knowing that I was given the privilege to be here over someone else."

"I've never been to Vere. Or anywhere else," Erasmus sighs, wistfully, and Laurent hears the soft longing in his voice, "Sometimes, I wish Kallias and I…"

His voice trails off and he darts a terrified look at Laurent, as if unable to believe what he almost divulges. Laurent smiles at him and takes his hand, offering comfort the way he remembers Auguste offering it to him as a child, and squeezes in silent reassurances to not say anything. Erasmus’ lip trembles and he squeezes back before ducking his head down and away from Laurent’s eyes.

And this is when Laurent decides that when he's crowned King consort, he would do all that he could to free Erasmus and Kallias. It would upset the Akielons, and would perhaps cause animosity between him and King Damianos, but they too deserved their chance to be happy.

***

As the sun cools over the Ios Palace, a crowd starts gathering under the large, open, dining pavilion, which is set up for the feast. 

From his window, Laurent can see the few tightly laced Veretians sticking out among the Akielon nobility, who wore simple chitons adorned with shining threads on the edges, or a cape and pin signifying their house.

Laurent inhales the cool breeze wafting in from his open double doors-- a very good attempt at incorporating Veretian style into Akielon architecture-- as he stares at the outfits laid out in front of him. Ancel's long sleeved costumes simply wouldn't do, especially given the warmth of the daytime. But some of the more, ah, daring outfits are too much for Laurent to attempt to be comfortable in wearing. Maybe, he thinks, he could have Charls the merchant create something unique for him. Auguste had given him some coin for his journey; it would be unwise not to take advantage of it as needed.

Laurent ends up choosing one of the more modest, sleeveless options, a blue outfit made of fabric that is more opaque than the others and matches his eyes. His hair is long and loose and he tucks it back behind his ears. Erasmus and Kallias are waiting for him outside his door, as promised, and they all make their way to the pavilion together.

"What will you be doing?" Laurent asks quietly, doing his best to mimic the soft, deferential steps the others have mastered..

"Playing the kithra. Damianos Exalted has a few ballads that he enjoys, and learning to play them was an important part of my training," Erasmus says, shyly. "I hope he likes them."

"Erasmus was specifically trained for him, you know," Kallias says, in his bold way that was so unlike Erasmus' softness.

"Kallias--" Erasmus starts, startled.

"It's true. He was actually hand picked by the Kolnas, the Slave Keeper himself, for the Exalted. He prefers his lovers to have lighter hair and fair colouring," Kallias reveals, "That's why all of his slaves look similar; it’s a rarity in Akielos."

"Oh," Laurent says, heart beating strangely, "Then, does he…does he find pleasure in the company of other slaves, still?"

He sincerely hopes that he's not crossing some sort of boundary with his line of questioning, but there is a part of him, a small part, that is dying to know.

"The alliance with Vere does not prevent the King from doing so," Erasmus says, cautiously, as if sensing some sort of offense Sebastién, the loyal Veretian, is taking to the thought of his prince being dishonored. "However, out of respect for his betrothed, Prince Laurent, he does not do so regularly."

"His last bed slave is still his most favoured," Kallias nods, "Lykaios. She's the one who serves him most."

"I...I see," he suddenly finds the atmosphere heavy, almost hard to breathe, "If you'll excuse me."

It’s weak as excuses go, but it is all he can think to utter as he hurries away. His breath shudders as he walks ahead of Kallias and Erasmus. Of course, he should have expected King Damianos to still take lovers. Laurent is still a few months away from his twenty-first name day, and the wedding wouldn't take place until then. Of course, he should have expected King Damianos to enjoy his last few months of bedding whomever he desires before becoming shackled to a total stranger. It's what any man would do.

He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. Damianos had his own life, and Laurent couldn't possibly expect Damianos to forsake that because he was betrothed to him. It was just a marriage alliance, after all. Damianos had no obligations to love or be loyal to Laurent. His own parents had been affectionate with each other in public, but fairly distant in private. It is common in these things, he tells himself, and certainly no reason for the creeping feeling of shame and disappointment he feels settle in his throat.

"Sebastién?" A low Akielon voice comes from a few paces behind him.

"Yes?" He breathes shakily, and turns to find the owner of the voice, the Akielon King in question. When he realizes this, he bows at the waist, "Forgive me, Exalted."

King Damianos waves off his apology and his bow, looking at him in concern, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Laurent says, hoping he doesn't sound as nervous as he is, "Exalted."

"Good," Damianos says warily, his tone disbelieving, but he goes along with Laurent anyway, "It would seem that the Fates keep tossing us into each other's paths."

"It would seem so indeed," Laurent responds, quietly. 

It's then that he notices the two other persons with the Akielon King. The man looks older, and has a short beard. His features resemble Damianos', but his eyes are harsh, cruel almost, in the sunlight. He's accompanied by a woman, whose long blonde locks are coiled in the style favoured by Akielon noblewomen, her abdomen round with pregnancy. She is stunning and her hair is the closest to Laurent’s own shade he’s seen since arriving in Ios. 

"This is my elder brother, Prince Kastor," King Damianos formally introduces him, "And his wife, the Lady Jokaste of Aegina. Kastor, Jokaste, this is Sebastién, one of the Veretians we're hosting."

Auguste had attended their wedding in the winter last-- Kastor and Jokaste had wedded as soon as the pregnancy was confirmed, although rumours suggested Jokaste initially had her eyes set on King Damianos when she was first presented at Ios. That Kastor was a conciliatory prize when the King did not look her way due to the treaty in place. 

"Exalted. My lady," Laurent bows for an appropriate period before he rights himself. 

"Brother, if you will excuse me," the King says, the warmth of his touch burning through Laurent’s clothes, as he places his hand on his lower back to guide him to the pavilion.

Kastor nods, excusing himself and his wife, but not before he looks at Laurent once more.

It is strange, the way Kastor gazes at him. Strange and familiar--Laurent almost wonders if the brown eyes are blue for a moment, as if his uncle is there with him in Akielos instead of half a world away in Arles, before he shakes off the thought and the past as much as he can as he enters the pavilion at the side of King Damianos.  

***

Damen knows he shouldn't approach the blond Veretian. He can practically feel Nikandros' judgemental eyes on him as he does so anyway. But, he can't help it. All day, his attention had been drawn to the Veretian Pet, who looks equal parts overwhelmed and unimpressed as he takes in the Akielon celebration around him.

Sebastién is a strange one. He’s not entirely sure how the Pets in Vere behave, but he's fairly sure it’s not like this. He’s sweet, but there’s a dangerous, secret glint behind those cerulean eyes. A confidence that speaks to something else other than being desired by men and women. 

Sometimes he speaks, and Damen swears that he’s had experience in a formal Royal Court, or has at least had some form of etiquette training. He carries himself about in a way that’s not typical of Royal Slaves, or Pets-- there’s a surety in his movements, in his speech, that can only be possessed by someone of a high station. 

When he's called on to serve Damen, he looks at Adrastus first as if he has no idea what to do, and then fast as quicksilver, with an air of put-upon resignation, as if he is weathering the indignity of waiting on the King of Akielos his own pleasure. Damen finds the dichotomy of all the Pet’s actions captivating. 

“I believe he isn't who he says he is,” Nikandros says.

“Then, who is he?” Damen asks, “Do you think he’s a spy, sent by Auguste?”

Nikandros watches him for a moment, before he shakes his head and says, “I don’t know. But this is not something you should encourage. Not to mention, you’re already promised to one of the Princes of his country. It would not do well to anger Auguste and Laurent of Vere, Damen. No matter how strong your penchant for blonds is."

Nikandros had left after their conversation to go prepare the armour that they would use in the games, which came later in the afternoon. Damen knows he should heed his closest friend’s words, but he cannot find it in himself to do it. Not when Sebastién’s arms are on display and his outfit shifts and tantalizes with each movement. Not when his eyes are sharp and assessing, but vulnerable when he thinks no one is watching. Damen cannot look away from him. 

Kastor and Jokaste join him for a brief time, Kastor succinctly giving his report after his most recent deployment to the Provinces to collect taxes, as an emissary of the crown. It was very rare that Damen had to send him to step in, but when he did, Kastor could be relied upon to take care of the situation. Jokaste had chosen to accompany him, as this was the last opportunity for her to travel before she was confined to their suite in the Palace for the rest of her pregnancy, and provided her own assessment of the Kyroi they visited. Damen finds it hard to pay attention to either of them as Sebastién refills his glass and sits nearby in case he needs anything.

"How are you enjoying the feast? Have you had the chance to sample any of our dishes?" Damen asks Sebastién, once Kastor and Jokaste are blessedly gone.

The blond's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes as he says, "I have, Exalted. They're quite unlike anything I've had before. I liked the shelled fish the most."

"Yes, the oysters tend to be most popular at any Akielon feast," Damen responds, "I trust you will be in service once the games start?"

Sebastién nods, biting his lip slightly, before he says, "I've read about the okton , in Vere. I'm very excited to see it in person."

"At the end of the okton , one of the King's favoured Slaves usually crowns the winner with a freshly woven laurel," Damen says, softly. "My Slave Lykaios usually does it, but I'd like it if this time, you would grant Akielos the honour?"

The red blush that's easily becoming Damen's favourite colour spreads across Sebastién's cheeks again. Damen found himself enthralled by the beauty of this Pet, and wonders how  his former employer could have simply ended their contract. If he was Damen’s he would have never let him slip away.

"I mean no disrespect, Exalted, but why me?" Sebastién asks, voice sharp, demanding almost. It’s bold and refreshing in a way Damen cannot explain. "Why not choose from the batch of Slaves that have been specifically chosen and trained for you, like Erasmus? Or is he too beneath you for your attention?"

"People notice you have a type, you know," he continues, once he sees Damen is not about to stop him. "Fair skin, blond hair."

"That isn't a secret," Damen comments at last, amused, rather than offended, at Sebastién's outburst. "I simply thought that having you do it might be good for the alliance."

The red blush on Sebastién's cheek deepens. It seems that the Pet has a short temper, which Damen hadn’t been expecting. But, it was the truth, after all, and it may have made the Veretians feel even more at ease, seeing one of their own carrying out a task that was, to many Akielons, a great honour.

"I--"

Whatever Sebastién is going to say next is cut short by Nikandros.

"Exalted," he says, face pale as he stops in front of them, "There is a situation which requires your attention immediately. You need to come with me."

"What is it, Nik?" Damen asks.

"Please, come see for yourself," Nik grasps Damen's hand, squeezing, "It's Lykaios."

Those two words grabs Damen's attention immediately.

"Show me," he says, following Nikandros back into the main hall of the Palace, leaving a shocked Sebastién behind.

He follows Nikandros to the Physician's quarters, where he can hear loud weeping and wailing even from the hallway. There's a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach that was only there once before in his life-- when his father, King Theomedes had died. 

Lykaios was there for him when he went through that, too.

"Nik," he stops abruptly, face falling, "Tell me."

"Damen--"

"No, tell me, Nikandros!" Damen's voice echoes through the hall, and Nikandros winces. Damen hadn't noticed that he was shouting. 

"I'm sorry, Nik, I--"

Lykaios is a good slave, one of his favourites. She's kind and has a lovely smile. If anything happened to her--

"No, I'm sorry, Damen," Nikandros' voice is soft and strong, despite his hands shaking at his side, "Lykaios-- she's dead."

***

Her body lays stiff and unmoving on the wooden pyre. Her eyes, once the lightest of browns, are covered by two gold coins-- for her entrance to the Afterlife. Her pale hands, hands that once touched Damen so softly, so gently, are also stiff and crossed over her chest. 

Her lion pin is still fastened to the side of her chiton. Damen doesn't remove it, just as Lykaios never did. He cared for each of the Slaves in his Household, and the pin was a sign of gratitude, protection, and his appreciation. 

Her blonde hair has lost its glossy sheen, and is coarse to the touch as Damen caresses it, eyes watering. Her lips are dry and cracked, and she was covered in a sheer, white shroud, as was custom.

Nikandros gathers up the rest of the weeping Slaves and takes them outside, giving Damen a moment to mourn privately.

"How did it happen?" he asks, looking at the old physician, whose head had been bowed as a mark of respect.

"Poison, Exalted," he says. "There were no signs of trauma on the body, and no entry or exit wounds. But she was bleeding terribly through the nose and ear and foaming at the mouth when we found her. We have no idea what kind of poison it was or how it was administered."

"Where did you find her?" Damen asks.

"She was in the throne room. She went to collect the laurel for the okton. "

"Thank you," Damen says, seriously, "I will put my most trusted men to oversee the inquiry into her death. Whoever did this will be caught. And they will die for their crime ."

The physician nods as Damen leaves. Nikandros is waiting for him in the hallway outside the physician's quarters, fairly distanced from the other Slaves, hand on the pommel of his sword. 

"Damen," he says, "We have urgent things to discuss."

"Yes," Damen says, rubbing his forehead, clearly frustrated, "What do we do now?"

"As your closest advisor, I think it's probably wise that you and your Household go to the Summer Palace, while we find out who was behind Lykaios' death," Nikandros says, "Just in case there is another poisoning. Since we still don't know for sure who the target of the poisoning was, we cannot discount the theory that it was meant to be you. We need to end the feast, and ensure your safety as soon as possible."

"Yes. I agree. I'll make an announcement," Damen says. 

An announcement, and then to get an answer to lingering, nagging concerns which crop up in his mind. The first being the voiced suspicions Kastor had readily provided leading up to the arrival of the Veretians, and ultimately, his wedding to Prince Laurent of Vere. And the second, that there is only one person of the Veretian contingent who Damen had allowed so intimately into his own household, if Nikandros' misgivings turn out to be true. 

Nikandros nods, and they both make their way back to the Dining Pavilion, where Damen says to the crowd, "Lykaios, one of the Slaves in my Household has been found dead, and out of respect for her, the games and the feast are over."

There are several gasps, and voices suddenly overpowering each other, but Damen simply turns to Nikandros, who understands his wordless request.

"We will question as we see fit," Nikandros says, "But for now, you may all go back to your regular responsibilities. To those of you who were her friends, you may pay your respects in the physician's quarters."

As the crowd dissipates, Damen pulls Sebastien aside. Aside and away from prying ears and eyes for what he must ask, despite the vice it creates around his heart to even consider. 

"Please, tell me you had nothing to do with this," he says in Akielon, voice quiet in its demand.

It's a dangerous thing, to appear suspicious of any of the Veretians, when they’re here as a diplomatic envoy from King Auguste himself, but there are prejudices that still exist between their countries and Damen is not foolish enough to ignore them. It is not unthinkable that the murder, a possible attempt of assassination on himself, is the work of one of the visiting Veretians--especially one who has such easy access to his household. Sebastien was angry about the slaves earlier, but Damen didn't think him malicious enough to hurt someone, based on the short time he had come to know the young man. But he had to be sure. He could not bear the thought of another Lykaois. 

"I had nothing to do with this," Sebastién says calmly, looking Damen in the eye. He shows no sign of falsehood or obfuscation under Damen's scrutiny; if anything, he almost looks as if he approves of Damen's actions. Then, after a moment in which he visibly hesitates, unsure, he places his cuffed hand on top of Damen's, "I'm sorry. For your loss."

Sebastién's words are strong and genuine, and to Damen's relief, leaves no room for doubt that he had nothing to do with Lykaois. And, that if there is a plot to move against Damen's crown in violence, which already resulted in the death of someone he cared for, the assailants would not stop at one attempt. Damen knew only one thing for certain: he had to protect his household, which now included Sebastién, especially as they were about to be uprooted to a new and secluded palace. 

He had to, and he would. 

***

It's a few hours after sunset, and Laurent, along with Erasmus, are summoned to the King's Suite. 

"Do you know what this is about?" Laurent asks.

"Maybe it's about Lykaios," Erasmus says, voice hoarse. His eyes are swollen red from crying, his curls in a disarray as though someone had been passing their hand through them.

"We visited her earlier, Kallias and I.” His eyes look nervous, distracted, but does not appear guilty.  “The rest of the Slaves plan to light the ekthanos tonight and walk for her at dawn. Will you join?"

"I don't know much of the Akielon mourning traditions," Laurent says, hesitantly, "But I am willing to learn, if you will teach me."

Erasmus nods slightly, and knocks softly on the doors in front of them. A guard lets them in.

Damianos is there, together with three other Slaves, presumably waiting for Laurent and Erasmus.

He looks tired, Laurent observes. Under his eyes are shadowed heavily, and his mouth is pursed into a straight line, lacking the usual, laid back smile that plays at his lips.

Damianos says, "In light of Lykaios' death, I have taken the decision to temporarily relocate. This is for all of your safety and my own, as Nikandros begins his investigation."

"After the walk is concluded at dawn, we will be escorted out of the Ios Palace by a guard of my choosing, to the Summer Palace in Lentos. You therefore have until dawn to prepare yourselves. I advise that you take only what you need."

Laurent exhales, wondering what, exactly, he’d gotten himself into. 

Chapter Text

Lentos is a small sea crag, located between Isthima and Ios, where the mountains are wild and the ocean is visible from the Eastern side, water wedging between the tumbling rocks. Where the water crashes into the cliffs and stone below the Palace is so jagged, inhospitable and so dangerous that whenever the Royal family visits, they're advised to stay away for their own safety.

The Palace itself is beautiful; a clean, classical piece of Akielon design, nestled in a series of gardens with sprays of wild, fresh-smelling flowers and fountains. The meandering paths offer breathtaking views of the sea, the marble colonnades leading inside atriums, or to cooler spaces in the spectacular gardens where the sting of the sun faded to a mere glare.

Laurent runs his hand through his blond locks, exhaling for what felt like the first time that day. 

It had been an exhausting morning, waking up at the break of dawn to walk with the rest of the Slaves, lending a comforting ear whenever one of them broke down. Laurent had been shocked and awed to see Damianos himself there with the rest of the Slaves-- a soothing, comforting presence. He'd held on to a younger Slave's hand as they walked the path. Erasmus wept loudly, and Damianos hushed him in soft, soothing tones. He wrapped his red cloak around one of the female Slaves as she shivered in the cold of the morning.

As the sun rose and Laurent looked over at him, he could see the tears running down the Akielon King's face as the Slaves sang mourning songs in heavy Akielon tones and planted the stubs of their candles in the sand, as Erasmus tells him, to light the path of Lykaios' final journey.

Of course, Damianos had told him before that he cared for each of his Slaves, but a part of him thought that he would be like some of the other men in Arles who sought the services of Pets-- men who said they cared, yet replaced them as quick as a thought if anything ever happened.

After the walk, Damianos had called for them all to assemble in the main hall, where they were escorted by a tight Akielon guard, with one Veretian guard for Laurent, called Lazar. The group being sent to the Summer Palace consisted of four Slaves, Laurent, Damianos' two valets, three cooks and two maids. They’d boarded a small boat to be ferried across to Lentos, and had arrived at around midday.

His sea sickness hadn't been a problem since the boat ride was short, but he noticed Damianos keeping an eye on him during the entire time, which caused a warm, almost affectionate, feeling to bloom inside his chest-- the same feeling that arose at seeing Damianos attending the walk-- with the knowledge that he was actively looking out for Laurent.

His services were not required until dinner. He takes one of the apricots that had been given to him before the journey, and goes to the stables. The horses there are docile and gentle, and a bay mare with a light brown mane nuzzles against Laurent's hand as he stretches it to pet her.

"Hello, lovely," he smiles, extending the apricot to her, "Would you care for a ride?"

She snorts excitedly, and Laurent laughs softly, delighted. He calls out to the stable boy, who opens the mare's pen once he gets his attention, bringing her out.

"Would you like me to saddle her?" the stable boy asks.

"No, I can manage," Laurent says.

The boy nods, and after showing Laurent the riding paths behind the Palace, he leaves Laurent to his own devices. Once Laurent's finished saddling her, he places his sandaled feet into the stirrup, swinging himself into the seat. He takes hold of the reins and urges her into a gentle trot forward, not bothering to pick up the pace as she goes out onto the main path.

It's relaxing; the view of the colourful flowers around him, the steady humming of the cicadas in the trees being the only sound to disturb the quiet. Laurent feels at peace here, basking in the warm sun-- Akielos was slower than the fast-paced Arles, where there was only ever evil intentions, layered over by charming innuendos and double speak.

He recognizes King Damianos' silhouette, riding down the same path as him.

"Exalted," he calls, softly.

Damianos startles, turning his horse. A smile crosses his face as he sees Laurent, and he stops for him to catch up.

"Hello, Sebastién," he says, and Laurent bites his lip-- it's still strange, referring to himself as this made up Pet from Arran. 

After Damianos had looked at him with those soulful, honest brown eyes and had pleaded with him to tell him if he'd had anything to do with Lykaios' murder, Laurent knows it's going to be hard to continue lying about his identity.

He knows it's necessary for his own protection, but he also wants Damianos to know the truth -- the entirety of it.

Despite him not wanting to acknowledge it, he knew something had changed, at least for him, when Damianos looked at him like that.

"Are you alright?" Laurent asks, bringing his mare's steps to match Damianos' horse's own.

"It's been a long day," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, in what Laurent guesses is an attempt to relieve the tension, "I keep seeing Lykaios every time I close my eyes. As a part of my household, she was meant to be under my protection, and I failed her."

Laurent blinks, dropping his left hand from holding his reins to reach out and squeeze Damianos’ hand, softly.

"It's not your fault," he says, "You didn't know what was going to happen. Nobody knew what was going to happen to her."

"She should have still been guarded," Damianos' voice cracks.

He doesn't continue, and they ride in tense silence.

"When I was fifteen, I was friends with a young girl. We both loved to ride and to care for horses, and I was a difficult child. Whenever I was upset, I would be found wherever there were horses, and so we bonded over that. She fell ill-- just before the war with Akielos started-- but we didn't know it was the plague, so we kept riding together. Within a week of her falling ill, she died," Laurent blurts, unable to bear the tense silence any longer.

"And a few days later, I began getting fits of fever. I began coughing and getting dehydrated. I'd caught her illness. It was so contagious that I had to be sequestered to my room. But my mother didn't listen to the physicians. Although she was warned, beforehand, about her chances of survival, she still cared for me every day. Until she caught the plague herself and died too," Laurent says, quietly, "I'm told that I look just like her, and for a while, I couldn't look at my father without feeling guilty. I felt like it was my fault, like it was my fault she died. "

Damianos looks at him with those wide brown eyes, "That wasn't your fault, Sebastién--"

Laurent says nothing, but is silently delighted when realization dawns in Damianos' eyes.

"Touché," he mutters, with a small smile, "You cunning Veretians."

"If I could learn to stop blaming myself over events I had no control of, so can you," Laurent says, returning the smile as he squeezes Damianos' arm once again, keeping his touch light, "Lykaios is at peace now, and I'm sure she holds no blame over you." 

"Thank you," he says, "For trying to comfort me. This is the first time something like this has happened. I am glad I chose to bring you all to the Summer Palace. That way I can better protect you all."

"It was a wise decision."

Damianos stops his horse then, dismounting, his red cape billowing in the warm wind as he holds his reins in one hand, and extends the other to Laurent, inviting him to dismount as well.

"May I show you something?" he asks.

Laurent nods. Once he dismounted, they tether the horses to nearby trees, and Damen leads him down a straight path, until he turns to the right and comes across three marble steps descending into another small, but wild garden. There's a small fountain in the middle, with springs of bright fuchsia and white flowers on either side. Roses bloom on hedges and tall purple myrtle trees hide a marble bench neatly set up on the opposite side of the fountain.

"Exalted," Laurent says, breathless, fingers reaching out to touch the soft rose petals, "This garden is exquisite."

"My mother planted this garden," Damianos says quietly, "When the physicians told her that she may not be able to carry an heir full term, she began to spend a lot of time here, until I was born. My father gifted her the Summer Palace to design as she saw fit. So she did. And these gardens became her hiding spot. Nobody knew about this place except me, my father and two of the Palace staff in charge of maintaining the plants."

"And now you," Damianos nods, plucking a white rose effortlessly from its bush, placing it behind Laurent's ear, and Laurent closes his eyes, smiling at the gesture, "Your riding seat is as graceful as it is excellent, by the way."

Laurent swallows, hoping that Damianos doesn't dig too deeply-- only Nobles and Pets of Nobles, who could afford to be taught, were taught how to ride in Vere. The poorer, lower classes were not.

"Thank you. Riding is a favourite pastime of mine," he says cautiously, "Once I started learning, I spent most of my days riding with my friend, Estelle, or my brother, if he is ever available."

"Is he a busy man then, your brother?" Damianos asks, "What does he think of you being a Pet?"

"Yes," Laurent says, and explains, "But, since our mother and our father have passed, he always makes time for me. He also understands that we have to do what we need to to survive. Our family was a social group of the upper classes, before all the hardship-- the plague and then the war-- befell Vere."

"I'm sorry to hear that you have lost your parents," Damianos says softly, and Laurent can hear the genuine sympathy in his voice, "I know what it's like to lose family. Both my parents are dead, and although I love my brother, we aren't as close. According to Nikandros, he's always been envious that I was the one destined for the crown, though he was born first."

"Then he should be aware that the weight of a crown is one that is not so easily borne," Laurent says, "To gain everything and lose everything in one moment-- that is the fate of all Princes destined for the throne."

***

Lord Chastillon locks the brown chest, hidden in plain sight on the tallest shelf of his bookshelf, slipping the key securely into his pocket.

At first, Nicaise thought nothing of it, but after King Auguste had been poisoned, a letter was mysteriously left outside their room, and he looked too happy as he took it and stuck it into the chest without ceremony, telling Nicaise it was, "Council business" when he'd asked about its content. But the secrecy with which the letter had been delivered, and the speed at which he'd put it away, left him suspicious.

Lord Chastillon leaves the room after drinking the cup of water left on his side of the bed, eyes barely looking at the silhouette of the sleeping Pet.

As soon as he locks the door behind him securely, two crystalline eyes blink open, cautiously. 

Nicaise eases his way off the bed, covering himself with a nightshirt, laces trailing about aimlessly, before he takes out the duplicate of the key he'd had made. It was very difficult to find the key, swipe it, and get it to the Palace Locksmith for it to be copied, and to do all of this unnoticed by Lord Chastillon, but he'd managed to do it between the small window of the older man's visits.

His contract may have been with Lord Chastillon, but he was more loyal to the Royal brothers. Laurent, in particular, had been kind to him and was a sort of role model, sort of a friend to him. And whatever was in those letters--whatever it was that made Lord Chastillon decide to keep them so hidden away-- well, the contents might not have been in Laurent’s and Auguste’s best interest.

He drags a small chair across the room, leaning it against the large oak shelf. Then, he climbs on top of the chair, reaching for the chest, and as quietly as possible, lifts the lid open.

Inside, there are three sets of letters; one batch written in Lord Chastillon's style of handwriting, some letters written in another style of handwriting, and some written in another language. The distinct shape of the words on the other letters makes him think that it may be written in Akielon or Vaskian. Lord Chastillon’s letters are also written in some type of code that Nicaise cannot decipher, either. 

He huffs in frustration and stuffs the letters into the small, tucked away pocket on the inside of his nightshirt before he leaves the room, too. He picks up a lamp and walks to the door, down the hall. It's night time, so Paschal would be asleep, but Nicaise figured that since he seemed to know a little bit about almost everything, it wouldn't hurt to ask him about the letters.

Nobody hears him walking down the hallway. Without his bells and jewels, the half-asleep guards do not notice as he sneaks past them.

When he gets to Paschal's room, he raps on the door, twice. The Physician looks barely awake when he opens the door, but his eyes are suddenly alert as he sees Nicaise.

"Nicaise?" He says, "What is it? Are you hurt?"

He thrusts some of the bundled pages into Paschal's hand as he says, "Can you translate these? It's urgent."

"That writing is familiar," he says, as he narrows his eyes at the coded cursive on the page, reaching out to take them.

He gestures for Nicaise to come inside as he puts on his spectacles to read the writing.

"The military-- back at Marlas, soldiers had a special code they used to communicate," Paschal murmurs, "My brother managed to teach it to me, actually, before he was killed."

As they put the letters under the light of the lamp, Paschal begins to read the code. When he reaches the middle of the letter, he rears backward, face paling in shock.

"Where did you get these?" He demands, turning to Nicaise.

"In the chest Lord Chastillion keeps hidden away in his rooms," Nicaise says, "What are they, Paschal?"

"These are the last words of me, the archer Langren, to be delivered to my brother Paschal, in service of Queen Hennike and the Infant Prince Laurent's households," Paschal reads, in a low, trembling voice, "I'm sorry it has to be this way, brother. I hope you and Mother and our sisters can forgive me, for I know now there is no way you will see me alive again. This is my testimony of how King Aleron's death was orchestrated by Lord Chastillon, and executed by me at Marlas."

"Fuck," Nicaise's voice is shaky, too, eyes wide, as Paschal looks back at him, "What do we do?"

"We have to show this to the King," Paschal says, closing his eyes tightly, "You were brave to take these letters and run."

"He'll kill me if he finds out I've taken them," Nicaise whispers, voice shaking from pure fear, "I didn't realise what they were."

"Stay here," Paschal squeezes the boy's slender shoulder, "I can hide the letters and you can stay the night here, but we have to take these to King Auguste before Lord Chastillon notices they're missing."

The physician folds the paper and stuff it into one of the ceramic pots hidden away in the corner of his room. Then, he offers Nicaise the use of the pallets in the patient quarters for the night, which he gratefully accepts.

Nicaise lays down as Paschal outs the lamp, and closes his eyes uneasily.

***

Paschal and Nicaise are woken up during the night by heavy pounding on the door. Paschal opens his eyes wearily, widening as he realizes what is going on. He flies off his sleeping pallet, shaking Nicaise awake as the knocking continues.

"Nicaise, there is a privacy door there," he points to a simple, foldable, wooden door in the right corner of the room, "It hides a passage to the Queen's Tea Room. Take the letters and run. Don't worry about me."

"I'll rescue you, I promise," Nicaise whispers, scrambling off the mattress, taking the letters from the pot.

Paschal hands him a lamp, lights it and waits until he's safely inside the passage before he opens the door, coming face to face with Lord Chastillon, who holds a scroll bearing the Royal Seal. An arrest warrant, then.

"Paschal, Royal Physician, you are charged with high treason and attempted regicide by poison, and are hereby remanded into the custody of the King's Guard. You will face the Council to determine your innocence or guilt in two days," he reads, as a guard, bearing iron cuffs, steps forward.

"Has the King authorised my arrest?" Paschal demands, attempting to buy Nicaise a sliver of extra time, "I am well trusted by King Auguste. He knows I would never participate in a plot designed to hurt him."

"The King is currently occupied with other stately matters, but is aware and has given full authorization of your arrest," he says, the corner of his lips tilting downward, as though he can't believe Paschal has the audacity to doubt his authority, to essentially question whether he has Auguste's permission.

"Search the room for Nicaise," he orders the guard next to him, as Paschal is being led away.

"Yes, my Lord."

"The little whore has stolen something important," Lord Chastillon says, his voice shaking with barely concealed anger, "Something that belongs to me."

The physician stays silent, looking behind him as his room is ransacked, taking comfort in the knowledge that the young Pet is well hidden, and that the confession letters would find their way back to King Auguste. 

If he had to die in order for that to happen, then so be it-- his life for the life stolen from King Aleron by his brother was redemption enough for him and his family.

Chapter Text

When Nicaise pushes the door to the Queen's Tea Room open, he’s led out into an empty hallway of the Queen's wing. This part of the Arles Palace is deathly quiet. It feels almost haunted; the air and furniture around him musky from age and disuse. The sun shines through the large windows, illuminating little dust particles floating through the air. He can tell that the furniture has been recently cleaned, but there's a small heap of dust forming on one of the window side tables.

A portrait of Queen Hennike, framed in gold, sits starkly along the opposite wall, the sunlight making her blue eyes appear to be bright and sparkling, accentuating her fine, almost delicate Kemptian features, making her fair hair glint in its intricate braid, held in place by a golden circlet. 

Laurent's circlet, Nicaise realizes, eyes wide.

The portrait, like the rest of the Queen’s wing, shows the remnants of the life of this woman, eerily frozen in time. Vere hasn’t had a Queen in almost six years, and wouldn’t, until King Auguste has married. 

Suppressing a shudder, Nicaise presses forward, making his way down the hall, which he'd hoped would take him somewhere safe. 

He'd heard the barely restrained anger in Lord Chastillon's voice while hidden away in the dark passage in Paschal's room, and he's terrified. There's no telling what Lord Chastillon would do to Nicaise if he found him; nor was he in a hurry to find out.

Since the Queen's wing is practically abandoned, he carefully examines his surroundings. There's no one coming his way. He takes a route that he desperately hopes would lead him back to the kitchen. He's friendly with some of the maids there, they can hide him until he figures out his next move.

He spots, in one of the empty rooms near the main hall, another Pet. The head of long, wavy red hair and the way he holds the double-edged stick, both ends undoubtedly doused in highly flammable oil, is a dead giveaway of his identity. Another idea pops into his mind.

"Ancel?" He says quietly, approaching the other Pet.

The red head turns around with wide green eyes, sparkling like emeralds, simpering, "Yes?"

Once he registers Nicaise’s face, he frowns. He and Nicaise weren't exactly friends, but they weren't exactly enemies, either. They were more like friendly competition. Either way, Nicaise is sure that if he plays his cards right, he'll get Ancel's help.

"Oh, it's you. What do you want, Nicaise? I hear your Master is looking for you."

“Don’t,” Nicaise says, ensuring his voice is bubbling with the panic he undoubtedly feels, “Please, he can’t find out where I am.”

“What did you do?” the redhead asks, narrowing his eyes, “Are you in trouble?”

Nicaise reaches into his pocket, taking out the letters he's stashed away. As he recognizes Lord Chastillon's cursive handwriting, Ancel's eyes widen, and his lips form a shocked, silent ‘o’.

“I take it he’s upset that you have those?” Ancel asks steadily, eyes still wide.

Nicaise nods.

“And I take it these letters are not just your regular, friendly exchanges between far away friends living across the sea?”

Nicaise shakes his head no, blinking at him with big blue eyes, “I don't know what to do with these. Will you help me?”

“Let me take you to Lord Berenger,” Ancel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “He’s not going to like the fact that I may be involved in another scandal, but he'll know what to do. He is close with King Auguste.”

King Auguste would know what to do-- he would have the power to deal with this. 

Ancel puts the stick away, handing a thin, brown shawl to Nicaise.

"I use this to hide when I’m sneaking in here, to practice. Nobody bothers me here as it's a bit far from the main rooms," Ancel explains, "Don't tell anyone."

"I won't."

"Oh, I know you won't," Ancel smirks, which irritates Nicaise, "Now, cover as much of your hair as you can. Keep your head down. Don't look anywhere else but at the floor beneath you. And for the gods' sake, keep those papers as safe and as hidden as you can."

Usually, this would call for a bitchy remark from Nicaise--he didn't like taking orders from anyone-- but this was a matter of life and death.

He does as he's asked, and falls into pace behind Ancel, who leads them out the room, and down the corridor. 

Ancel carries himself with a confidence Nicaise is low key very envious of; a mature confidence that could make others believe that he's of the Veretian nobility, if he so desires.

This was the reason why Lord Chastillon didn't offer for Ancel in the first place-- his maturity and confidence only served to repulse Lord Chastillon, in the way Nicaise's youthful stature and unbroken voice enticed him, but Nicaise felt drowned and stifled in Lord Chastillon's presence; that he was only there by his grace, and by his choice. He'd often seen Laurent look at him knowingly, and had the strange urge to tug his tunic down to hide the shame whenever he met the blond Prince's eyes.

Lord Berenger, Ancel’s master, is one of the very few Lords allowed to keep chambers at the Palace. Their rooms were situated close to the King's Chambers. He leads Nicaise along a path that doesn't have many guards on patrol; they were mostly stationed on the palace battlements, in addition to the main and Royal hallways. Ancel, from the way he moves, seems to know how to evade them all.

Ancel unhooks a long, gold necklace from around his neck, which holds a single key. Nicaise watches carefully as he uses it to open the door they stop in front of.

Lord Berenger is dressed in a nondescript black outfit, grey laces threaded tightly and waistcoat embellished with fine silver threading. He's sitting at his desk in the antechamber, writing on a few sheets of paper over a few candles when Ancel and Nicaise enter.

"My Lord," Ancel purrs, stopping on the other side of the desk, giving a teasing bow.

At Ancel's voice, Lord Berenger looks up with a small, soft smile that makes Nicaise want to retch. Lord Chastillon never treated him like that. Ever. In fact, Lord Chastillon hasn't even given Nicaise leave to call him by his first name-- not even when they were in the bedroom.

"Nicaise?" Lord Berenger says, which snaps him out of his thoughts. He can hear the confusion in the older man's voice.

"I found these in Lord Chastillon's room. Our room," Nicaise says, thrusting the papers in his hand, "Paschal was able to start reading the code--"

"The Veretian army code. I'm familiar with it from my time in service, yes."

"Good. Perhaps you can finish read them, as Paschal was arrested for treason against King Auguste."

"What?" Berenger gapes, "That's impossible. Paschal has been caring for Auguste and Laurent since their birth. He would never do something like that."

"Lord Chastillon and his Guard made the arrest earlier tonight," Nicaise explains.

"No. No, this does not make sense," Lord Berenger says, "King Auguste would have made the arrest himself if that were the case. Give me the rest of the letters."

Nicaise obliges, and Lord Berenger's face gradually becomes more and more ashen as he skims through the content of the pages.

"I need to get this to him," he mutters, standing abruptly, making Nicaise startle, "Nicaise, Ancel, come with me. Paschal is innocent, these letters prove it."

"I can't," Nicaise whispers, "I don't know what Lord Chastillon will do to me if he sees me."

"It's alright," Lord Berenger says, kindly, " You took the letters. You found the real threat to the King. His guard is loyal. They will keep you hidden, and they will protect you. So will I."

Lord Berenger opens the door to their rooms, allowing Nicaise to make the decision whether to follow them or not.

****

Nikandros sits behind the desk, frowning. There weren't any traces of poison found on any of the items Damen had touched during the feast, nor were there any traces of poison on any of Lykaios' clothing and belongings.

Which left only the olive laurel Lykaios had been holding. 

Restless, he begins to pace about, his thoughts moving at one hundred miles per minute.

That's the only item that hasn't been checked for poison. Maybe that's what was poisoned?

But poisons in Akielos are coloured, and Akielon poisons usually have arsenic smells to them, so that means it would have had to come from outside of Akielos--

"Nikandros," Jokaste says, surprised, as she almost walks into him.

Nikandros blinks, not noticing that he'd left the room.

"Apologies, Lady Jokaste," he mutters, quietly.

"It's quite alright," she smiles, eyes sparkling with mischief, reminding Nikandros of a certain Veretian Pet, "I was looking for Kastor. Have you seen him?"

"No."

"I see. Perhaps he is in the barracks, then," Jokaste says.

"Do you need an escort, my Lady?" Nikandros asks.

She looks as though she's straining under the weight of her stomach, and he knows it's the chivalrous thing to do.

"No, but thank you," she replies, hesitating mid-step before she continues on her way, "By the way, Nikandros-- you would do well to remember that although snakes hide in grass, people hide behind their lies."

Nikandros frowns. 

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

***

It's a beautiful morning in Isthima. After breakfast, Laurent and Erasmus spend a few hours in the music room, Erasmus playing and reciting his favourite ballads, while Laurent watches.

He's a good musician, Laurent has to admit. He remains utterly still, only his hands moving slightly on the strings of his instrument as he changes the chords. His voice, which he has a surprising amount of control over, is light and lovely, singing the slightly higher notes in time with the music.

Afterwards, he'd been summoned to the kitchen, leaving Laurent alone. Since he'd secretly claimed Damianos' secret garden as his favourite spot in Isthima, he chooses to go back, holding a book of Akielon law on his lap. As he has the time, he's decided to brush up on the Slave legislation. 

The gulls, circling the air around the Summer Palace squeak loudly, and Laurent relishes in the sweet smell of the wild flowers around him. 

Damianos comes to the little garden a while after, probably trying to escape the goings-on in the palace. He looks surprised, but altogether pleased to see Laurent there.

"Brushing up on your rights?" he says teasingly, nodding at the book in Laurent's lap.

"No, I--" Laurent sighs, "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Damianos frowns, "It must, if it upsets you this much."

"This is your culture, and I mean you no offense," Laurent says, diplomatically, "It's just that the aspect of being owned by somebody, of having a physical reminder of it, and having to give up free will bothers me. What if a Slave wants to say no? They're not taught to. What if their Master is hurting them? They can't speak up about it because they're owned ."

"We don't hurt slaves," Damianos says, "At least, I don't.

"I know that, and I appreciate it," Laurent responds, "But what about other slaves? What about the abuse they may face in private?" 

"Slavery is a mutual understanding," Damianos says, defensively, "Is it not the same as the Pet system in Arles?"

"It is not," Laurent retorts hotly, shaking his head, "Pets have a choice. They have a standing in society. Slaves have none. How could it possibly be a mutual understanding, when they don't even have a standing in society?"

"They do," King Damianos says, "Let me prove it. Put your cuff on me."

"What?" Laurent asks.

"You heard me," King Damianos nods, "In the past, we used to have to call blacksmiths to remove the cuffs, but now, I just have to do this."

He takes Laurent's left wrist and runs his thumb over a small dent in the cuff. There’s a small movement, and it’s then that Laurent realizes it isn’t actually a dent at all, but a covering, over a small hole. He removes the lion pin from the edge of his chiton, and places the golden needle of the pin in the hole, turning. It unlocks with a small click , and he holds it out to Laurent; an offering.

"Put it on me," he repeats, and Laurent inhales sharply. 

Their faces are mere inches away from each other-- he could almost feel Damianos' breath on his lips, could see all the shades of brown swirling around in his warm eyes, could see each eyelash framing both lids, and the little scrape on his nose that he must have gotten as a young boy.

Swallowing, Laurent takes the cuff and places it around Damianos' wrist. It's intimate, almost too intimate, watching the stark contrast between the shades of their skin--marble and gold-- feeling the way Damianos' pulse flutters lightly, like a butterfly, under his grasp. The cuff closes with a loud snick , and he exhales, "Nikandros is probably going to kill me if he finds out I'm doing this, but hopefully, it proves my point."

Laurent says nothing; they were about to find out.

***

Nikandros' left eye twitches wildly.

He scoffs, suddenly remembering his mother's old superstition that a person's eye would twitch if another person was talking about them.

He exhales, frustrated.

He's not having the best day-- the investigation into Lykaios' death was going nowhere . He's been trying to figure out what Jokaste's cryptic message means. He's spent a few hours in the Akielon Royal library, pouring through books to find any reference to a snake bite, or a snake, or any kind of clue he could find.

He'd found nothing, and left in a huff, deciding to head down to the public baths, since it would take too long to draw a private one.

Then, he decides, after he'd got into the bath, he'd call for a slave and ask for a nice rose-scented oil, and relax in the water. 

Only, when he gets there, a middle aged Veretian is already sitting, soaking, and Nikandros hasn't the heart to ask him to move.

He growls under his breath, ultimately deciding that he didn't care. He stripped off his towel and waded down into the marble bath, popping into place on the opposite side of the man.

"Hello," the man introduces himself cheerfully,  "I am Charls. I am a cloth merchant from Barbin."

"Nikandros," Nikandros says, "Kyros of Ios. I trust your stay in Akielos has been enjoyable?" 

"Oh, yes," the man-- Charls -- says, "Your baths are fantastic. The baths in Vere are more cramped and natural, but the ones here in Akielos are so light and spacious."

Vere , Nikandros thinks, his mind putting the pieces together, like a puzzle.

Tasteless, scentless poisons were available in Vere. Akielos had recently gotten a new Ambassador to Vere, Guion, and he hasn't exactly done anything to prove himself trustworthy. 

"Tell me, Charls, was there ever a story about a snake biting someone important in Vere?" Nikandros asks, keeping all of this in the back of his mind, just to confirm his suspicions.

Charls' brows furrow thoughtfully, "There is the story of King Phillipe. There were two brothers, Louis and Phillipe, born barely months apart. Phillipe loved Louis and elevated him to the highest positions in the court. He trusted his council. They appeared to be the best of friends. But Louis was the elder, and Phillipe’s mother was, at the time, the rightful Queen of Vere, so he was the Crown Prince, naturally."

"He ascended the throne after his father died. However, he was bitten by a snake, and died suddenly. Louis ascended the throne of Vere, since he was the only other candidate eligible; he became King soon after. Then, the rumors started flying," Charls continues, "They said that Louis became so consumed with hatred and envy for Phillipe that while he slept, Louis lined his crown with poison. He let a snake into his room the next day to ensure Phillipe's death, and to remove any suspicions from himself. When Phillipe was bitten by the snake, the venom, together with the poison, killed him instantly. That is where Vere’s hatred of bastards began, and is where the saying “snakes hide in grass, people hide behind their lies'' began too."

Nikandros' heart drops. He knows exactly what Jokaste means now-- what the story means.

Two brothers, one bastard, one true born.

Two brothers, one elder, one younger.

Two brothers, one raised with the expectation of inheriting everything, only for it to be stolen by the younger.

One crown, possibly laced with poison, possibly meant for the King.

The overwhelming feeling of envy and anger, all against an innocent child who was higher in rank from birth. 

He has to find Kastor. He hopes that his theory isn't true and he needs to confirm that Kastor had nothing to with this because--

-- Because if Kastor really had attempted to poison Damen, his King, his brother , and if there were outside forces actively helping Kastor's attempt regicide, actively supporting Kastor's attempt at regicide then that would be cause for war with whichever country was responsible, alliance or no alliance.

***

The guards stationed in the ante chamber and main chamber are dead, throats slit open. Their wide, unseeing eyes unfocused at the phantom intruder above them.

Nicaise wants to scream, to retch at the sight and slightly metallic scent of the blood, but he's frozen by the door of the main chamber, unable to remove his own eyes from the grisly, gruesome sight. Ancel frozen next to him, his body shaking.

There's blood-- deep red, staining the exquisite white sheets under King Auguste, turning it almost black. King Auguste atop the bed, skin pale. His eyes are closed, breaths weak. It's late at night, so of course his guards would assume he would be asleep, but here he is, bleeding out from a stab wound.

Lord Berenger leaps into action, without a second thought.

"Jord!" Henri, the young guard who came in to announce them yells, and Jord comes rushing inside the King's chambers.

"What-- King Auguste!" he rushes to his bedside, "Orlant! Guymar! Get Paschal, now ! What happened here?"

"We found him like this," Ancel's voice shakes, and Lord Berenger immediately focuses his attention on the shaking Pets, "Ancel, love, take Nicaise. Go back to our room. Stay there until I can come get you. Nicaise, give me the letters."

Too shocked to argue, Ancel hands over the letters, and takes Nicaise's hand as they leave King Auguste's chambers, Nicaise's free hand covering his mouth to stop the bile from rising.

"We have to staunch the bleeding," Jord says, pulling a dagger out of his boot and cutting strips from the cloth on his uniform to use as makeshift bandages, "He'll bleed to death if we don't."

"They must have entered through one of the secret passages under the Palace," Henri says, moving in tandem with Jord and Lord Berenger as they searched for and wrapped the wound, "The Guardsmen will investigate."

Lord Berenger calls the rest of the King's Guard inside his chambers. They begin to search for any access points that could have been used to breach the sleeping King's rooms, while two other Guards are sent to sound the alarms and wake the Council.

"I think there is an emergency passage in the King's Chamber," Lord Berenger says, but he's interrupted by Orlant, who rushes in, saying breathlessly, "Paschal has been arrested, Captain."

"What?! Who gave the order? Paschal is the only physician that has the King's absolute trust," Jord growls, then exhales harshly, running his hands through his brown hair, "We don't have a choice. Fetch another physician. Orlant, you search the room for any way someone would have been able to get in. Send the rest of the guard to search the palace and the gardens. Adrien, send someone to fetch Prince Laurent. The Council is not going to be happy."

Lord Berenger, in an uncharacteristic fashion, swears loudly.