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The fighter from Thrace went on and on: about differences in style and classical forms and what kind of grain he used in the buckets, for weights—Damen could not help yawn after yawn. It was no wonder his eyes strayed, and then less of a wonder that they clung to what they found. The man coming towards them was unusual for his colouring, pale skin, blond hair; unique for his clothing, long in the heat and tightly laced, almost Veretian, although not quite as severe; and absolutely arresting in his features. To say he was lovely would be akin to saying the fighter from Thrace was boring. He was miraculous.

“And who might you be?” Damen asked, warmly, as the man clad in white reached their dais.

“Is it not obvious?” with a slight accent. “I am the prize.”

Damen’s heart beat uproariously in his chest. “You are,” he said honestly, helplessly, “the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“The King is too generous,” agreed the fighter from Thrace, a bit over-eager.

“Yes, he’s rather pretty, isn’t he?” asked another voice. Damen turned; the Veretian Regent, here for the festival. He was a man of forty or so, level-headed, and Damen liked him all the more after he got to read the details of his proposed treatise. Father called him an honest man, which was the highest praise a Veretian could be afforded in Ios.

The prize kept himself very, very still. He possessed the most pleasing proportions, narrow yet nicely muscled, slim and rather tall. The top of his golden head almost reached Damen’s shoulder, but he had not taken the step yet. In response to the Regent’s praise, he gave a quick, elegant bow.

“My lord flatters me.”

The Regent smiled. “Will you be seated with us, for the tournament?”

“If King Theomedes wishes so.” His face was smoothened so calm it was hard to tell if he were statue or man. Damen decided, as soon as he laid eyes on him, to be the one granted the chance to find out.

“So lovely. You must be very well-trained,” said the Regent.

His posture was perfect, back arrow-straight. “As my lord says.”

“How do they train prizes, in Akielos?” the Regent turned to Damen with keen interest. “I imagine it’s quite different from how we do it in Vere.”

“I did not know you had Harvest Prizes in Vere,” said the unbearable sod from Thrace. His eyes were wide, drinking in every inch of the prize like he had any right to it.

“We don’t, not really. The closest thing might be our pets, but they’re different. They are on a contract; it is an employment, more than a calling. But down south everything is so different. Do they prepare them at all before the event?”

The prize somehow went even stiller. His eyes, downcast demurely, blinked their long lashes.

Damen said, “Of course. They are brought to the palace and treated with the finest luxuries a week after being chosen by the King to serve. Then, for three days and three nights, they are allowed to fast and pray in solitary.”

“Oh dear,” said the Regent, his voice thick with concern. “They do not feed them at all?”

“It is our custom to fast before the festival,” said Damen, pleased. He appreciated that the Regent showed genuine care for such a lovely prize. “But they are not mistreated. Before the tournament, the prize will be bathed in milk and honey, then—ah—” they speak of such things in Vere, Damen knew, but he was raised in Akielos, and had no words to use for delicate matters.

“Opened with oils,” the Regent supplied, chuckling good-naturedly at Damen’s flush. “Yes, I do seem to recall. I wonder if it is at all uncomfortable.”

The blasted Thracian said, “Prizes are treated with utmost respect.”

“Of course.” The Regent came a step closer, and took the prize’s lovely jaw in his palm. Impossibly-blue eyes travelled up slowly to meet his, as clear and empty as a work of art. “Not to treasure such beauty would be a waste.”

“Quite so,” said a familiar, beloved voice, and Father came towards them, flanked by two attending slaves. “Come, sweet thing. It is nearly time.”

He was talking to the prize, who unwound himself from the Regent’s hold, but not from his gaze, which he kept, hard. There was something—but Damen was already turned towards Father, half-looking for Kastor in the crowd that gathered on the dais, for Nikandros.

“Lovely creature,” Father said, as he took the prize’s hand and guided him, gently, up the step. The prize’s gait was perfect, and perfectly controlled, in such a way that he seemed to be supporting the King, and not the other way around. “They certainly breed them differently in Vere.”

Ah. The prize was Veretian; it should have been obvious, his colouring, his demeanour. That he was not in a chiton. His lilting accent.

“Only the best for our allies,” the Regent allowed with an indulgent smile.

Father led the way to the seating area, indicating Damen to his seat, at Father’s right, and the Regent to his left, a place of honour. Kastor was nowhere to be seen. In the distance, on the field, he could spot Nikandros chatting to a captain, them both busy with testing the rods holding the targets.

The prize paused where Father left him, unsure.

“Well?” said the Regent, kindly. “Kneel.”

In a graceful motion, the prize lowered himself to the floor. He was so perfectly reserved, every muscle in his body so unflinchingly smooth, that it almost seemed he was vibrating.

“Will you participate in any of the games, Prince Damianos?” the Regent asked, turning from the prize with obvious reluctance. Damen smiled in understanding: it was difficult to look at anything else.

“Damianos is anxiously awaiting the okton,” Father said. “But he will participate in the wrestling, first, and the longsword, and the spear-throwing.”

“Of course,” said the Regent. The lack of needling chat from his right assured Damen they left the fighter from Thrace far behind. Indeed, Damen could see him standing with a group of young warriors, tormenting a poor lad with his unending tales of Thracian disciplines.

“Do you have such events in Vere?” Damen asked.

“Oh, nothing quite like it. Our celebrations of the harvest include dancing, and far too much wine, music and epics and plays. We do have horse-racing, although ours are arranged differently.” After a slight pause, “My nephew loved to ride.”

Out of respect for his loss, they kept a moment of silence. The young prince had only been twenty.

“It never leaves,” the Regent allowed, his voice low, eyes distant. “The grief. It sickens me to think what it did to poor Laurent. He adored Auguste so. And yet, I would never have imagined—that he would try to follow—” his voice broke, and he hid his face, overcome with emotion. Damen’s gut reacted with burning sympathy. He remembered Prince Auguste, a bright burst from across the field. Things had been so different then. The fact the Regent came to Akielos at all, and so soon after his second nephew’s death—so little time before his own coronation, was truly historic.

“Strength, my friend,” said Father, clasping the Regent’s arm. “Strength.”

He nodded, and straightened in his seat. Everything about him was regal; from the heroic way he pulled himself out of his sorrow, to the set of his shoulders, to the determined look on his face. It was hard to imagine this man was not born to rule. Destiny, clearly, had worked right, to give him the throne, for all the tragedy involved in the matter.

Something glistened in the corner of his eye, but when he looked, the prize had not moved at all from where he knelt. Perhaps it was the sunlight dancing off his golden hair. Truly, he was almost too lovely to bear.

Damen heard himself say, “You brought him from Arles?”

Father gave a knowing smile. “I remember a thing or two about my son’s preferences. I thought, perhaps he needed an incentive to win.”

“I will win.”

The Regent laughed warmly. “I am certain Prince Damianos would do his very best. Tonight, you will raise a toast with your fresh new prize.” After a moment of deliberation, “Have you won, years past?”

“I haven’t lost an okton since I first competed. It has been seven years.”

A hum. “Perhaps this is an—indelicate question,” the Regent said, “but what happens to prizes when… the night is through?”

“A prize is kept for at least a moon,” Damen explained, warm in the cheeks, training his eyes not to steal glances at the arresting figure on the floor. “But the duration can be extended, of course. If…”

“If the victor finds them pleasing enough,” the Regent completed. “Are they quite like bed-slaves?”

Father said, “A prize is selected to honour the goddess Demeter. Their role is spiritual, rather than physical. Although it is often in the physical realm that man finds true devotion.” His eyes were bright, amused. Damen fought a little smile of his own through a thin veneer of discomfort.

“Where is Kastor?” he asked, for the fear that if they continued in this vein, his face would end up on fire. “He should be done with preparations.”

“Is he competing as well?”

Father shook his head. “Perhaps in the archery and the fencing. He will not ride the okton.”

“Is it a matter of age?” asked the Regent politely. Damen knew it was unusual, for a Veretian, to enquire after a bastard son; he appreciated the effort, which showed not at all on the Regent’s wise face. He was such a decent man, Damen decided. It was only a shame it took them so long to find an honest Veretian royal.  

Father said, “Kastor’s age is not the problem.”

“Not nearly. He’s probably too busy with organising the games,” Damen said, rather protectively, before Father would go on another tirade. Even if Kastor wasn’t there to launch him into one.  

The Regent said, “I see,” and did not pursue the matter, and the conversation carried on to safer grounds, far from royal beds and children who always somehow disappointed their parents.

Nikandros stepped onto the dais. He lowered himself to his knees before the throne, until Father told him to rise, then took himself to the seat next to Damen’s.

“All ready?” Damen asked with a secret smile. Nikandros was working a little too hard this festival. The arrival of several ladies from Kesus, and especially a bright-eyed, dark-haired Alexandra, probably had nothing to do with it.

“Just about,” Nik groaned. “Your brother is driving everyone crazy with the measuring.”

Something about the distance of the targets. He heard the discussion over breakfast. Kastor was obsessed with some facts he divined off the old books the Regent had brought, about Artesian sports. In hindsight, it was a very fitting gift for such an occasion.

“At least he’s busy,” Damen said. Nik snickered.

“Will you come to the feast tomorrow? I hear Kyrina will be in attendance.” To the look no doubt on Damen’s face: “Come on. You remember Kyrina. Antonios’s daughter? You remember Kyrina.”

Possibly he did, up until this morning, when he found the most beautiful creature in existence; right now, who could think of any Kyrina? Damen related just as much, not in so many words. Enough to make Nik sigh.

“Who is it this time? Don’t tell me. She’s noble. No? A serving girl? Or—” it only took three seconds of scanning before his eyes hit the golden head not ten feet away. “Ah. So you’re desperate to win.”

“I am not,” Damen said, “desperate.”

Nik grinned. “Of course not. Simply, eager to honour Demeter.”

“In earnest.” 

“You never do anything that isn’t in earnest.”

He nodded. So much was true.

Distantly, Damen heard the Regent remark: “Such perfect form. You can tell that he’s well used to kneeling,” and Father humming something in the affirmative, his voice low with approval. A bright jolt sliced through Damen’s abdomen, excitement in its purest state.

“The first game is about to begin,” Nik said. “Shall we run a final check on the equipment?”

He nodded and got to his feet. “Father, I will see you after the tournament.” He bowed deliberately, and allowed the slow smile to steal over his face at the picture he witnessed. The Regent was petting the prize’s hair. It was good to think there was a friendly person here for him, his own countryman, to soothe the poor prize: he must be so overwhelmed. It almost showed in his eyes. But not quite.

“Take good care of our prize,” Damen said gently, and the Regent smiled and assured he will.

“Best of luck, Prince Damianos. We await your glorious return. Your prize will be here, yours to claim, should you win.”

Again, Damen said, “I will win.” He failed to meet the prize’s gaze, holding fast onto the floor. Nervous, Damen thought, and something inside him unfurled, protective and delighted. He would get to reassure him, slowly, gently, to coax those beautiful lips into a smile. He would show him the beauty of Ios. He would make him so happy.

But all of this after the games. With another bow, he followed Nikandros down the step, and to the armoury, deftly avoiding any fighters from Thrace looking to overshare.

*

He almost didn’t win. Almost, but then he did; it took far more effort than he even expected, what with Aktis’s spear flying loose, and Herakleios’s horse flattening, breaking bones. Okton was always a dangerous sport, and today it has been extremely so; a part of Damen was consumed with wondering whether his prize had been watching.

He came before the dais and bowed grandly. “Exalted,” he said, “I fight in your name and honour you with my victory.”

Father grinned broadly, so happy he was standing unsupported, arms raised wide. “You have brought your country great honour,” he said the words of the ritual, “and I shall repay you in kind. Victor, claim your prize.”

Damen looked up just in time to watch him: after hours and hours of kneeling he rose gracefully, pure gold. He almost glided on the dais towards Damen, the gleam of the evening sun high in his hair, in his eyes, the bluest-blue.

Damen offered his hand; he took it.

The crowd roared.

“We are blessed,” said Father, his smile warm for his people, for his kingdom. “In thanks to Demeter for granting us this generous harvest, we offer a sacrifice.”

The prize’s hand was cool in his. If Damen wasn’t holding him, he wouldn’t know that he was trembling.

“May the bounty of our land keep us ever-busy,” Father joked, and said, “let us celebrate and feast in her name.”

Damen drew the prize closer gently. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “We go to the banquet now. You must be hungry.”

The prize said nothing, keeping his eyes low, his back straight. When the children approached him, he almost startled; although how he knew that, Damen wasn’t sure, as the prize barely moved at all.

The boldest of the children held out the offering. A circlet, made of stalks of barley. He was gaping openly at the prize, probably just as stunned as Damen to be in the vicinity of something this inordinately beautiful.

“For you,” Damen said. He could hear the joy in his own voice. “To wear.”

The prize nodded, and bent low, to allow the child to place it on his head. The barley fit seamlessly with his hair. Damen smiled.

“It suits you.”

The prize said nothing still.

One of the children, a girl with sweet rolling curls, asked: “Are you a fairy?”

Something passed on the prize’s face, brief and then gone. “I do not think so. We have no fairies, in Vere.”

“A nymph,” said another boy.

The prize shook his head. “Merely a man.”

“But you are so beautiful,” said the first girl. “Moreso than any man I’d ever seen.”

Damen had to concede the point. Under the light, with the field behind him, the prize did seem an ethereal creature.

“He must be something else,” Damen concluded, keeping his tone conspiratorial. “A naiad, perhaps?”

The children chuckled, but the prize held himself very carefully, and still did not smile. Damen thought, he must be hungry. And uncertain, being of a different land, and never having seen an Akielon harvest festival before. Kicking himself for being neglectful, he told the children, “We must carry on, before the food is gone from the tables,” and pulled the hand still clasped in his towards the hall.

“There will be a meal first, of course,” he said, a little breathlessly, his face still flushed from the ride, and from pleasure, having this vision by his side, and all the people pressing closer to them, loud in high spirits. “Singers will depict the benevolence of the gods, and there will be glorious dancing, and wonderful music. Then, the high priest will lead the prayer to Demeter, and—” there he paused, tongue-tied. “Then we break for the night.”

The prize said nothing.

Damen frowned, trying to think what words could possibly ease his mind, but before he got very far they were in the banquet hall, and Nik has found them, suspiciously without any Kesusian ladies.

“There you are! Kastor all but disappeared after the okton. I thought… oh, hello. What’s your name?”

Damen only then realised he hadn’t asked. In his defence, the prize didn’t seem like he’d fit any human name; like he would outshine any attempt to label him.  

“My lord may call me as he pleases.”

“You are Veretian,” Nik observed, mouth twisting. “Your Akielon is decent. Did you learn it especially for this journey?”

The prize said, “No.”

“What name did your parents give you?” Damen pressed, a little uncomfortable, suddenly. He really should have asked. It seemed almost cruel, now, not to know.  

“If pleasing my lord, the name my parents bestowed me is Laurent.”

Laurent. Laurent. Beautiful, was all Damen could think: he never considered how elegantly Veretian consonants met vowels. Laurent. It was the prettiest name he had heard, became immediately evident.

Nik, on the other hand, frowned. “Laurent. Like the second prince. The one who died.”

If he was waiting for a reaction, he got none; Laurent’s features gave nothing away, composed to the last, entirely calm. Damen said, “I suppose it’s a common name. In Vere.”

“As my lord says.”

Damen caught Nik’s eye, shrugged, and gestured towards the high table. “You’ll be with us tonight?”

“Of course. The King has already asked me to make sure you don’t over-indulge on the wine, like last year.”

Mortification coloured his cheeks. “I did not—” he looked helplessly at Laurent, who perhaps had not heard, his eyes on the floor. “Let’s go!”

They made their way winding through the crowd, who all wanted to congratulate Damen on his victory, on his beautiful prize, or just to ogle at Laurent, open-mouthed and wistful. Flushed, now with pride, Damen led them to the table, and sat Laurent gently at the chair next to his, arranging himself close by. Nik sat on his other side. They were across the table from Father, deep in conversation with Kyros Galene. To his delight, Damen saw the Regent coming to sit on Laurent’s other side, and then Kastor after him.

“There you finally are!” to his brother, who gave him an amused smirk. “Where had you been all day?”

“Are you sad I missed your great moment of triumph?” Kastor mocked, and raised his glass towards Damen, past the Regent. “There, you big baby. To you.”

Damen refused to show what the words did to him, biting on the smile, and raised his own glass. “Cheers. And to you, for two consecutive victories.”

Kastor’s smile changed a fraction. “You saw?”

“Of course I did. You performed magnificently on the archery field.”

The Regent cleared his throat over Kastor’s slack-jawed fluster. “Today certainly was quite the display. Why, Prince Damianos, your prize had been so frightened when that horse fell during the okton, he had to close his eyes!”

Laurent sat very still. His distress was suddenly so clear, he wondered how he’d missed it before. Damen smiled at him warmly.

“I am unharmed,” he said, and took his hand again. “See? All is well.”

Laurent darted a look at him. “Thank the gods.” 

Damen, suddenly restless, took Laurent’s plate and filled it with every dish he could reach. “Here,” he said. “You must be so hungry.”

If a man like that ate? He looked even less real here, sat at the grand table, in his white clothes and the circlet of barley in his hair. He seemed regal, in the straightness of his posture, in the grace of his every move; he seemed like a young forest god, curiously taking the place of a mortal for a night.

The Regent, somewhere far more distant than two seats away, said, “The prince is so considerate to his prize.”

After a moment, Laurent said, “Thank you. My lord.”

There was something in him of a deer, caught in a clearing. Damen placed the plate under his nose, and pointed at the garlic cheese. “You should try that. A local delicacy; I think you will enjoy it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Laurent said, and picked up a cube between two perfect fingers. He put it in his mouth slowly, with the eyes of everyone at the table on him. When he swallowed, his tight throat bobbed, utterly bewitching.

Fondly, the Regent reminded, “The proper title is Exalted.”

Laurent swallowed again, although his mouth was empty. “Yes, Exalted,” he corrected. Shyly. He was shy; Damen was already helplessly charmed, and now the tone threatened to send him giggling.

“It’s quite all right. You can address me as you like, Laurent. If my lord feels more natural for your Veretian tongue, you may use it.”

“Laurent,” repeated the Regent. With a pang, Damen realised he might not have known. “Your name is—Laurent? Is that what you told the prince?”

“Exalted Damianos enquired. I dare not refuse him my name.”

The Regent nodded, unsteady. “Forgive me, Prince Damianos. It is simply… perhaps a little too soon.”

His quiet, unassuming grief struck hard at Damen. “Of course. I hate to cause you such discomfort.”

“If you could simply refer to him as slave, I think that might be a little easier to…” he paused, shaking his head, his eyes so pained.

Something in Damen bristled. Laurent was a prize, not a slave. But the Regent was their honoured guest; to hamper their relations on such a small difference was out of the question.

“Certainly. Here, slave. You should try the bread, too.”

Laurent gave no indication that he registered the change in address, apart from possibly going even stiller, if that was at all possible, considering he was already more marble than flesh and blood. “Yes, Exalted,” he said, and collected a piece of bread from his plate, to place it in his mouth. It was impossible to tear the eyes away from his lips as they moved.

“No—not like this,” Damen remembered to say, five hundred years later. “Dip it in the oil first. Like so.” He demonstrated with a piece of his own bread. Laurent had to look up to see his movement, although his eyes never quite reached Damen’s face.

“Yes, Exalted.” Another piece, dipped this time. He ate it. Damen swallowed a growl.

To distract himself from what was quickly becoming unhealthy: “Nik,” leaning sideways, “did you see Alexandra today?”

“Who?” frowning around a leg of lamb.

“Alexandra. The girl from Kesus you kept making eyes at, last year.”

Nik tilted his head in confusion. “I have no idea who you mean, Damen. I don’t think I even know an Alexandra. Well, maybe Pallas’s mother, but I hardly think you’d accuse me of making eyes at her.”

Damen snorted. “Don’t put on an act. I remember you, last year, panting and red in the face every time she paid you a compliment.”

“A lady who paid me a compliment? When you’re around? Now I know you are raving.”

The demurring made no sense. Damen pondered. “Was her name something else? Antigona? Alexis?”

“There was never an Alexandra.”

From his other side, Kastor said, “Endlessly interesting. They did things very differently, in Artes.”

“But you were so… with that face. I remember, Nik. You may think my memory pitiful, but I do remember.”

Kastor said, “The lines of succession were not quite as straightforward.”

“I don’t think your memory is pitiful, only that you sometimes neglect details in favour of your…”

Damen grinned. “My what?”

Kastor said, “An element of choice. To prevent stagnation.”

Next to his elbow, Laurent kept his gaze trained on the table, and allowed the Regent to guide him through Akielon cuisine. Damen saw, from the corner of his eye, the Regent pick up a morsel of fish and gently feed it to Laurent’s mouth.

Damen said, “There was someone. Last year, at the feast, there was someone you liked, and you cannot deny it.”

Nik groaned, hiding his face in his palm. “Do not, Damianos. Not all secrets are worth unearthing.”

“And some wine,” the Regent said, smiling indulgently at Laurent. “It might soften you, beguiling creature. You might need it.”

Damen watched as the Regent lifted a cup full of red wine, and tipped it against Laurent’s lips, which parted, miraculously. His eyes were fixed on the Regent. They seemed… A trick of the light, surely; there was no reason for Laurent to gaze at the Regent as though he wished him dead.

The Regent fed him the full cup. Laurent’s lips swallowed sip after sip, slowly, his throat working.

When he was done, the Regent said, “Another,” and refilled the cup to the brim. For some inscrutable reason, Damen’s stomach tightened in knots.

But the Regent’s attention was quickly drawn by Kastor, who still had a multitude of Artesian facts to enthusiastically share, and then Father, who leaned back towards them with a smile, retelling the story of the harvest festival on the year he was crowned. Everyone groaned when he started. Damen had heard this story enough times to have it memorised, word for word.

Beside him, Nik was oddly quiet. Damen worried, wanted to ask, but Laurent at his other side was far too distracting, and it was difficult to spend even a second looking away. More and more so, the more Laurent drank, the brighter the pink on his cheeks. The circlet had mussed his hair somewhat, or perhaps it was the Regent’s petting, and it stood slightly at disarray and impossibly charming.

“Have some grapes,” Damen said, and without thinking, picked a bunch. He watched the Regent feed him, and suddenly burned with desire to do the same. “Here,” he tore one grape free, and posted it outside the inviting curl of Laurent’s lip. Softly, “Try.”

As he had done all night, Laurent opened his mouth without protest. His eyes, this time, caught Damen’s, however briefly; their intensity startling, like a physical touch. A bolt of lightning ran through him, dizzying, as he let his fingers linger, brush the corners of where Laurent’s smile possibly hid. If men like him smiled. He seemed even less human now: a storm, ready for ruin.

Damen shook off the weird, unsettling feeling, and pulled on his previous grin. He didn’t want to frighten Laurent, who already seemed… out of place. And still excruciatingly nervous, as he kept himself so still, his face so calm. It suddenly registered, all the effort that had to take. Damen was exhausted just witnessing it.

“Laurent used to love sweet things,” the Regent confessed, heartbrokenly, as he watched with baleful eyes the platters of confectionary now brought to the table. “It would pain me so greatly to—” he didn’t proceed, perhaps thinking the request cruel. Denying what this Laurent could have was not his place. And yet, Damen found he couldn’t fault him. He didn’t have the heart.

If Laurent had shown any interest in eating the sweets, in—well, anything—perhaps Damen would have acted differently. As he said nothing, and showed nothing, Damen nodded.

“You are too kind, Prince Damianos,” the Regent said emotionally as a servant came to remove Laurent’s plate. “Vere will remember this.”

The blue of Laurent’s eyes gave away nothing.

He did shift, a little, perhaps the effect of the wine, or the strain of the long day finally taking its toll on his body. He didn’t quite slump in his seat, everything about him sharply graceful, but he… leaned, a little, on the chair’s back, and his face was pleasantly flushed, and his breathing was slightly less even.

“He’s a lovely specimen,” Kastor said, gesturing with his cup towards Laurent. “Where did you even find him? I’ve never seen a slave his equal.”

“I doubt he has an equal,” Damen said, heartfelt. For an indecipherable reason, the praise seemed to make Laurent tense further.

“So much is true,” Father allowed with a generous smile. “I had not seen a man half as beautiful in many years.”

The Regent preened. “He certainly is pleasing. I’m convinced that since he was young, eyes were always drawn to him.”

Now, Laurent’s eyes were cast firmly down. His eyelashes glowed golden in the candlelight. It was infuriatingly distracting.

“I hope King Theomedes is happy with the gift Vere has brought him.”

“Quite so,” Father laughed. “I am certain my son will make great use of it.”

Laurent was so still. His was the only face at the table not bright with amusement. A slave would surely melt with pride, being spoken of so highly by the King himself; perhaps… a Veretian thing. Maybe they trained their pets to be more reserved.

The Regent said, “When you bed him, make sure to enjoy all his talents. He would be so lovely, on his knees.”

That was rather more crude than usual talk at the table in Akielos, but the company bore it with composure, and laughed the remark away. Damen was struck with the mind-numbing vision of Laurent, divested of his pretty white clothes, on his knees, those pink lips parted.

He was very warm and suddenly, terribly uncomfortable.

In his ear, Nik said, “You don’t have to wait for the evening to end.”

Damen, quite dazed, said, “What?”

“You can leave early. No one will begrudge you that.”

He looked at Father, deep in conversation with Galene, and at Kastor entertaining the Regent. “But… the prayer hasn’t even started.”

Nik shrugged. “We will make do without you. It’s obvious you are eager to… praise Demeter in your own way.”

“Father will—”

“Understand,” Nik said. He seemed a bit off, still, but his smile was genuine. “Go on. I’ll keep Kastor busy if he seems to tire of Veretian royalty.”

Damen laughed helplessly, feeling rather—well—helpless, with the whole situation. He turned to Laurent, not quite managing to swallow the smile spreading thick on his face. Laurent was perfect. Candle-gold, wine-warmed, perfectly human, and all his.

With a gentle touch to his wrist, Damen said, “Come.”

Only the Regent seemed to register they were leaving. “Good night,” he smiled jovially. “Represent Vere with pride, slave. When Prince Damianos mounts you, remember to be grateful.”

The tone was—Damen blinked; a little jeering, but his smile was pleasant, and when the Regent’s eyes turned to him, there was nothing malicious about them. “Good night,” Damen allowed, and led Laurent away from the table, away from… that. Towards his chambers.

Laurent apparently was affected by the wine. His gait was no longer the steady, measured thing of before, slightly off-balanced, and he needed a lot of prompting to follow Damen along. In an unusually nervous movement Damen wrapped an arm around his waist, kept his wrist with the other, and like so they made their slow march. Only two guards had followed them out. The hallways were strangely quiet.

Perhaps Damen drank a little too much as well. It felt heady, this rush of having Laurent in his arms, taking him to… sample… Veretian culture; taking him to—why was this so difficult? Damen was no blushing virgin, and he was half-mad with desire ever since this morning. Taking him to bed, and showing him great pleasure. That was all Damen wanted to do. There was nothing about it that should make him nervous.

It was hard to remember as he reached his rooms, and deposited Laurent near the bed. Laurent seemed—Damen swallowed something jittery, bitter. They were alone now, and Laurent was not entirely steady on his feet. One hand snuck out to hold onto a bed post, the other coiled into his elaborate clothing. His face was still empty, smooth. His body was not. He was shaking.

Shaking so badly; not even in the tiny way he did earlier, tension overflowing. This was something else. Damen’s heart burst with sympathy.

“It’s all right,” he said, keeping his voice light, gentle. “I will not hurt you.”

Laurent said nothing.

Cautiously, Damen took a step forward. “Here,” he said, not fully understanding the desperation in his own voice, “perhaps some wine would…” but he was already so unstable. Wine might be the wrong direction. An honest explanation could work better. 

“It will be very pleasant,” he promised. Searched for the oil, presented it in the direction of worsening shaking. “I will get to know your body. You will get to know mine. We will… truly, there is nothing to fear. It might seem different, if you hadn’t done this before, but… I promise, I will take care of you. I will treat you sweetly, with nothing but respect. I—”

He turned and found, to his utter, bemused surprise, Laurent shaking his head, almost green with horror. It was so startingly different from his smooth mask that Damen was truly without words. Then the knife came out from behind his thigh, and words still did not.

“Touch me,” Laurent said, “and I'll kill you.”

Damen blinked.

Chapter Text

It took seven seconds between the time Laurent opened his eyes and when he actually saw anything. Seven and a half; the half lost on a gasp, the rest to blurriness. His eyelids were heavy. He knew at once he had been drugged.

Sunlight filtered far too bright, reflected back to his protesting eyes on a white surface. Marble or, smooth stone. Another name for it that escaped him. There were no cells made of marble in Arles, as far as he was aware, and he was aware of many. Most.

All the words tied to these thoughts came to him slowly, haltering. He had been drugged. It was hard to feel much of the alarm, other than how it flooded him, spitting and gurgling in his ears. There was something. In his ears. This sound, it—

Forced the panic down with only half the strength he normally possessed. Think. It was too hard. (Drugged); he needed to think.

Marble, he decided, from the veins he could see where fingers were tracing the wall. Fingers? Yes. His own. Attached to a palm, attached to a wrist, encircled in iron. Oh.

He did not allow himself to feel any part of his body. The cataloguing would come next. First he had to think.

Marble, sunlight. The room was swimming with it. That suggested windows. The sound in his ears, which did not abate, was not, in fact, his own mind disintegrating; it came from… outside. Not human voices. Laurent held his breath (and ignored the urgent pang that rippled in his chest): he was alone. Another moment of livid attention. Yes, alone.   

It took even longer to find the windows, as any movement of his neck was impossibly hard. Laurent allowed the thought, chains, and then pushed it aside. Later. The windows were high in the walls, a distance away he could not measure, having no other point of reference. He did not know if he was standing or sitting down. It was strangely difficult not to sob.

He did not. Forced his eyes to travel (they kept wishing to stick; everything… happened so freakishly slowly): three windows, none large enough to climb through. A door. One would assume it was locked, but he would have to try. With a startling crack of joints, ceiling. Not a big chamber. Another crack, looking down: floor. Links, of a chain. Bare feet.

Something acrid in his mouth; Laurent gagged and gagged until he got himself back under control. It took three seconds, three longer than he could spare. What was wrong with him? (He had been drugged). Enough. Enough. Think.

Bare feet. Why was that so hard to—bear. Laurent thought about rolling his eyes and instead made them look further. Feet were attached to ankles. He was looking down. These ankles, bare but for the chains, were his own.

With one allotted flinch, Laurent took note of his body. The obvious general agony he acknowledged and dismissed. Time to get uncomfortably specific.

His left wrist was possibly sprained under the shackles. His shoulders and back muscles ached in a manner that suggested a long period of time spent bound. Carefully, Laurent inspected the feeling lower down, affecting all the clinical distance he could muster; not… well. Not the pain he worried about most. Drugged, the word flung itself in his face, violent and dreadful: drugged, he'd been drugged. Quiet. He needed to pay attention. There might not be time, later.

Laurent took a shaky breath. Then a better-controlled one. He cast back as far as he could to test his memory: there was the hunt, Auguste’s horse—swallowed the sharp sting—the Patrans. Torveld was quite chatty, a nightmare he tried to use to his advantage, because he knew Uncle was planning something. Nicaise at the feast. Then the attack in his chambers. The drugged cup of water.

Laurent hadn’t been drugged; he drugged himself by being a fool.

A flash of anger was all he permitted: now was not the time. The men who came to his rooms spoke Akielon. Their accents were hard to pin, but their daggers seemed authentic. Laurent was only able to kill two of them. The third managed to call for backup.

Marble, Akielon weaponry, the sound that he did not let himself confirm was the sea—

He was in Ios.

No time for this nausea. Stop. Stop. No time. Laurent told himself sternly he did not grant permission for hysteria; he told himself, and told himself, and told himself. There truly was no time. His thoughts would not obey. Stop. They had to obey.

Control yourself, he tried in his best imitation of Auguste. It almost worked. Auguste would not allow himself to succumb to a useless emotion; control, control yourself. When Laurent blinked, the room returned to him in all its blasted marble-white.

A new fact suggested itself, threatening to undo his hard-fought composure. Above his ankles were shins and thighs and they, too, were bare, and above that his belly and his chest which also were, bare, and his bare, bare body was restrained to the wall or the floor and was completely, entirely bare.

Laurent blinked. White remained.

Several possible scenarios flittered and clashed in his head. Three he immediately dismissed, considered four others. Five. No, six. His attention had to be wrestled into submission time and time again, and all so, so slowly. It was difficult to determine what was more likely. Everything was too far removed, and hazy, and immediate, and burning.

Suppose the details mattered less. Focus on the facts.

The facts:

• Chains were mainly used to detain prisoners.
• Akielons, while barbaric, did not necessarily strip their prisoners naked. Did they?
• Slaves also wore chains.
• This room, while plain, was certainly not a prison cell.

Three main possibilities remained. All, Laurent knew at once, were hopeless. Whether it was—as he feared—or not, it could not matter. He was practically already dead.

No: he tore himself back. Stretched the shadow of Auguste behind his eyelids, above the starburst banner, until his breathing had calmed down into something that didn’t cut through his breastbone. There would be bruises, he knew, where the tightness ached. He fought. He could not remember fighting, but he knew, without a doubt, that he fought.

He looked: yes. His body was littered with them, bruises. But not the private ache he almost-expected. It was a surprise, to some extent, that his captors hadn’t—yet. After going to the trouble of drugging him. Drugged, he had been drugged. Laurent cautioned himself, pulled away from the jagged front of this thought, the pleasure of cut glass pressed to skin. Enough. There truly was no time for this.

Someone was going to come for him soon, and he needed a plan for when that would happen. If only he could think. There should already be five to six half-formed ideas hatching in his head; in their stead, all Laurent had was thin hysteria, intoxicating and overwhelming.

His body was tired. He had not done anything yet. With a heavy swallow, he tested the give in the chain.

Not slack at all at the wrists. He could barely move them up an inch where they were pressed to the wall. His head he couldn’t detach from the marble, could only just tip his chin in each direction, and that made the metal press tight on his Adam’s apple. Uncle might think this an appropriate punishment for growing one. His ankles hung quite loose, in a manner that would allow him to spread his legs, should he be so inclined.

He supposed there were enough links to choke a man between his thighs. If it came to that. They were awfully white, his thighs. Under the bruises. Distractingly so.

Oh. Laurent almost didn’t recognise this feeling, it’s been so long: terror. Worse than poisoned horses and doors sneaking open at night. Terror of the Auguste-is-down sort. It rattled and shook behind his eardrums, it coiled around and around his heart. Something terrible has happened. Something terrible.

The drug kept more direct words elusive. Or maybe that was the fear. The plainer theory often proved itself correct; people were simple, and Laurent was too. Just the idea of losing the barest hint of control threatened to undo him.

And now he had none. No control. Apart from what he would manage to scrape.

A plan, then. He needed a plan. There was a reason he wasn’t killed outright; some sort of use to be made of him. Some role he was meant to play. And if Laurent could only see what that was, and pretend to be willing to do it, a chance of escape would present itself.

It simply had to. Laurent would not spend a second longer in this hellish country than he needed. And he refused to die on Akielon soil. In the city of the man who started the war that claimed his father’s life. Possibly in the very palace of the man who killed Auguste.

Oh—oh. That was a possibility. But he would need to make sure before he acted. The drug (drugged) somehow made it easier to… not to concentrate, but to distance himself from the worst of it. That was what he needed now. Well, the opposite. Clarity. He needed to think.

Stupid boy, said the well-worn voice in his head. He thought it was Father’s, but after all these years it was getting harder to tell. Laurent kept it out of foolish, sentimental reasons. Sometimes it helped. Mostly it did not. Silly, said Auguste, and Laurent agreed, and did not cry.

Did not cry. Focused instead. Someone would soon come, and Laurent still didn’t have words. He needed to prepare.

Prepare, then. Logical steps. Would he be able to speak? He didn’t remember shouting, but his throat was scratchy-raw. The matter required examination.

“Hello,” he rasped, and immediately fell into a fit of coughing. The scratching grew worse. This was a problem he could not afford.

Viciously, he opened his mouth and tried again. “Hello there.”

He did not sound like himself, but suppose that didn’t matter, as long as he sounded like anything at all. Laurent said, “This is ridiculous,” in Veretian, and then in Akielon. He only learned the language to sneer at Damianos from the other end of a sword. His vocabulary was woefully thin. There was only so much one could do with colourful insults.

“I will kill you,” Laurent promised the empty room. “I will see all that you love destroyed.”

There. He even sounded like himself again. A croaky, hoarse version he disliked immensely, but that was not the point. He was in control of his voice. He was in control of his words.

Very carefully, Laurent unclenched his fists, the tight cords in his abdomen. He was mostly lying down, partly sitting. The marble was cool under his skin. His ankles were latched to a link he could see, affixed to the floor. It would not be possible to remove the shackles himself. Not without a key. Or a hammer.

A plan. He would make a plan. He would be patient. The crucial thing right now was to listen, to learn whatever he could. Any piece of information might prove vital. There was nothing to lose, apart from everything.

Someone would come. That was one thing Laurent knew for certain. They would come. So he would wait.

*

He heard the footsteps before the door opened, and so had the time to arrange his body just so, to have his eyes almost-shut. Through the slit he could make a figure, small and dainty, dressed—if that could be called dressed—in very little cotton. Laurent knew immediately: a slave.

A woman slave. Although, he supposed, it couldn’t truly matter, the habitual indignity still sizzled under his skin. No, it was simply the oddity of the matter. No, no time for prevarications: he was terrified.

“Hello,” said the woman slave, her tone soft. “Is the prize awake yet?”

Prize? Laurent tried to think of another translation for the term, failed. It was enraging that his poor Akielon would cost him this important piece of information. It was crucial to know what he was brought here as; a prince, a slave, a… prize? Although he supposed the fact she was speaking to him unprompted was its own sign.

She was coming towards him. Slowly, and yet very close. Too close. Laurent breathed in and did not allow himself to wince.

“There is water,” said the woman slave. “And food. The master said this one may unchain the prize, if he cooperates.”

The prize again. Him, yes? And who would be the ‘master’? The person who brought him here? Laurent opened his eyes in full.

“Please,” he managed, and didn’t even choke on the word. It came out hoarse. “What is your name?”

She blinked with unveiled surprise. She was pretty, he figured, in a classical, neat way, and her body moved with easy grace that suggested training. She did not serve a common man. “This one is Hagne,” said Hagne, and bowed her head. “May I assist with the water?”

“That would be,” Laurent half-coughed, “much appreciated.”

He was straining his Akielon as is; only had a few hours to review his entire vocabulary. Thankfully, Hagne didn’t ask for more, and raised the cup to his lips to carefully pour the—water—in. Laurent considered deflection, but even if it wasn’t truly water, he was too dehydrated to take the risk. Running it in his mouth, he confirmed at least no detectable drug, and continued drinking eagerly, shamefully, until she tipped the cup back.

“Slowly,” she said. “This one begs forgiveness, but the prize must drink slowly, or he will be sick.”

Laurent waited until he was sure he wouldn’t whine. “I thank you.” After a hesitant moment, “There is no need to,” he searched for the word, “politeness, with me. I am your equal.”

A dangerous gambit, but the way her eyes widened in confusion was still telling. “You are the prize. This one is below you.”

“The prize,” Laurent repeated. His head was pounding, volatile. He couldn’t risk asking outright. But he needed to know. “Are prizes normally presented like so?”

He meant naked, but Hagne gave a very obvious look to the chains, and managed to convey unease although keeping her face blank. She said, “No. Normally,” but she stopped, and bent to the plate of bread and meats. “If it pleases you,” she said softly, “this one would help.”

The nausea had reached critical level hours ago, and was mostly meaningless. Fear and hunger showed in similar manners. “I thank you,” Laurent said again, instead of threatening bodily harm.

Hagne fed him with considerate efficiency, and he managed to swallow, although it was somewhat of a production. The food was entirely flavourless. Laurent allowed her gentle hands to tip morsels into his mouth, and hated her more than he ever despised any human being, ever, in his life, and bore it in silence.

When she finished she took a step backwards, still on her knees. It was clear he was making her uncomfortable. He couldn’t quite tell why: he was very careful in his seething glares and his body language was purposefully lax. Maybe it was his words, for all the pains he took. Uncle would say he had it coming.

“If the prize will permit it,” Hagne said, “this one may unlock some of the chains.”

Some of the chains. Laurent tensed, and then spent precious moments on un-tensing. “Please,” he said, croaky.

Her jaw tightened; his very obvious injuries—or at the very least, the chains—were not to her liking. Good. He would need whatever ally he could find, here. It was easy not to despise her when she wasn’t so close to his lips. Laurent held himself very carefully as she worked the chains, although it was impossible to stop his body from sagging when she undid the shackles on his wrists, on his neck. For a moment, even breathing was difficult. He closed his eyes against the assault of sunlight, and stilled himself with everything he had.

Hagne only unchained one ankle. Well. At least now he knew what the keys looked like.  

Laurent rubbed his wrists and allowed a frown. He even went to the length of sighing. “Thank you, Hagne,” he said, the raspy quality of his voice perhaps slightly exaggerated.

“This one is happy to help,” Hagne said, but her eyes widened tragically, moving from the welts on his wrists (and undoubtedly his neck) to the bruises across his body. Laurent bore her eyes on him without comment. “The prize had been treated cruelly,” Hagne whispered, defeated, unable to keep it in. “The master promised…”

But she desisted, when Laurent so badly needed for her to continue. “Promised what?”

She obviously hesitated. Then, “The prize will not be harmed in the palace.”

The palace. He was, then, in the palace of the beast king Theomedes. Laurent very precisely did not react.

“The master will not hurt me?” he tried. Hagne shook her head.

“The prize is not to be harmed.”

Focus on the details, Laurent told himself, pleaded himself. The drug was not reliably out of his system yet. Everything took so long to gather.

She rose to her feet in one smooth action. He wanted to cry, to tell her to wait, to beg for more information, for—anything, really. An insane urge to ask her not to leave him alone. Instead he waited until she was almost at the door before saying, “I thank you for your company, Hagne.”

She stopped. “This one is happy to help.”

“If it is at all possible…” Laurent sighed, and made a show of slumping back, exposing his neck. He could feel the skin of it, irritated and warm; it was obviously badly marked. It had the desired effect.

“What do you wish for this one to do?” her tone was alarmingly passionate. Laurent swallowed, thick.

“If you could—come see me again?” And if his voice trembled, it was no intended artifice.

He knew he had her by the look in her eyes. “This one will try,” she said, and bowed her head, and left. Laurent noted the door had locked behind her. He detached himself from the wall and got to his feet as quickly as he could.

Which was not so quick. His movements were uncoordinated and pathetic; the drug, and also whatever length of time spent bound, trussed, carried. Every muscle screamed in indignation: Laurent acknowledged the pain, grit his teeth, and dismissed it. It would not help him now. He needed to concentrate.

The length of the chain to his one bound ankle gave him freedom enough to reach almost the entire room, but not the door, which was locked anyway. The windows he could nearly touch, with his hands outstretched; they were high in the walls and not incredibly large. Through them Laurent could see blue sky free of cloud.

Hagne had left him the pitcher and the cup, and a full plate of cold meats; a generous offering. There was nothing more around him, not even a cushion or a pallet. It was not a cell, and not a guest room. The restraints attached to the wall were newly installed, the stone cracked around them. Someone had prepared this place specifically for his arrival.

His arrival at Ios. To the palace of king Theomedes and Prince Damianos. Someone had brought him here, relatively unharmed, and very much alive. There was growing certainty that he knew what purpose he was meant to serve.

There was so much more he needed to learn. He would have to be very careful with Hagne, if she does manage to come see him again; and if not, he would need to cultivate whatever amount of goodwill from his captors, or the slaves they send to tend to him.

‘Prize’: what did that mean? Somewhere above a slave, and yet not all that removed. From the little he understood, prizes were not normally met with violence. The fact he was made Hagne uneasy. What was normal, for a ‘prize’? His nakedness inspired no reaction, but then again this was Akielos, where such things were not taboo. Perhaps all men in the palace walked around bare. Somehow, that wasn’t even the worst thing he could imagine about this place.

Then there was the question of the master, who knew who Laurent was, or knew enough to suspect he would try to escape. A master who ordered him fed, watered, and unharmed. Who kept him chained and without clothes.

There were too many questions, and no way of gaining further insight. Seeing as his head was still buzzing, incessantly, and that his muscles were in very poor form, Laurent decided some exercises were in order. Light ones, of course. Nothing too strenuous; small sets with many repetitions. Say, one hundred. Why not? It would provide him some time to try and think.

With his limited freedom, Laurent stretched. And tried, very hard, to think.

*

Thinking proved impossible. There was too much he didn’t know. As the sun sank behind the windows, and darkness spread, Laurent only had about three incomplete plans, and all of them rubbish. Night gave him very little in terms of ideas, and quite a lot in the sense of frustration.

The next day was even worse.

Laurent awoke with the sun and immediately knew his head was not set to rights. Possibly, he sustained an injury during his travels; less likely, some of the drug affecting him still. Conceivably, the stress of the situation was clouding his mind, preventing straight thinking. Laurent disliked this theory very greatly, but did not dismiss it out of hand. It never helped to ignore a possible truth just because it was unpleasant.

What would Auguste do? Well. He would have broken out of the chain by now, and planned an attack on the door, to overwhelm it with sheer strength or—no, he would wait for Hagne or another slave to return, and then charge out.

Or he would charm them into aiding his escape. Auguste had a way with people that was entirely natural and impossible to ignore. A way Laurent did not inherit, and an ease he never understood. No doubt Auguste would be out of here by now. Laurent would have to claw through his way. Fine. He would do it.

Theories of why he was brought to Ios burned through his head lightning-fast, distracting. Impatience would not work well for him here. He needed to know more. He needed to wait.

It was hysterically hard to convince himself to do so.

Exercise helped, somewhat, if not with the impotent fury, then at least with the knots of his muscles, still aching. It felt good to practice control over his body. Even if it was still bare. If he simply didn’t look, then he wasn’t confronted by his own skin, and that was as good as he could get.

Hagne returned before he had the chance to become maudlin.

She found him slumped against the wall, shielding his face with a wrist. The welts showed awfully well in sunlight.

“Prize,” said Hagne, and came to kneel before him with her eyes large, sad. “Are you in pain?”

Laurent sniffled. “Not terribly so.”  

With a worried hum, she produced a jar of poultice from her short dress (chiton, Laurent admonished: there was no time for moral superiority). “This would help. With the bruising.”

“Thank you, Hagne,” he said softly.

“It is nothing. The master ordered that the prize is to be looked after. This one simply asked for the pleasure of the task.”

“It is not nothing to me.”

Hagne flushed sweetly. “This one brought your meal,” she said, and laid the plate before him, “and more water. Do you need assistance?”

“Thank you, I am capable of feeding myself,” with what he fought to keep a light tone. “Have you eaten?”

He obviously surprised her with the question. Was it a faux-pas? To clarify, he said, “I doubt I will manage to eat this much.” The plate was over-full, and he was still nauseous to the brim. Hagne blinked at him, then shook her head.

“This one eats at the slave dormitories. Do not trouble yourself, prize. This food is meant to last until tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Laurent said. He gestured with a hand. “Would you sit with me? It is good, to have someone to talk to.”

Hagne gave him a long look. She said a word Laurent did not know.

“Pardon?”

“It is… loneliness, prize. Another sort of harm.” She hesitated. “The master said you are not to be harmed.”

Laurent waited for her to decide. Then allowed a small smile when she relaxed on her heels, still not quite not-kneeling, but certainly not holding herself up at attention. There was still, incredibly, something illicit about this, being alone in a room with a woman. As though the current situation didn’t milk any oddity to the extreme and turned it all meaningless. He watched her, soft curves, sweet, young face, and found nothing odd there, and everything odd on top of it.

“Thank you,” Laurent said. “I am—not of this land. There is much I do not know.”

“You are Veretian,” Hagne said.

“Yes, how did you know?”

She smiled. “Your accent is quite heavy, prize. And your hair. And your eyes. And—” she stopped, bit her bottom lip in an unusual show of emotion.

“And?”

“And the man who came to speak to the master. He is Veretian, too.”

Several things became immediately clear. “This man. He arrived to the palace with me?”

Hagne didn’t answer, in a way that meant yes. “This one is not supposed to speak of him.”

“Then I will not ask,” Laurent said, and instructed his heart to cease racing. “May I ask something else of you?”

She nodded her assent.

“It gets rather dark at night.” Her face scrunched as if in pain; immediately Laurent knew he said the wrong thing. “I mean—without light.”

“Oh. This one will… see what can be done. The master would not want the prize to be left in the darkness.”

“I did not mean to offend,” Laurent said gently. Hagne shook her head.

“No offence is taken. The word you used is more suited to poetry than to… it implies great suffering.”

Wasn’t that predictable. Trust him to fumble into dramatics. Auguste would laugh so hard if he heard.

“I apologise. My Akielon is not very good.”

“No,” Hagne agreed, and when she laughed there was nothing malevolent to it. Laurent allowed his own lips to curl. “Forgiveness, prize, but it is quite bad.”

“Well,” Laurent said playfully. “Perhaps my new friend could teach me, if she found the time.”  

She looked a little flustered, but pleased. “This one would be happy to help the prize learn.”

“You may call me Laurent,” he said, and swallowed the unease. If the man who brought him here was Veretian, there was no doubt he knew his identity. Whatever his instincts to guard his name closely, it could only help him if Hagne felt trusted. And his name on its own meant nothing. Laurent has been a popular name for boys ever since he was born.

Hagne tried it out: “Laurent,” slowly, with heavy emphasis on the first syllable, and a not-terrible try at the last. He didn’t need to work hard to conjure a smile.

“There. It is nice to meet you, Hagne.”

“And you too, Laurent.”

She smiled back. Two new plans rose and crumbled in his head. When she made to leave, he did not stall her, and watched the door close, listened to it lock.

Then he turned to inspect the poultice. He did not recognise the material, but at this point, not trying it would be worse than trying. If this were some poison that could seep through the skin, or that would burn him, or—something else terrible, Hagne would expect or be instructed to search for symptoms. And if it truly was medicine, his body could use it.

Laurent dabbed a generous dose on a particularly colourful part of his thigh. The thick paste proved immediately as a balm; cool against hot skin, soothing. Laurent had to physically stall his hand from applying it everywhere. Better to wait a few hours, just to make sure. But the relief was heady, enticing.

He controlled himself enough to wait till nightfall.

In the last of the light, he used almost the entire jar, despite going very sparse on each separate injury. A lot of paste was lost stuffing his fingers under the shackle still clinging to his ankle, trying in vain to reach the chafing skin; then he prioritised the almost-bleeding welts, the black bruises, and his neck, which he could not see, but which stung quite badly. The little that remained in the jar Laurent placed behind the water pitcher, within reach, and hoped his own body would hide it. There was nothing else he could use for that purpose.

Had to remind himself to drink; the burn in his throat barely registered. It was still impossibly uncomfortable to be bare. Most of Laurent’s thoughts migrated in that direction and were violently rejected.

At least the day brought some new information. Laurent spent the night thinking it over. And over. And over. Coming up with a dozen ridiculous plans. Seeing too many holes in each. Scolding himself in Auguste’s voice: think properly. There is a way. Find it.

If only Auguste hadn’t been telling him that every day for the last six years.

No: Laurent refused to surrender to bitterness, of all things. He would find a solution. He would be patient, and play the long game, the way Uncle taught him. Not the way Uncle taught him. He would play, and he would win.

(Auguste in his head: this is not a game, Laurent. Yes. He knew. It didn’t much matter).

Another night brought very little in the way of sleep.

*

Hagne returned the next day with a surprise: a small collection of lanterns, which she placed at the four corners of the room. Too far out of his reach, she possibly thought, if the thought even occurred to her that he would try. “The candle inside should last through the night,” she said, shy, and laid down the plate of food that became familiar, and a new pitcher of water. “Forgive this one for being late. It took some time to obtain this.”

Another surprise: a small bedroll.

“Oh,” said Laurent, taken aback. “Thank you, Hagne. This is very kind of you.”

“It was no trouble,” she flushed, lovely and sincere. “The master ordered this one to take care of you.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, “the master.”

She blinked in question.

“It is simply that I have not met this master of yours. He says I am not to be harmed, and yet.”  He didn’t have to point at the shackles, or at any welts or bruises. She saw them clearly enough when he moved. The poultice helped a great deal, yet wasn’t magical; most of the damage was still bright, unmissable.

“The master did not do this,” Hagne said, her eyes filled with sorrow. “He may be—you had arrived to us like this.”

“I see.” Laurent decided not to push. He could not risk alienating his only ally. “Thank you. Could I ask another favour?”

The seriousness of her expression quivered. “You mean, favour.”

“Yes. As I said. Favour.”

Now she was openly smiling. “Favour.”

“Favour?”

Her head tilted to the side. “That was closer. What can this one do for you?”

“I do not know if this is—customary,” he said carefully, “but in Vere, men do not usually go about without clothing.”

“Oh,” she said. “Does that… bother you?”

It felt impossibly silly to reveal his hand. But, “Yes. It does.” So, so greatly.

“This one will see what can be done.”

“Thank you. I have another question, if you’re feeling generous.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “This one is happy to help with whatever the prize—Laurent needs.”

“Good. This may be complicated. Would you share with me the name of the red flower? It has thorns, and a deep, sweet scent. I am certain it grows in Akielos, but I cannot recall its name.”

“Do you mean a—rose?”

Laurent tried the word on his tongue. “Hmm. Perhaps. I was trying to remember a poem, but the words seem to elude me.”

Hagne’s laughter spurted out of her in evident surprise. “A poem?”

“For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,” he attempted, and was rewarded by a sputtering laugh. Amusement threatened to steal over him as well. “Pardon me. It must sound terrible.”

“Not terrible,” Hagne said, as gracious as always. “It was a fair try.”

Laurent couldn’t help liking her. It was possibly the fact she was the only person he could speak to in whoever-knows how long; maybe the fact she bothered to bring him a healing poultice and a bedroll, or that she smiled at him, guileless and open. Perhaps it could not matter why. He needed her, which eclipsed all else.  

“You could teach me another,” he said. “If your ears do not ache from my pronunciation.”

Hagne challenged him with a look. She seemed so brightly happy. “If this one might suggest, perhaps a few basic words, first?”

Laurent laughed helplessly. “Well, all right. If you insist.”

She stayed with him for most of the day, ostensibly to teach him Akielon. At some point she suggested they broke for his meal, and he ate as much as he could, and even convinced her to take one of the apple slices, which they both counted a victory. Laurent asked easy, meaningless questions about her life, and Hagne answered honestly and without any suspicion. It was a highly illuminating conversation.

By the time she had left (after lighting the lanterns), Laurent was in possession of several new facts:

• Hagne was the personal slave of a highly ranked nobleman who lived in Ios.  
• Her master was not a particularly kind man.
• Laurent wanted to smother him. (Of course, that could mean he was a nobleman who lived in Ios).
• As part of her duties, Hagne regularly cared for her master’s household, including his livestock. She was very proud of this fact, and it was easy to get information out of her on the number of lambs, calves, goats, dogs that her master owns.
• Among his animals was a great number of fine horses.

Different plans of escape weaved behind his eyelids at every given moment, and he was always calculating, and re-calculating, and dismissing hope after hope. To the Auguste in his head, Laurent promised, I am in control, and to the voice that was maybe Father he said, I know. It was unbearable, to wait, but wait he must. This had to be done cleverly or not at all. Everything was at stake.

That night, after he completed his exercises, Laurent actually managed some sleep.

*

Hagne came back early the next day with her best present yet: a horrible, depraved, lewd chiton. Laurent wanted to kiss her.

Stopped himself, obviously, and with great ease. Went for a smile instead, a genuine, helpless one. “Hagne,” he said, and could not manage the strangled quality to his voice. “That is,” his mouth was so dry, “thank you.”

She beamed like he’d given her a great gift. “This one hoped—”

“Please,” Laurent said, “speak freely.”

With a swallow, as if this were difficult: “I hoped you would feel more comfortable. This is not… fitting, for a prize, but—” her distress grew too heavy. Laurent shook his head.

“I am grateful. I would never dare dream of such kindness as you’ve shown me.”

Her face was still sad, although he was speaking in earnest. “May I?” with the chiton in her hands. Laurent rose to his feet, and took a careful step forward. It was very easy, to don a chiton: all one needed to do was cinch the belt and pin the strap at the shoulder. With the chiton, Laurent now had both a belt and a pin to use. Endless victory. Truly, Hagne was too kind.

He weighed the advantages of attacking now. Hagne carried the keys to his shackles before; it was no guarantee she had them now. And even if she did, and he convinced her to unchain him; he did not know of the defences outside this door. He could be met with dozens of guards, and even if miraculously he didn’t, he would have no chance of making his way out of the palace. Now, if there was someone who knew the ins and out of Ios by his side…

More waiting, then. Hagne was practically eating out of his palm; a couple more days, and he might get there. If only he could control himself. If he could be wise about it.

She brought another jar of the poultice. Laurent did not remember the last time he was in such high spirits. He had weapons; medicine; food; clean water; a soft fabric to sleep on; fire; an impossibly sweet conversation partner, whom he understood only half the time. For a royal who grew up missing nothing, today, these all seemed the height of luxury.

He regaled Hagne with tales of a hunt he once dragged Auguste on, when he was very certain hares and bunnies were the same thing, only that hares could fly, and Auguste was so delighted that he didn’t bother correcting him. He was, what, five? Maybe six. They caught nothing, but rode so very far that a search party had been sent after them. Laurent laughed so hard when they were found, and then later, that night, when Father scolded them: Auguste had rolled his eyes and murmured, from the corner of his mouth, control yourself, Laurent, although he was half-laughing too.

“You were so naughty,” Hagne cried, her whole face open with joy. “Your poor brother! Did your father punish him?”

“No,” Laurent said. He had no idea when was the last time he spoke willingly of Auguste to another person. “My brother was impossible to be angry with. Father despaired of us and went to his bed. We were still laughing.”

Hagne's brow lifted in consideration. “You speak of your brother in the past tense. Is that intended?”

She meant, is his grammar truly this atrocious. It was almost sweet. Laurent said, “It is intended.”

“I am sorry.” He tried not to flinch at the casual contact, but her hand on his arm came out of nowhere, and he was lost in the memory, and not quite recovered enough. She said again, “I am sorry.”

“It’s all right. I… simply…” he could not manage the words, not in Akielon and not in Veretian. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“You mean, siblings.” Somewhat amused again. “I do not know. I had been gifted to the master’s household very young. I cannot remember much from before my training.”

Gifted. Laurent’s whole body seized. He worked on containing his reaction until he could make sure his tone would come out even. “I am sorry,” he said, and bowed his head in the manner she did a moment ago. Hagne nodded.

They sat quietly for a while. At some point she went to light the lanterns. The candlelight softened her already-soft features; gave shadows where they didn’t previously show. Laurent decided it was time.

“Hagne,” he said, and if she noticed the heaviness in his tone she didn’t comment on it. “You know I am not of Akielos.”

She said, “Yes.”

“I confess a certain ignorance. Previously, you called me prize. I do not know what that means.”

“You mean,” she whispered, every word careful, “that you did not… choose to present?”

“Choose,” Laurent said. “Do most slaves get a choice?”

She smiled ruefully. “I did not think they had slaves, in Vere.”

“They do not. They also don’t have ‘prizes’.”

Hagne nodded. “I thought…” she looked at the shackle attached to his ankle. “The man who spoke to the master. He seemed to convey you were… and your stories suggested you were—if not highborn, then…”

“I do not wish to put you in any trouble,” Laurent said. He kept his voice light. “I only want to understand. The meaning I have for ‘prize’ is literal. Will I be given away?”

“Given,” Hagne said, and shuddered. “That is not the word one uses for people.”

“Is there a better word for what will happen to me?”

She hung her head low. “The prize is entrusted to the victor of the harvest festival. They are a symbol of our sacrifice for the goddess Demeter.”

The victor. Laurent swallowed the information only after locking his face. “What competition?”

“The okton.”

He had to remind himself to breathe.

Too long had passed. “Laurent? Are you all right?”

“When,” he cleared his throat. Closed his eyes. Opened them. Too many thoughts crammed in his head, suffocating. “When is the festival?”

“In six days, on the new moon.”

The world around him greyed; his chest was too tight. Six days. Okton. Entrusted. Sacrifice.

“Laurent?”

He couldn’t think. They were too loud, all these words. Breathing was a challenge.

“Laurent?” her voice was close. She had come within touching distance, although she mercifully kept her hands away. Laurent tried, desperately, to say something, and he could think of nothing, nothing at all.

“I,” he managed, “thank you for letting me know.”

She looked so worried. She was far too close. “It is not so bad,” Hagne said, nonsensically. “There are worse masters than—”

“I beg you,” Laurent said, “do not.”

She nodded, although she didn’t take a step back. Laurent’s head was too full and too empty. An echoing call of control yourself was all he could really grasp.

Hagne said something more; he didn’t catch it. Wide-eyed, he searched within himself for his willpower, for all that he had left. “Pardon?”

“I said I could teach you a poem, if you’d like.”

Oh, she was ridiculously good. Laurent found a smile somewhere and plastered it on. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Hagne finally stepped back, and allowed some air to travel into Laurent’s desperate lungs. “I could come back later,” she said, hesitant. “If you need some rest.”

“Yes,” Laurent squeezed out of his throat. “Thank you.”

He missed whatever her parting words were. He missed the door closing and the lock turning. Would have missed a lion roaring right in his face, biting a chunk of it clean off; his head was nowhere he could find and in no place he recognised. Words still spun dizzyingly fast: okton, sacrifice, given. There are worse masters than. Even Auguste’s voice was fading in light of this new, terrible revelation.

No: he was focusing on the wrong thing. Six days, she said. There were six days to escape this unbearable fate. If only his mind worked properly, he would see a path out of here.

A part of him knew. A part of him had always known.

No part of him was willing to accept it.

Darker plans hatched before his eyes, and he indulged each one for a tortured, frantic moment. Control yourself. He could not allow much more of this anger. He did not allow it.

He took the rest of the evening to fruitlessly try and calm down. By the time the door opened, Laurent was almost in a state to carry conversation.

Of course, it was then that matters grew impossibly worse.  

“Laurent,” said Uncle, and everything became alarmingly, frighteningly clear.

Chapter Text

Damen blinked.

“Laurent?”

The knife was pointed at him. It came from the dinner table. It was the most stable part in the whole, unreal scene; Laurent’s body was shaking so violently, that the knife, which was only trembling, seemed still.

“Touch me and die,” said Laurent, in that entirely new voice. The room darkened with it, calamitous. Damen forgot for a moment to be outraged.

Then remembered. “What is this?” he asked, to the dinner-table-knife, to the look on Laurent’s beautiful face. “Are you attempting an attack against me?”

Surely Vere would not—the Regent was such an agreeable man—

Laurent took an unsteady step back; Damen stopped in his tracks, retrieved his hand. Everything felt impossibly nonsensical.

“Laurent,” he tried. Steeled his tone. “Drop the knife.”

There was something of a dream in the way his face contorted; not a dream. As removed as one. “I will not,” Laurent said, “permit you bend me over.”

Damen said, “What?”

Laurent's foot caught the edge of the bed, and he righted himself, one arm still held up, the knife still—pointing—thoughts swirled and blurred, racing for the forefront of Damen’s mind, questions too heavy, dizzying.

“Do not touch me,” Laurent said. Damen did not intend the half step forward, which forced Laurent another haltering one back. For an assassination attempt it was patently poor. Surely the man with the weapon was to move towards the target?

Damen shook his head. “Laurent, Explain yourself.”

Now he resumed his previous muteness, rebelliously. Unsteady with the wine, trying to school his face back into impassiveness, and failing. He was young, Damen thought dazedly, young, and so obviously scared. He wasn’t coming towards him. He was trying to escape.

“You do not wish to be here,” Damen realised only as he said the words, aghast.

Laurent was spitting with rage. “You think—any chained slave wishes—” he was making no sense.

“You have nothing to fear, I promise. I will not hurt you. Calm down.”

Instead he went berserk. It almost sounded like laughter, but not the kind Damen knew. It held all the edge of a sword point and all the venom of a bite.

“Hurt me,” Laurent said, or maybe asked. He was still laughing—not laughing. Making these dreadful, hyena-like cries, guttural and wounded. “You will not hurt me?”

“Upon my honour.”

A sharp scoff. “As though you have any.”

Damen flinched. The words were baffling, but the tone was a slap to the face, and he never had anyone speak like that to him before. Not even Kastor when he was furious. “You,” Damen started, and did not know how to continue.

“I will not bend for you,” Laurent said. He was slurring ever so slightly. He was beyond wild. “I will not permit you pass me around your bosom-buddies—”

“What?”

“—to be broken on your monstrous cocks. I will combat you, Damianos, I will claw out your eyes sooner than beg, I will bite it off before I gag on your come!”

Urgently, horribly, Damen said, “You have me wrong. I would never force you.”

“No,” said Laurent. He was dancing slightly on the spot. It seemed the only thing keeping him standing was the bed pole, on which his hold was continuously slacking. “No. Maybe you will slice me through. With your cock, to make it worse.”

He was so bizzarely, so wretchedly angry, the weight of it a palpable coat over him, sizzling. He made no sense. “Laurent,” Damen said, as gently as he could, “put down the knife.”

Red-blue eyes blinked at the object still trembling in his pale fist. Exasperated, Damen asked, “When did you even get this?” and for a long moment, the only response he received was a shrug. Laurent's eyelids were drooping. 

“You and my—lord were busy. Talking. So much talking. My head is splitted.”

An unreasonable stab of something struck true in his chest. “The knife, Laurent.”

“I won’t bend for you.”

Damen said, “All right.”

More slow, torturous blinking. “I mean it.”

“I thought you did.”

“You can send me in prison. You can have me killed. I will never take your cock willingly. Not upon my very last breath.”

The words coming out uneven. Damen inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

“I understand.”

Laurent let the knife fall, cluttering, to the floor. There was more than just surrender to the motion; it was the very last thing he did before collapsing right after it. As if he kept himself from passing out solely to say these words, to make his distaste clear with the last chance he got.

Damen sighed heavily to himself, and went to collect the figure curled at the foot of his bed.

Raising a weapon at royalty was, of course, a death sentence. Laurent’s body was strangely light in his arms. He did not stay completely still, muttering, slurred Veretian words not nearing coherency. Damen had never seen someone react this way to a few cups of wine. Perhaps the Regent had him drink much more than Damen noticed. Perhaps there was something else involved.

It was not uncommon, for slaves to be prepared for service with use of a drug; simply, that Damen had not requested it, and that Laurent was a prize. He had to kneel for all these hours. It seemed impractical.

Laurent did not wake as Damen took him to the sofa, as he posted him gently on the cushions. As he stood there and watched him.

Thin, milky-pale. His clothes had come slightly undone in all the commotion. Past the lace covering his wrists, Damen could see faded marks, red. Laurent moaned in discomfort, a weirdly disheartening sound; he was young. The flavour in Damen’s mouth was decidedly sour.

Any of the questions squirming in his abdomen would have to wait for morning. The idea of calling for his guards he had abandoned even before it bloomed in full. Laurent was no threat. Not even if he could stand on his own strength, which, emphatically, he could not. Laurent was… bewildering, and somewhat heartbreaking, in the way his brow creased, his limbs curled into himself. The image was instinctively wrong. The young forest god and the naiad turning into this broken thing, a lost foal.

Rubbing his face, Damen took himself to the washroom, and stared, forlorn, at the tub that had been prepared for them. He imagined touching Laurent’s body delicately. He imagined never having seen the accusation in those lovely features: I will not bend for you, as though Damen was twisting his arm, tearing his clothes off.

Perhaps it had all been a misunderstanding. Veretians knew little about the harvest festival: it was very clear, from the threat Laurent imagined he was under, that his duty had not been explained to him. If he truly believed Damen would force him, would force others on him, would—do any of those horrible things, then perhaps his reaction had even been reasonable. Perhaps he preferred an execution to his imaginings. Damen expected he might, in his stead.

But Laurent was under no such threat. Damen would laugh, if anything about how the night ended had been even slightly humorous. No: Laurent was quite safe, and once Damen explained this to him, in the morning, the next step would present itself clearly.

(He already knew the executioner shall not be called upon).

It was a misunderstanding. They will clear it up, and Damen would never again have to see how deep misery could carve through blue eyes. It will all be better in the morning.

Morning was very slow to come.

*

The rustle did not quite wake him; Damen had not been fully asleep for longer than several heartbeats all night. Still, when he heard movement from the sofa, he felt his eyes open, and the dryness of his mouth, and he was awake.

Carefully, deliberately loud, he stretched and pulled himself out of the covers. His muscles were stiff from yesterday’s exercise. Or perhaps from how still he kept himself all night, in his own bed. He felt slightly ridiculous.

Then less so, when he saw Laurent, his eyes wide and reddened. It took an endless moment for Laurent to collect himself, and even then it was nowhere near the perfect mask of the day before. Damen felt much less silly now.

“Good morning,” he said, hearing the awkwardness in his own voice.

Laurent said nothing, at first. His eyes lowered, deferential, to the floor. When he opened his mouth, what came out was soft: “Exalted.”

Damen waited a moment longer. When nothing more followed, he asked, “Are you in pain?”

He meant if Laurent’s head was aching from the wine. The question seemed to stun him, although Damen could not guess why.

“Not terribly so,” Laurent said, wry. Then he sighed. “I,” he stumbled, “last night.”

“You need not apologise.”

“I did not mean to.”

“Oh.”

“I do not know,” Laurent said, his eyes still cast down, as though he wasn't staring daggers at Damen only hours ago, “what you intend to do with me. I am not familiar with Akielon torture.”

He said the word so easily. Damen balked. “Torture?”

“I mean to say… the torment you receive in response to wrongdoings.”

“Punishment?”

Laurent looked up momentarily. “Yes. That.”

“Well,” Damen said. He felt his heart racing in his chest. All of it was inexplicable. “The punishment for attacking the Crown Prince is of course death.”

“Of course,” Laurent nodded. “I meant the punishment for refusal.”

He must have used the wrong word again. Delicately, Damen repeated, “Refusal?”

“Of your advances. I do not know how that is—punishing, by law.”

The conjugation was off; Damen blinked. “You cannot mean… surely you don’t think I will punish you for…” he could barely even bring himself to say it. Laurent, incredibly, shrugged.

“Is it not the role of a prize? To be fucked mercilessly?”

It was worse than a slap. Nausea roiled in his belly. “What!”

“Mercilessly,” Laurent said, again. “I mean to say, without consideration and with no stop.”

Damen felt sick. “No. That is most crucially not the role of a prize.”

“Forgive me. It seems I have spoken out of turn.”

“No—no. Laurent, it was never my intention to force anything on you. That you would even think! I regret that no one had properly explained. It is not how we do things in Akielos.” His disgust, at this moment with everything Veretian, must have been visible in his face. Laurent’s eyes narrowed.

“Akielos,” he said. 

“Yes, Akielos! What is the Veretian punishment for a pet not allowing himself raped?”

“Ah,” Laurent said. His voice was flat. “In Vere, a pet is permitted to terminate their employment. Is such the same for a chained slave?”

“Chained!” Damen cried. “Are you in chains?”

Laurent visibly mulled the words over, then waved a hand. “Bound? Is that the proper term? It amounts to the same thing.”

It most definitely did not, as the bonds Laurent so flippantly referred to were a sense of duty, and not physical restraints, but Damen had more important misconceptions to correct here. “There is no punishment for saying no. The role of a prize is not to be viciously ravished. You might have heard my father last night; a prize is a symbol of divinity.”

“I heard the King. He said, symbol of sacrifice.”

“It's a spiritual role!”

“And ‘it is in the physical realm that man finds true devotion’? I remember.”

Damen’s head was spinning. “It is not as you would make it. There will be no forcing your hand. You are at all times allowed to refuse me.”

“Good,” said Laurent. “I plan to refuse you everything for as long as I breathe.”

Damen said, “Fine!” and buried his face in his hands, utterly lost. Then, remembering, “You will not be executed for last night.”

Laurent took the information in with a shrug. He was impossible.

“What? Did you hope to be put to death?”

“No,” Laurent said evenly.

“All right. Well. You won’t be, so. There is no logic to prolonging this—circular conversation any further. Would you like to bathe before I call for breakfast? There is a small bath in the adjoining chamber.”

“No.”

“That’s fine. Shall I call for breakfast, then?”

“No.” Laurent was staring at him.

“What?”

“Ask me something else.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Laurent said, “No.”

“What is this?”

With a grand gesture of his hands, “I am practicing my permission to refuse.”

Damen huffed what turned out to be a shocked laugh. Gathered himself with some disbelief. “Fine, have it your way. I do intend to bathe first, unless—I doubt you ate much, last night. It is likely you are hungry, and simply being stubborn.”

Sweetly, Laurent said, “No.”

It was a disaster. Nothing about this situation had the necessary levity to be anywhere near charm, and yet Laurent was infuriatingly, impossibly charming. Damen said, “All right. Breakfast will wait. I don’t suppose you wish to join me in the bath.”

Laurent smiled, a vicious thing. “No.”

“Very well. I caution you, then: if you leave these chambers, do not tell anyone about what transpired last night. I mean the knife, Laurent, not the refusal. Do not breathe a word of it.”

He eyed him with very clear suspicion. “I am allowed to leave?”

“The rooms? Of course.”

“But not the palace.”

Damen exhaled. “Is that what you wish to do? Leave the palace? And, what, return to Vere?”

Laurent’s throat clicked as he swallowed. Slowly, he said, “No. It is possible I do not wish to leave, just yet.”

“Possible?”

“If,” he closed his eyes. His voice had changed, although in what quality, Damen was not certain. “If I have your word that you will not revoke the right you bestowed me.”

“The right?”

“To refuse.”

Damen’s head was… how did Laurent put it last night, splitted. “Let me be clear. You are still required to obey my commands, as your prince. But I will never command that of you, and any attempts at—intimacy—are not between a prince and a prize, but between two men. You are always allowed to refuse those.”

Laurent’s face flickered between mistrust, anger, and something far colder, all too quick to make a lasting impression, before landing on neutrality. Damen now knew how put-on this calm front was, and admired, begrudgingly, that Laurent managed it, with the hangover he was no doubt experiencing.

“All right,” he said. “In that case, I do not wish to leave the palace.”

“We are happy to provide you our hospitality,” Damen said, only slightly ruefully. He would have been happy to host any prize, in earnest. He was still somewhat happy to have Laurent here, now that no table-knives and talk of monstrous cocks were between them. No, not happy, that was the wrong word for it, but he had no better one, yet. Perhaps curious. Certainly determined.

He had seen the red marks on Laurent’s wrists: he knew the matter had to be investigated. It was his royal duty to find who, in the palace, was bold enough to allow violence upon a prize. However he wished to believe all this happened long ago, in Vere, Damen would not lie to himself. The marks were recent.

A bath, then. It should not have felt like such a hardship.

The water was of last night, and cold. Damen could call in a slave; he even knew what levers to pull to fix it himself. He did neither. Instead he plunged head-first into the bracing cool, and thought to himself, it will all be better by the afternoon.

When Damen returned to the bedroom, Laurent was—different.

He stood tall, now, in the natural grace Damen recognised, his eyes distant, looking out the window. He fixed his hair; might have even journeyed to the baths, although Damen did not dally, and it was not likely he had the time. Somehow his face had been washed, of the tears and what Damen now knew was paint: his eyelashes were lighter in colour, and his eyes startling even without the kohl. It seemed impossible, for this beguiling image to be the same as the shaky creature he met last night. All of it seemed impossible.

“I heard,” Laurent said, “there might be breakfast.”

Heavy as a gut-punch, all—this. “Sure. Breakfast. You did not have to wait.”

“I would never be so rude, Exalted,” Laurent flicked his eyelashes, and Damen got the distinct feeling he was being mocked, which—well—anyway, he felt his own face grinning, and could not control it had he tried.

“Right. Dinner-knives aside, you are perfectly polite.”

“There is the matter of Vere’s reputation I was tasked to uphold.”

His vocabulary was incongruent and somewhat delightful. Damen cautioned himself not to take it to heart. “Do you think you are doing a good job?”

Laurent hummed. “That depends,” he said, eventually.

“On?”

The smile was not genuine, and still. “I suppose we will endeavour to find out. I also believe I was promised food.”

Damen said, “All right. I’ll go fetch someone to bring it.”

He was already at the door when Laurent’s voice stopped him. “Speaking of Vere,” in this casual tone. “The new King.”

“You mean the Regent?”

“Oh. Is he Regent, still? Forgive me; the journey to Ios had been long and I am not yet catch up on matters of state.”

Damen battled a small smile. His grammar aside, this was no easy matter to discuss. “The mourning period for your prince is not yet finished. It is observed in full, seeing as the Regency already held the crown.”

“Of course. And the Regent chose to spend this time in Akielos?”

“To sign the treaty, yes. I do not believe he would stay past the festival.”

Laurent nodded. “Seven days, then.”

“Yes. Why do you ask? Is there something you need of him?” Damen kept his voice soft; he knew now how terrified Laurent had been, and if he needed any sense of comfort, and Damen could provide it, he would. The presence of his own countryman, and a future king, would mean a lot to a lost, baffled young man.

“Not just now. I would so appreciate that promised breakfast, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Although his tone was still light, teasing, Damen could sense it coming off him, waves of… something tense and painful. Almost disgust. Knowing he did not make that much of a headway regarding the whole rape accusations, that he would have to work hard for Laurent’s trust, Damen nodded, and left to instruct his guards to send for food.

He took his time, deliberately, and was relieved to return and hear Laurent through the washroom. He wondered, briefly, about going in to teach him about the warm water, but decided it more trouble than worth. Laurent would not appreciate being intruded upon by the man he expected to… in any case, by that time more slaves had come to prepare the sitting chamber for breakfast.

Staring about himself rather dazed, Damen realised how Laurent had washed his face before. The pitcher of water that stood by the bed was empty, and the wall outside the window glistened, a wet path all the way down.

Laurent came out as the food was all set, pinkened and unbearably lovely. It took a while for Damen’s eyes to be able to leave his face (immaculately clean now, devastating), his hair (wet and darker gold, mesmerising), the tight laces covering his neck, just below the sharp jut of his jaw, which were only slightly loosened, and revealed—

“Who did this,” Damen asked, before he was in full possession of his faculties. His feet took him all the way across the room, and only immense power of will stopped his hands from reaching out. Laurent’s neck bore similar marks as his wrist, though less faded, and bruises bloomed from the red welts, trailing and then hidden under his clothes.

Laurent’s eyes met his unflinchingly. “Oh?”

The rage that nearly blinded him pounded between his ears. “Who,” he said, barely, “dared lay hands on property of the crown?”

Cold-blue went icy. “I suppose this is that honour they speak of.”

“What?”

“Prince Damianos,” Laurent said. “Kind-hearted to his inferiors. Gracious in the arena. Honourable with his property.”

“You have been hurt!” Damen heard himself shout. “In the palace! Someone in the palace is hurting slaves!”

“I thought,” Laurent said, “prizes were not slaves.”

Damen’s head hurt. “They are not. The—distinction is beside the point of this matter. Someone hurt you. Here, in the palace. Was it a Veretian?”

Laurent measured him for a long moment. Then he said, “I do not know.”

“What?”

“I do not know,” he repeated, calmly. “I was not supraliminal at the time.”

Again, Damen said, “What?”

Laurent waved a hand in an entirely Veretian gesture. “The opposite of awake. Not in possession of my wits. Not asleep, but—”

“Unconscious?”

“Unconscious, yes, thank you.”

Reeling, Damen could only blink. “Why…” the words died on his tongue. Laurent did not seem very impressed with him.

“You knew I was not here of my own will. How did you think I arrived, Exalted?”

“I—” an odd sensation tingled down Damen’s spine, awfully close to dread. “I do not know. How you arrived here.” Then, after a moment of this peculiar unease, “Was it not the Regent who brought you?”

Laurent considered that. “Had he said so?”

“He… no, not exactly.” It was Father who implied he had brought Laurent from Arles. For Damen. And the Regent who said, only the best for our allies. The thought rattled and shook in his skull. “Why would you stay?” Damen asked, helplessly. “If you were brought to Ios against your will. And you are given the chance to leave.”

“Generously,” Laurent said. “I already said; my only aim is to refuse you.”

Damen could not find it in himself to be amused. “Laurent,” he said, “if someone is mistreating slaves in this palace, I need to know who they are. If I do not know, I cannot keep them safe.”

Blue eyes narrowed. “Very touching,” he said. “Your concern. However, as I uttered before, I do not know who it was. Perhaps you ought to find a different way. To keep your slaves safe, I mean.”

Damen breathed. It took effort to convince his lungs to perform the action. Anger and frustration and worst of all, worry, warred in his chest like starving hounds. First and foremost was the need to ensure the slaves in the palace were safe. Those who gifted their perfect submission deserved perfect treatment. They would not be left vulnerable; Damen would see to it. Then… Laurent, and whatever the story there was.

He turned—when had he marched all the way to the window—and saw him, barefoot in the centre of the room, beautiful and untouchably cool, sharp and stunning in the sunlight. It was worse, today, knowing his voice, the not-quite-jokes told with the straightest of faces; worse, knowing Laurent had not chosen to be here. Damen thought of the fairy, of the deer in the clearing; before him now stood an ethereal force trapped in delicate form.

His form was perfect. He was young. He was hungry. Damen rubbed his eyes until they stung. “Eat,” he said, gently, gesturing at the set table. “If there is anything else you would like, ask for it, and it shall be brought. As my claimed prize, you outrank all who work in the palace.”

“Curious,” was Laurent’s reply. Something moved behind his eyes, too quick to ascertain. “And you? Shall you go unfed?”

Damen managed a smile. “I will speak to the slave keeper and his staff first. Do not worry; I’m sure I will not die of a missed meal.”

“One can only hope,” with a hint of amusement. Not sure if he should be offended or buoyed by the sentiment, Damen chuckled, and left the room with the question still half-formed on his lips.