Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Max trudged behind Baptiste miserably, thoroughly grumpy. It was his free time and yet here he was, walking through the woods with Baptiste, not flying in his dragon form like he wanted to be doing. He sighed heavily, for what had to be the tenth time since he’d been brought out. Baptiste turned to glance over his shoulder at the red-faced, irritable fifteen-year-old a few paces back. 

“Are you going to pout the entire time we’re out here, young man?” Baptiste asked him casually. 

“I’m not pouting,” Max said, huffing and most definitely pouting. 

Baptiste rolled his eyes, pushing on down the familiar pathway towards Max’s ‘lair’. 

“I just don’t understand why I have to be the one to be out here with you taking fish to the dragon. I mean, he’s never hurt any of the knights bringing him his snack in the past. What’s the chance it’ll hurt you if you’re by yourself? And he’s friends with you,” Max complained, tugging lightly on the reins of the horse that was bearing the basket filled with fish to lead it further along the well-worn path in the forest behind Baptiste. 

Baptiste snorted, walking calmly ahead of Max, taking his dear sweet time about it. 

“The dragon is not ‘friends’ with anyone, Max,” Baptiste said. “He’s a wild animal. Let him get hungry or angry or scared enough and he’ll kill any human just like that.”

He snapped his fingers smartly. He’d finally started calling Max by his preferred shortened name instead of his full one about a year back, and Max could swear that the man still seemed to struggle with it. He was so damned proper all the time.

Max grimaced. “I think the dragon would be safe no matter what…”

Baptiste glanced back with a smirk, but didn’t push things beyond that. Max sighed again. Fish delivery day was easily one of Max’s favorite days of each month. Just smelling them in the basket that was secured over the horse’s back had his mouth watering. He could imagine the taste of them; all but feel the little crackles of the tiny bones between his teeth. Slightly warm from the heat of the afternoon sun beating down on the basket, all tangy with blood.

Oh, I am positively starving right now.

Usually, Max waited for Baptiste and whatever knight that was accompanying him in his monthly fish delivery to leave, but sometimes, Max would make an appearance. Baptiste was always pleased to see him, and would speak in a calmly, gentle tone that Max never heard him use with anyone else. He would even, very rarely, stroke Max’s side and comment on his shiny scales. Max enjoyed seeing the awe in the eyes of the knights who got to see him up close, and often wondered how they might react to knowing the very same dragon slept, ate, and trained with them in their keep.

Max had planned to show up today and let Baptiste see him. He liked to let Baptiste lay eyes on him every few months, to keep him from worrying about him. If he didn’t Baptiste would start organizing a search for him to make sure he was still alive and well. And things had been particularly hard on this day. He’d been working with Leon and they’d gone on their first ever extended patrol into the little port city that the keep shared the valley with. Max had loved every minute of it. He’d gotten to spend nearly two full weeks with Leon, in his own private room that was reserved for the knights that came and did month long rotations in the tavern, and patrol the city every day. No boring protocol and history lessons, no chores, no running the obstacle course. Just Max and Leon, walking the city streets, and hanging out. 

The only problem? Max didn’t get to shift forms for over two weeks, and he was getting desperate. Just that morning, while running through his drills with Leon, he’d very nearly bitten. Thori and Max had learned not long after Max had first started shifting that the longer he went without shifting, the more… animalistic he got. The urge to bite, claw, snarl, walk on all fours? It grew stronger every minute he stayed in his human body. Max hadn’t told Thori, but sometimes, when he was in his dragon form he didn’t always… want to turn back. Sometimes, it worried Max. 

Right now, though? He just wanted to go flying.

Max huffed another sigh, grumbling miserably under his breath. 

“You’d think I’m making you muck out the stables with your hands with the fuss you’re putting up, boy,” Baptiste said, glancing over his shoulder and lifting a brow. 

Max stayed sullenly silent.

“Perhaps if you’re lucky the dragon might make an appearance. He usually comes to see us every few months,” Baptiste continued, sounding hopeful. 

“I doubt it,” Max muttered.

“Hmm. Yes, perhaps the dragon might be frightened away by the cloud being created by your bad mood…” Baptiste said.

Max scowled at the ground, tugging the horse along further, guiding it closer to the cave he’d so long ago turned into his ‘lair’. Over the years, he’d made the cave his own. At first, he’d started to collect little odds and ends as a joke. Thori would bring him a gold coin or a colorful strip of fabric. He would snag an old dagger from the armory. Bottles, pretty rocks, that one cool log with all the mushrooms on it. Then, about a year ago, when a wolf had found his hoard and tried to move in, Max had gotten so viciously angry at another creature daring to invade his lair that he’d… Well, the wolf wasn’t around anymore, to say the least. He didn’t mind Baptiste or any of the knights coming to his lair. In fact, he welcomed them. They were his. If a knight ever came to his lair needing him, he would protect them with everything he had. But unknowns? Creatures he hadn’t laid a claim to? He could all but feel his scales flair out at the thought.

“This is such bullshit , ” Max muttered to himself. 

Baptiste suddenly halted, forcing Max to pause as well. When he turned around, Max nearly cringed at the sight of his face. 

“All right. That’s it. I have had it with your poor attitude, young man,” Baptiste said.

Max considered backing down, apologizing, and trying to move on. But he could almost feel his temper getting hot, crawling beneath his skin. 

“I don’t have an attitude!” he snapped back. 

“Young man, this is your last chance to mind your tone. I suggest you think very carefully about what you say to me next.”

Max’s face screwed up. More than anything, he wanted to bite.

“This is all just so stupid! Why do I have to be the one to come into the forest during my free hours!? You couldn’t ask one of the knights who was actually on duty to do this?”

Baptiste’s jaw clenched as he looked at Max for a long, drawn out moment. Then, without taking his eyes off of Max, he began to unbuckle his belt. 

“Very well. Since you clearly are in rare form this afternoon, I see we shall have to take a different approach to things. Drop your trousers and place your hands on that log there,” he said, nodding towards a fallen log that was to Max’s left.

“What!? That’s not fair!”

“And if you continue arguing with me, you can lower your undershorts as well.”

Baptiste slipped his belt free from his waist, doubled it over carefully, and pointed towards the log. 

“Now, Max.”

“But… But I didn’t even do anything!”

“One.”

“Baptiste!”

“Two.”

“This is bullshit!”

“Three.”

Baptiste strode towards him with a look of pure determination in his eyes. 

“No, wait! Baptiste, wait!” Max yelped, dropping the reins and trying to skitter back. 

Despite his age, Baptiste was a quick man. In a few quick strides, he’d snagged Max by the upper arm and was dragging him towards the fallen log. Worse still, he used that impeccable aim that he’d been so famous for as a young man to bring his belt up and around to snap against Max’s rear end, effectively herding the teen with quick, hard strokes. 

“Ow! Baps! Eck!” Max yelled, dancing as Baptiste found his target over and over again. 

“Curse at me, shall you? I think not, young man,” Baptiste said, positioning Max in front of the log but not stopping his assault for a second. 

For a long few moments, the peace of the forest was broken by the sharp snaps of folded leather meeting an unfortunate teenaged bottom, and the shouted pleading for it to stop.

Finally, Baptiste paused and pointed at the ground. 

“Trousers. Down. Now.”

Then, he brought the belt up again and went right back to cracking it across Max’s bottom. Max thrust his hips forward, trying to get his rear out of firing range, but Baptiste only followed. Quickly, he realized that Baptiste wouldn’t be stopping until he’d been obeyed, so Max fumbled with his trouser buttons, desperately trying to undo them while simultaneously avoiding Baptiste’s wickedly good aim. As he bent slightly to shuck his trousers down to his knees, Baptiste took advantage and delivered an almighty WHAP to his undershorts clad ass, and Max let out a hoarse shout, nearly tipping forward as he reached back to clutch his burning rear end. 

When he turned to give Baptiste a thoroughly betrayed look, the older man who he thought of as his ‘grandmaster’ returned the look with narrowed eyes. Finally stopping his assault, he pointed towards the log. 

“Put your hands flat against the log, boy.”

“But- But you already-”

“Now!” 

Jumping in surprise at the sharp tone, Max obeyed immediately, and found himself staring at the half rotted knots in the log as he clung to them, perfectly presenting his behind to Baptiste. Max often made a game of seeing just how far he could push Leon before he got truly angry. Thori would just ignore him, telling him to stop being a child. The game didn’t work on Malachi, because he would win by annoying Max instead. But Baptiste? Max never dared to play his game with old Baps. He valued his backside far too much. 

Besides, Baptiste was downright scary when he was angry. 

He worried his lower lip as Baptiste took up the more traditional position of ‘pissed off and in an ass whipping mood master’ to Max’s left, tapping his belt across the fullest part of Max’s rear. 

“I never let Leon curse at any of his elders, and especially not at me, so I know he has taught you better as well,” Baptiste said behind Max.

“I’m sorry, Baps! It just sorta slipped ou- OW!” Max said, nearly leaping up as Baptiste added a fresh stripe. This time, with the full swing of his arm, it hurt so much worse. 

“I don’t know what has gotten into you, but whatever it is, it stops this instant, Maxamillion.”

Another stripe, just below the first. Max shouted, lifting one foot up and balancing on the other, hunching his back as he rode the sting out before returning to position. 

“I had hoped for a pleasant afternoon’s walk with you. I had hoped to show you something rare and interesting. I had hoped to spend some time with you in a more relaxed capacity away from the keep.”

After each statement, Baptiste added a fresh lick to Max’s furiously smarting bottom. Max felt tears beginning to well in his eyes. 

“Instead, I get nothing but your sass and utter disrespect. Is this how Leon raised you? To disrespect your elders and take your bad moods out on those who are undeserving?” 

WHAP.

Max tossed his head back and wailed, his tears finally slipping down his face. He shook his head desperately. 

“No, sir! I’m sorry! My master taught me better!” 

Another snap of the belt, this time across the backs of his thighs. “How were you raised to treat your elders, Max?”

“Ah! Wi- with respect, sir!”

“And is that how you’ve been treating me this afternoon?”

A new stripe, crossing across the first across his thighs. Max whined, high-pitched and pitiful.

“No, sir! I’m really sorry! Please, Baptiste! No more!”

“Perhaps I’d been taking you along today as a test of your readiness for becoming a junior knight like Thorimastrus? You’ll be sixteen this winter, after all. Do you think you would have passed such a test with that behavior?”

Max shook his head, weeping hard, unable to speak past his sobbing. 

Baptiste landed two more nasty stingers before he finally straightened and began to refasten his belt around his waist. 

“No. You would not have. Be thankful that this was simply an outing of chance and not such a test, young man. Now, do you think you can handle acting in a respectful manner towards me for the rest of this outing, or shall I just send you back to the keep now?”

Max sniffled, standing slowly and reaching back to give his throbbing backside a good rub. “No, sir! I’ll be respectful. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken my bad mood out on you.” 

Max kept his head bowed low as Baptiste looked down at him. Max was much taller now, and growing still, but Baptiste still had a few inches on him. 

“That’s better. Now get your trousers up and clean up your face.”

He strode ahead to collect the reins of the horse, leaving Max to pick up his trousers and refasten them. His pride, unfortunately, was in pieces on the forest floor, and Max doubted he’d be able to recover that anytime soon. Sniffling, he scrubbed his face clean with his sleeve, and turned to find Baptiste waiting for him impatiently. Once he saw that Max was following, Baptiste turned and continued on towards Max’s lair, ignoring the sniffling senior squire trailing behind him miserably. 

As he thought about it, Max felt his face heat with shame. He hadn’t thought about Baptiste just wanting to hang out with him. He was always so busy these days. The war with the Bikra was picking up and they were closing in more and more every month. Some days, Max only saw Baptiste at mealtimes, or not at all. A wave of guilt hit him and after giving his backside a final, thorough rub, he launched into a jog after Baptiste. 

“Baps! Wait a moment!” he called.

Baptiste paused and turned, looking irritated with the casual nickname that Max had latched onto years ago when Malachi first mentioned it within his hearing range. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when Max wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his face against his shoulder.

“‘M sorry, Baps,” Max muttered against his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I do like spending time with you. I just… I was just cranky and I took it out on you. Please forgive me?” 

Baptiste was stiff in his hold for a moment, before he awkwardly patted Max’s back.

“All right, lad. I forgive you. Now come, we’ll see if the dragon is about in his lair. Sometimes he comes to visit us when we drop off his fish.”

Max followed along, but he knew there would be no dragon visit like Baptiste was hoping for. For the rest of the walk, Max followed along quietly, giving his bottom the occasional rub. Then, they were at his lair. Max lifted the basket of fish with ease, and Baptiste let out a low whistle. 

“My, aren’t you getting strong, my lad?” he said, his lip quirking up into a small smile. 

Max set the basket down without having to be told where to place it, having recalled where it always sat when he came for his snack. The cave felt very large when he was in this form. Usually, it was quite snug, and it had only gotten tighter the more Max had grown. And he had grown in his dragon form. Now, Thori could comfortably sit on his back without Max’s ridges and spines poking him and Max's head was above the treetops of the forest. 

Baptiste stood at the mouth of the cave, lifted his fingers to his lips, and let out a piercing whistle that echoed out of the cave. Max winced, his sensitive ears hurting from the sound. He knew it well. Baptiste always did the same tone when he whistled for the ‘dragon’ to come to him. Usually, the sound excited Max, because that meant Baptiste was bringing him a treat, but today Max was only able to stand beside the man as he whistled a few more times for a dragon that wasn’t coming. 

“Hmm,” Baptiste said, his hands on his hips. “I suppose our little dragon is out hunting and can’t hear me calling. He usually comes right away when I whistle for him. He’s quite prompt.”

Max fought not to grumble, knowing that he was prompt. Because he wanted his fish.

“Well, it can’t hurt to let you have a look around. Our dragon is a sneaky little thing. He somehow manages to get all sorts of things from the keep. I think a lot of the knights leave things out for him to have so he can get used to their smell.”

Max thought that was a silly idea, but didn’t voice his opinion. He didn’t steal things for their smells. He stole them because they were pretty. He turned and followed Baptiste further into his lair, watching the older man. Baptiste was always very respectful when Max was with him as a dragon, watching him. Max had never minded Baptiste looking around, but Baptiste never touched or explored much with a dragon watching him. Now, without slanted pupils to follow him, Max was curious to see what he would do.

He watched as Baptiste strode around a bit, looking at Max’s berry pile with a wrinkled nose. Admittedly, his berries were more than a bit ripe, he thought, taking in the rotting pile of near mush.

He wandered his little cave, checking that all of his little treasures were present and accounted for. His coins, dagger, and colorful cloths were all there. He checked his random armor stash, and found it unbothered. He had a piece of armor from nearly every knight in the keep at this point. Only Baptiste and Sir Gregor were left, and he’d been eyeing Sir Gregor’s left boot cover for ages now…

“Max, be careful not to touch anything. The dragon tolerates us being in his cave, but I doubt he’d be too pleased to discover a new smell on his little treasures,” Baptiste warned, also wandering the area, though he kept his hands tucked respectfully behind his back as he looked.

Max nodded, half-listening, and continued checking. His ‘Leon’ pile was still there, featuring two right-hand winter gloves, four old boots, two shirts, a pair of breeches, three pieces of armor (his arm guard, shin guard, and shoulder pauldron, all from the right side), a hairbrush, numerous sketching pencils, a few books, a polishing kit, an old blanket, and a shiny gold ring with a ruby in the center with his house crest on it. This pile was Max’s favorite, and despite Leon getting angry every time something went missing and Baptiste reporting having seen it added to the stash, they’d all agreed not to bother trying to take anything back. In Baptiste’s words, it was not wise to try to steal from a dragon’s hoard. Even from a ‘baby’ dragon. 

Baptiste always told Leon to be proud that he seemed to be a favorite of the dragon’s, which led to much eye-rolling and grumbling. Malachi had laughed about it until some of his things started going missing as well. Now his pile nearly rivaled Leon’s in size… 

But stolen bits and bobs from the keep weren’t the only things Max had collected over the years. Thousands of brightly colored feathers, strips of cloth, and banners decorated the floor, along with moss, his bug collection, a few pieces of jewelry that he’d found unattended in the city when Leon took him along, and a massive pile of preserved meats (along with the butcher’s street cart that Max still left a bit bad about snatching up, but he’d been so hungry…).

He honestly felt bad about his frankly problematic stealing habits, but sometimes when he saw particularly shiny things or things that smelled good or looked beautiful he just… sort of discovered them in his pockets later in the day. It worried him, and he knew if Leon ever caught him having sticky fingers he’d never sit properly again, but there were times he honestly didn’t even remember taking them. He’d confided in Thori about these strange happenings, and his friend theorized that the dragon side of his brain just took over from time to time, even when he was in his human form. It made Max uncomfortable, knowing that there were times that he was more animal than man, especially when he looked like a man. After that one incident back when he’d been twelve with Sir Jon, Max knew that he had to be careful with humans and going too long without letting himself stretch his wings. 

Everyone expected a dragon to behave like a wild beast, but what about the unassuming fifteen-year-old squire?

He and Baptiste left after a few more minutes of waiting and two more unsuccessful, piercing whistles from Baptiste. Max trudged behind Baptiste miserably, having not even had a chance to snag a fish from the basket in secret, pouting the entire way. Baptiste asked him about his progress with his studies (fine, but not as good as Thori, like always), his sword training with Leon (better than fine, but Max was careful not to brag because Baptiste hated bragging), and how he felt about moving out of Leon’s room when he turned sixteen in the winter (fine, but he was a bit nervous about it). 

Thori, despite being sixteen already, had opted to stay in Malachi’s room until the winter to wait for Max to age up and become a junior knight as well, so that they could share a room together instead of being assigned to share with one of the other junior knights. They both got along well enough with their age cohort, having grown up, trained, ate, gone to class, and played together for years with the other boys, but Max and Thori had been a tight pair since the beginning, and Baptiste had allowed Thori to wait so long as Malachi had agreed to keep him for the extra half year. Malachi had only shrugged, saying that he didn’t mind keeping his built-in nanny and housekeeper a bit longer, earning himself a fond look of exasperation from said squire (nanny), and that had been that. 

Max and Thori had already picked their room. A high up, secluded corner room at the very top of the western tower. One with a big window for Thori to perch beside while he read and perfect for jumping out of for sneaky midnight flying. The window did, after all, angle away perfectly from the balconies that the night guards strode upon when on duty…

As the keep came into view, Max made sure to mind his mouth, because his poor bottom was still smoldering. But, once they were safely behind the gate, Baptiste released him for the evening. Max left after giving his grandmaster a polite bow, but he didn’t go to his tunnel to escape for a fly. There was no way he’d make it to his lair and be back in time for supper, so he grumped his way to the pear tree fields to find Thori. 

They relaxed for a while, though Max could still feel his skin crawling in that awful way it did when he needed to shift, and soon the supper bell was ringing. He and Thori ambled up towards the dining hall, dodging the younger squires as they scampered past them, eager for their meal. Max sometimes wondered, when he looked at the seven and eight-year-old squires, how he and Thori had ever been so young. The current youngest squires in the keep were three mischief-makers that were the best of friends with permanent, naughty little gleams in their eyes. Max was rather fond of them, and often let them drag him into friendly wrestling matches, but he still thought they were so little and cute. Not future knights. Not future men who might not survive the war. The familiar, strong surge of protectiveness hit him as he watched them chase one another up the bailey. One of them stopped to give Thori a book back that he’d borrowed, and Thori cooed over the boy and stroked his head gently as he always did, living up to his nickname of ‘Knight-Mother’ that just about every member of the keep had given him over the years. Thori seemed to carry the title with pride, and was the first that the younger and even some of the older squires came to when they were upset, got hurt, or needing advice. 

Max was who they came to for rough play, sword-fighting practice, and any issues with bullies. Max rather liked it. 

Supper was normal, and soon Max was in his and Leon’s room, lying on his front in his sleeping clothes on his bed as he worked on one of his writing assignments that was due soon. He should have known that his shitty day was bound to get worse, because when Leon returned, Max could practically smell the storm cloud hanging over his master’s head. He turned and met Leon’s annoyed gaze, feeling his lips pull back into a little sneer.

“What?” he demanded as a way of greeting. 

“‘What?’ Excuse me? Young man, just why did I find out not five minutes ago that Baptiste had to take his belt to you today on his errand to the dragon’s cave?”

Max hunched his shoulders, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks at the reminder. As if summoned by words alone, his backside gave an unfortunate throb. Turning back to his assignment, he glared at it. 

“Because it was stupid,” he muttered. 

Leon was silent for a moment. Then, he said the one thing that totally and completely ruined the entire night.

“Well, stupid or not, you know my rule, Max. You earn a spanking from any knight in this keep for any reason, you get another one from me.”

Chapter Text

Max thrust himself up onto his elbows, his head whipping back to look at Leon in outrage. 

“Master! No! That’s so unfair! I didn’t even do anything that bad! Baptiste was just overreacting!” Max begging, sitting up properly when Leon came further into the room, trying to shield his poor bottom from further punishment. 

“That’s not what I was told. From what Baptiste described, you were completely disrespectful to him,” Leon said, snatching Max by the upper arm as soon as he was in grabbing range and hauling him to his feet. 

“He was just being an—”

Leon whipped around to glare into Max’s eyes and Max wilted, falling silent. 

“I suggest you think very carefully about what you say about my master, Max. Baptiste has always been very lenient with you, so if you mouthed off badly enough that he felt it was appropriate to take his belt to your butt, then it was most certainly deserved.”

Max glared at the floor as Leon pulled him none too gently towards his own bed. 

“Masterrrr,” Max whined, trying to drag his feet, but he knew if he put any real effort into stopping Leon that would lead to far too many uncomfortable questions. Questions like, ‘how could you possibly be so much stronger than I am?’ and ‘you’re really a dragon in a human boy’s body, aren’t you?’. 

Well, perhaps not the second question. At least not immediately. 

Leon took a seat on the bed and gestured for Max to bend over his left knee.

“Master! No! I’m too old to go over your knee!” Max whined. If Leon was seriously going to spank him for something so stupid, couldn’t he at least keep some tiny shred of his dignity? 

Leon only glared up at him. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he crossed his arms over his chest. He still didn’t get up, though.

“All right, Max. Let’s do things this way. If you can look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you truly feel you didn’t deserve the spanking you got from Baptiste today, then I'll drop the matter and we’ll go discuss the situation with Baptiste more in depth.”

Max stuttered to a pause, because damn him, Leon had him there. And judging from the arched eyebrow his master was aiming his way, Leon knew it. When he didn’t answer, Leon nodded.

“I thought not. Now, since it’s clear to us both that you did deserve to have you butt whipped today, do you really think you behaved in any manner that suggests you don’t deserve to be bent over my knee like a naughty little boy?”

Max had to stop himself from twisting the hem of his sleep shirt, knowing he was good and caught. Still, he had to at least try.

“I- I just- Oh, come on, Master! I’m fifteen! Can’t I just bend over the bed?” 

“No. You don’t get to decide how you’re punished. Perhaps if you handled yourself with a bit more decorum today, you wouldn’t be in this position. One day, Max, you’re going to run into someone less forgiving than Baptiste or myself. And they won’t bother with treating you like the boy you are. But until then, I am finished discussing it. Now, get your trousers down and bend over my knee before I have to help you and you find yourself over my knee with a bare bottom as well.”

Leon leaned back, fully expecting obedience, and Max groaned miserably, knowing it wasn’t worth it to keep arguing. Because Leon had proven on more than one occasion that he had no problem doing just that, no matter how old Max was. With a heavy heart, Max dropped his sleep trousers to his knees and laid over his master’s knee. His face flushed hotly with embarrassment as Leon nudged his hips and positioned him so that his backside was lifted up high enough to be an offering to the damned gods in the sky, though he was thankful that when Leon’s hands went to his undershorts, he didn’t pull them down. Instead, he smoothed them carefully down and then pulled them taut against his rear before patting Max’s bottom in warning. 

Then, the hand disappeared and Max tensed. That brief, split second before the first smack was always the worst, and getting it on an already striped backside made it all the more awful. Sure enough, when Leon’s hand clapped down firmly against his rear, Max couldn’t quite hold back the startled yelp he let out. Leon laid into him just like he always did, going silent as he worked on stoking a literal fire in his squire’s misbehaving— totally undeserving — bottom. Within the first minute, Max was clinging to Leon’s blanket and struggling to keep from rocking his hips from side to side in an effort to throw off Leon’s aim. As much as he really didn’t want that hand to continue smacking down upon his bottom, he knew that if he wiggled too much, Leon would just start aiming for the backs of his thighs, and after the job Baptiste’s belt had done on them, he didn’t think he’d be able to take it without crying.

His undershorts might as well not have existed for all the protection they provided Max from the pain of his master’s corrective measures, but at least he wasn’t being humiliated. Still, the undergarment was short, only covering the necessities, and they rode up a bit as Leon spanked and spanked. After another round of claps that had Max drawing his shoulders up around his ears, Leon paused. Max all but slumped, huffing out a sigh of relief, thinking it was over. But Leon’s hand returned to his undershorts and he took the edge of the leg opening on one side, and lifted it. 

“Leon!” Max wailed, mortified as his master checked his ass out.

“Hmm,” Leon said, completely ignoring the utter horror of his squire as he smoothed the clothing back down again. “Baptiste got you good, boy. I can still see the stripes. He told me you cursed at him.”

Max gasped as Leon’s hand slapped down across the lower curve of his right cheek. 

“I take it he impressed upon you how very inappropriate it was for you to do that.”

Another hefty slap, this time to the other side. Max whined lowly, burying his face in Leon’s blanket and taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself and fighting the tears filling his eyes.

“You do that when you’re a proper knight and he’ll backhand the hells out of you.”

Two more, once again on each cheek. 

“I- I’m sorry, sir!” 

“Yeah, I bet you are. I shouldn’t have to do this, Max.”

Leon was picking up again, and Max could have sworn he was cupping his palm in that awful way he did just to make it sting that much worse. 

“I know, sir. I’ll do better!”

“You’ll be sixteen in five months, Max. You are too old for childish outbursts like this. I shouldn’t have to take you to task in this way anymore.”

Max couldn’t help himself.

“Well, no one said you had t- Ah-hooow!”

“Obviously, I do, Max!” Leon snapped, giving Max a volley of particularly hard smacks. “Because you’re still acting like the bratty little boy I caught eight years ago stealing from my rations pack!”

“Noooo!” Max hollered, gripping the blanket and feeling tears slip down his face. He wasn’t to the point of sobbing, but he was teetering close on the edge.

Leon gave him five final, full force whallops in the center of his bottom before he finally stopped. He turned to look at the back of Max’s head, giving his squire’s rear a firm poke. 

“No more sassing, Max. Especially to Baptiste. You’re lucky he didn’t slap you ‘cross the mouth. You are too old for this kind of behavior.”

Max sniffled, wiping his nose on the blanket miserably. “Yes, sir…”

“Good. Now, get up and go plant your nose in a corner. You could do with some quiet reflection, I think.”

Max slumped before pushing himself up off of Leon’s knee. “Master, can’t I just go to bed? I—”

He almost said he was too old to be put in time out. Then he caught Leon’s stormy look and decided to not push it anymore.

“I can pull out the stool, if you need to sit, young man,” Leon warned. 

That got Max hopping to it. He yanked his sleep trousers back up, gave his bottom a quick rub, and then trudged to the corner. He stood there, glaring at the familiar corner he’d spent countless hours of his life facing, with his arms crossed as he indulged in a good, hard pout. He felt he deserved it, after the overall shit day he’d had. 

He was angry. He was angry with Baptiste for taking the belt to him. And for telling on him to Leon. He was angry with Leon for punishing him a second time even though he’d gotten it bad from Baptiste. He was angry that he hadn’t gotten to fly. He was angry that he wouldn’t get a chance for days to eat his fish. He was just angry.

He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve for a moment before tucking his arms back around himself, crossing them. As he stewed, he ground his teeth, feeling them sharpen into fangs. His jaw ached from the half-shift and he clenched them, squeezing his eyes shut to focus on trying to force them to return to normal. 

As he concentrated, he felt five sharp, painful pricks in his upper arm. He opened his eyes, glancing down with semi-curiosity, and nearly shouted as he saw the bright red scales running down his arm and the wickedly sharp talons that had erupted from his nailbeds. His mind went blank with panic for a moment, and he cast a quick peek over his shoulder. Leon, thank the gods, had his back to Max and was undressing to prepare for bed. Max tucked his scaly arm tight to his chest, his breathing coming out in horrified puffs. He screwed his eyes shut, willing the scales to disappear. It had been years since he’d lost control like this! What was happening?

He was utterly silent, his shoulders drawn up tight and his entire body tense. Then, Leon said the worst thing possible. 

“All right, Max. You can come out now.”

Max froze, and not knowing what else to do, he peeked over his shoulder to see Leon waiting patiently on his bed. 

“I-I, uh… Can I stay a few minutes longer?” he asked, his voice practically a squeak. 

He pursed his lips, mouthing ‘stupid’ to himself in silence with his eyes shut tightly as Leon went quiet behind him.

“Can you… what? No, Max. Come out of the corner. Your punishment is over.”

Max, in his stupidity, doubled down. 

“What? I’m not allowed to stand where I want to stand now? Maybe I just need some quiet time!”

Leon was silent for so long, Max nearly chanced a look over his shoulder to see what his master was doing. If he had, he’d have seen Leon staring at him slack-jawed. Finally, he heard Leon take a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh before his master’s bed creaked as he laid back. 

“Fine! You want to be stubborn and stand in the corner like a five-year-old, you do that. Whenever you’re ready to come out, you come out. Do what you want, Max.”

Max turned his attention back to his arm, trying to will the scales to go away. Long minutes passed in silence, both occupants of the room remaining in place. Finally, the scales began to retreat and Max let out a breath of relief. 

Once he was certain they were staying away, he peeked over his shoulder at Leon. He jumped when he found that Leon wasn’t reading or drawing. No, his master was just staring at him. 

“I, uh, I’m ready to come out now, sir,” Max said.

“Your punishment was over ten minutes ago. I’m not keeping you there, Max.”

Max turned and all but launched himself onto his bed, curling up tightly onto his side. He stayed like that for the next half hour, hiding himself from his master. Finally, Leon stood and began to blow out the candles, signaling it was time to sleep. 

Max let out a sigh of relief. Finally. He could sleep and hopefully put this awful day behind himself. 

As Leon finished his round of the room, blowing out the final candle, he approached Max’s bed. Max felt his bed dip as Leon took a seat on the edge of it, and his master’s warm hand coming down gently on his shoulder. 

“Max…” Leon sighed softly. “You know I hate having to punish you. I know things are difficult for you right now, but I only want what’s best for you. Right?”

Max could feel himself coiling up tight as terrible heat ripped up his throat. He felt his vocal cords stretch, shift, and twist, and he knew if he tried to speak right now it would come out as either a deep, rumbling growl or a scratchy chirp. He kept quiet, letting Leon have his say and praying he didn’t actually expect an answer. 

Oh, why does my master have to care about how I’m feeling? Ugh! he thought to himself, clenching his teeth.

Leon sighed again softly, his hand coming up to gently tuck a lock of Max’s hair behind his ear. 

“All right. Clearly you need some time to sort yourself. That’s okay. I hope you sleep well, Max. Good night.” 

Max felt him lean over, his head coming down to press his customary good night kiss to Max’s brow. 

Suddenly, Max was overwhelmed with the sharp, hot desire to snap his teeth at Leon’s exposed throat. He jerked his face away from Leon, burying it in his pillow, hiding from the horrible urge to hurt the one man he loved more than anything. 

He sucked air in, fighting with his own mind desperately, and Leon pulled back in surprise. For a moment, he was silent, and Max could all but feel his master’s hurt. Then, Leon stood and got into his own bed, leaving Max be. Max all but wept when he wasn’t kissed good night. 

He stayed up, listening to Leon breath sharply in the silence, before finally it began to even out as sleep took his master. As soon as he was sure that Leon was fully asleep, he sat up and tossed his blanket off of himself. He left his boots off and slipped out of the room into the sleeping keep, padding barefoot down the familiar corridors towards the cellars. 

He had to shift. Now.

This shift felt different. It felt liberating in a way it had never felt before. Just feeling the cool soil of the forest beneath his bare feet was invigorating. He took off running into the night once he was certain the night guards weren’t looking his way, tearing through the underbrush at a full-blown sprint. Scales erupted over his arms, legs, and throat. His talons extended fully. Soon, Max felt his hips narrow, his legs shortening slightly and his spine elongate. His tail, long and whippy, peaked out from beneath his shirt and grew, helping him balance. Eventually, his body was too lanky to remain upright, so he dropped to all fours and flung himself into his run at full force. With his talons ripping into the soil helping to propel him along, he was soon moving faster than any animal in the forest. 

As soon as he entered the clearing he always used to shift, he let out a piercing roar and let the shift take him fully. 

The wind beneath his wings felt marvelous. For nearly an hour, he just soared and lost himself in the sensations of freedom and flight. Eventually, the most sharp animal-like urges began to dull, as they always did. He pushed himself hard, flying so high he could feel the chill of the thin air and he had to breathe hard just to get the oxygen he needed. Then, he stopped moving and let himself drop into freefall. He let his eyes drift shut as he fell, feeling the wind whip past him. 

Letting it soothe him. 

As the trees of the valley grew larger the longer he fell, he opened his wings to catch himself, and slipped into an effortless glide. Finally feeling more centered, he angled towards his lair. He had fish to eat.

He flew back to the keep in an almost lazy manner, his belly full of fish and the two moose he’d managed to find and snatch up as an extra snack. Landing heavily, he shifted back to his human form, stretching his arms high above his head and groaning. He ground his toes into the soil of his clearing, dropping to all four to arch his back and stretch that as well. He felt calmer. More… sane. 

Plus, his bottom no longer ached. By the gods Max loved that every time he shifted forms he healed completely. 

He stood, letting himself settle and remember how to walk on two legs. Then, he began to make his way carefully back towards the keep. He knew the path by heart now, and while he knew he’d be tired come morning thanks to his late night flying, but at least this time he wouldn’t be wanting to bite his damned master… 

He smacked his mouth, yawning, and hiked his shirt up in the back to scratch at his back. 

Then, he caught a scent that was unfamiliar and he paused. He took a deep breath in, sniffing the air carefully, and froze as he realized that the scent was not some animal. 

It was… human. 

He dropped to all fours, sniffing more carefully, and began to search. The scent was everywhere in his field, and it wasn’t one of the knights. It wasn’t anyone he recognized. A stick snapped to his left and he lurched up, snapping his head to look. He felt a horrible, lurching dread hit him as his eyes met terrified, dark brown, slanted ones hidden just on the edge of the clearing. He didn’t recognize the boy he was looking at, but he knew one thing immediately. 

The boy was Bikra. Not half-Bikra like Malachi was. He was Bikra.

For a long moment, they both stayed completely still, staring at one another. Then, the Bikra boy opened his mouth.

“Drakkon…” the boy whispered, his voice echoing over to Max in the clearing.

Max charged, beyond rational thought, letting out a shout of fury. 

“Bikra!” he screamed, letting his talons erupt once more. They were more than strong enough to shred the boy to pieces if need be. 

The Bikra boy fell back to his ass in the dirt, screaming in terror. He threw an arm up, babbling in his language. 

“Get out of my valley!” Max screamed, mind blanking with protective instinct. 

Then, something strange happened. The Bikra boy thrust his hand out with his fingers all facing the sky save for his ring, finger which curled against his palm, saying something in a complicated string of lyrical words. The phrase was unlike any language Max had ever heard in his life, and suddenly a heavy, sweeping exhaustion moved through him. Max stumbled, collapsing to his knees a few paces away from the stranger. His arms shook as he struggled to hold himself up. 

The Bikra boy stared at him, breathing hard, before seeming to collect himself. He rose to his feet, looking down at Max carefully, as if seeing some sort of fascinating creature for the first time. 

Max, arms trembling with a weight he’s never felt before, gasped as he looked up into the dark eyes of the stranger. 

The boy lifted his hand up in the strange gesture once more and said another string of words that Max didn’t understand. But he felt them. He felt the words in his bones, his muscles, his teeth, his eyelids. 

Then, he slumped to the forest floor, and fell into a deep sleep. 

Chapter Text

Max’s eyes snapped open as he gasped, arching his back against the forest floor. It was silent all around, and when he sucked in a deep breath through his nose, the strange Bikra boy’s scent was long stale. He blinked rapidly, feeling tired to his bones, but otherwise unharmed. He sat up, patting himself down to ensure he wasn’t injured. Nothing. The Bikra boy’s scent was on Max’s sleeping clothes, as if he’d searched Max over, but there had been nothing on Max to take save for his clothes. Thankfully, he hadn’t woken up naked.

Birds were chirping pleasantly in the distance, and a sudden surge of pure dread hit Max deep in his guts. He jumped up, looking up, and saw that the sun was beginning to rise. He’d been out in the forest all night.

Leon was going to kill him!

Without another thought, Max threw himself into a half-shift, dropped to all fours, and began to tear through the woods back towards the keep. Dirt flew in arcs behind him as he ran, huffing heavily, fighting the exhaustion that was still pulling at his limbs. The keep’s roosters would start crowing any minute, and with them, Leon would rise just like he did every morning. If he woke up and found Max out of his bed… Max didn’t even want to think about it. 

He reached the keep in record time, though he barely noticed it. He gave his tunnel a glance, but quickly decided against it. The guards would be changing shifts right about now. There were too many early birds running around, Baptiste in particular, for Max to have a hope of getting back to his room undetected. He gritted his teeth, forcing his talons out to their fullest length, and sunk them into the wall surrounding the keep. He climbed as quickly as he dared, keeping an ear out for the footsteps of any guards as he scaled the western wall. His and Leon’s room was in the south tower, which connected with the western wall up high. The wind whipped against Max as he got higher and higher up. 

In the upper bailey, he heard the roosters begin to let out their first screeching crows. 

He scrambled the final few lengths up the western wall in a near panic, dropped onto the top balcony, and then leapt. He was weightless for a long moment, though he was accustomed to being in the air and unafraid, before his talons latched firmly into the southern tower’s stone. He squirmed, his bare feet slipping against the weather smoothed surface, before he began to haul himself up. He could see the window his bed sat beside. He passed Thori and Malachi’s room on the way up, though he didn’t have a second to spare. Malachi was, predictably, still in bed sound asleep, but Thori was seated at their shared writing desk. He glanced up from whatever he was writing as the light darkened from Max passing in front of the window, still in his night shirt and undershorts. His remaining eye went as wide as it would go and his mouth dropped open at the sight of his best friend clinging to the outer wall of the tower, nearly seven stories up. 

Max didn’t bother with waving, too focused on not slipping and dying, and threw himself into the remainder of the climb to his own window. As he reached it, he peeked one eye up, checking the room. It was still dark, and Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in as he saw Leon still lying in his bed. He poked one of his talons into the window’s latch, breaking it but not caring about that in the moment, and eased the window open as silently as he could. 

Then, just as he was climbing into the room, the damned rooster crowed again. Max froze, the sound echoing so loudly in the room he thought he might just go deaf, and watched in horror as Leon rolled over and began to wake. Max threw himself down into his bed, wrapping his blanket around himself in a desperate roll to hide his filthy feet and talons, and went still with his back to his master. 

He laid there, hardly daring to breathe, his eyes wide as plates as he listened to Leon yawn and stretch in his bed as he woke more fully. Leon sat up, scrubbing tiredly at his face, and stood from his bed. He paused beside Max, grunting in confusion at the open window that he’d been fairly certain he’d closed the night before. Shrugging, he reached out and gave Max’s shoulder a gentle shake.

“Max,” he said softly, reaching over Max to pull the window shut. “It’s time to get up.” 

Max, sweating profusely and trying desperately to get his talons to retract, feigned taking a deep breath as he ‘woke’ and stretched as if he’d been crunched up in his current position for hours sleeping. Leon gave his hip a gentle pat before ambling off towards the bathing room to attend to his morning necessities. As the door shut behind his master, Max went limp against the bed, relieved to his core. 

That had been far too close of a call…

After taking a few seconds to ponder the sheer relief coursing through him at the fact that he’d managed to stay out all night and not get caught and have his backside roasted, Max got up. It was strange, being up before Leon was even out of the bathing room. Normally, Max would wait to get up until the last possible second, enjoying the warmth and comfort of his bed before he was off to breakfast and then his morning protocol and tactics lessons with Thori. For the longest time, he’d thought he’d never get into such advanced classes, but between Leon’s guidance and Thori’s after lesson tutoring, he was the top of his class in battle tactics (though Thori was top in every other class they took).

But today, Max was up and dressed in his uniform before Leon. As Leon stepped out of the bathing room in his undershorts, still yawning, he paused in shock at the sight his squire yanking his boots onto his feet, fully dressed, with his lesson books in hand and practice sword already on his belt.

“Max?” he asked, astonished by the sudden unexpected behavior. “W-What are you doing up so soon?”

“I need to talk to Thori. About something from our lessons yesterday. Gotta go. See you later at sword training, Master!” Max said.

Max was out of their room before Leon could even respond. Leon blinked, staring at the door as Max shut it just shy of slamming it, before he let out an annoyed huff. 

“Well. Hope you have a good day too, Max. Thanks for wishing me the same…” he muttered to himself in annoyance, going to his chest to fish out some fresh clothes for the day.

*****

Thori was dressed and ready for the day when he heard a knock at the door to his and Malachi’s room. Malachi grunted, grumbling irritably as he rolled over and curled up tightly on his side, still in bed. Thori rolled his eyes at the sight of his master’s rumpled form. Malachi was an… active sleeper, and oftentimes when he (finally) managed to drag himself from his literal pile of blankets, it looked as though a battle had been waged against them. Malachi had one bare foot sticking out of the pile, toes curling as he began to wake, but the rest of him was completely covered. Well, aside from his hair, which was a positive bird’s nest poking out of the top of the pile. Thori gave the warm foot a stroke alongside the sole with his fingernail, making Malachi jump and wiggle as he was tickled further into wakefulness. 

“Up, Malachi,” he said firmly to the grumbling mound of blankets as he moved to the door. “You’ll be late for breakfast. Again.”

He opened the door and was unsurprised to find Max in the hall, twisting his hands together nervously. He slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door to behind himself.

“Max,” he said, keeping his voice low so that they wouldn’t be overheard. “What in the hells is going on? Why were you hanging off the side of the keep earlier?”

“We have a problem,” Max said, uncharacteristically serious. “A big one. I need to talk to you in private. Come with me to the pear tree field?”

Thori glanced back into his room, to Malachi still in bed, and sighed, rolling his eye. “Give me five minutes to get the slugabed up and about and I’ll be down.”

Max glanced into Thori’s room, looking skittish in a way Thori had never seen him look before. Then, he nodded sharply and said, “Make it two.”

Then, he was gone, storming down the hallway towards the doors that would lead to the inner bailey. 

Thori watched him leave, feeling decidedly unsettled. Then, he slipped back into his room, grabbed his books and satchel, and after a moment’s consideration, secured his sword onto his belt. Malachi grunted, squirming in bed.

“Who wazzat?” Malachi mumbled. 

“Max. He needs my help with an assignment for our lessons. I’ll see you for training later, yes?”

“Ugh,” Malachi groaned, curling up into his customary little ball. “Don’t wanna…”

He yelped as Thori yanked his blanket back and gave his hips a sharp smack. 

“ Up, Malachi,” Thori ordered sternly. “Don’t make me get Sir Leon to come pull you out of bed.”

“You’re such a little arsehole, Thori,” Malachi groaned, but he sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly. 

“ I’m not the one who stayed up all night playing dice with the other knights. It’s your own damned fault. Now get up. Have a good morning and I’ll see you for training.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, Squirt.”

Thori shook his head, smiling softly, and slipped out of the room. He waited for precisely ten seconds, then opened the door and reentered the room. Malachi, as Thori had suspected, was curled back up in his bed on his side, already halfway back to sleep. Shaking his head, Thori strode back into the room, flipped the blanket off of his master’s body for the second time that morning, and began to smack him repeatedly on the hip, thigh, and backside. Malachi jumped, yelping, and scrambling up and out of his bed.

“Okay, okay, I’m getting up! Ow, Thori!” 

Thori left their room for real once Malachi was standing. He didn’t see Malaachi stick his tongue out at the door as Thori shut it, rubbing his leg where Thori had scored a real stinger.

“Worse than Leon and Baps combined,” Malachi grumbled, reaching into his trunk to get his clothes for the day.

*****

Max was pacing back and forth in the pear tree field when Thori found him. 

“Max,” Thori said as he got close. They were alone in the field, with most of the other knights and squires in the dining hall socializing and preparing to eat. “What is going on? Did you go out flying last night?”

As soon as Thori was within arm’s reach, Max took him tightly by the shoulders. 

“The Bikra, Thori. They’re in my valley. I saw one. I saw a fucking Bikra last night.”

Thori’s eye went wide and he placed gentle hands on Max’s shaking ones, gently tugging them loose from his shoulders. 

“Easy, Max. Calm down. You’re getting hot to the touch.”

Max snorted, smoke curling from his nose in little wisps. 

“Okay. Tell me everything.”

Max explained, stuttering and snarling his way through the story starting from nearly biting Leon to the strange Bikra boy somehow making him drop to the forest floor in a dead sleep.

“And then you ran back home when you woke up?” Thori guessed. 

“Yeah. Nearly got caught, too. Thori, what are we gonna do about this? We can’t tell Leon or Baptiste without telling them how I know!”

“Okay, okay! Just… let me think for a moment.” 

Thori paced, and Max watched him as he wrung his hands nervously. Finally, Thori stopped and snapped his fingers. 

“I’ve got it! What if we convince Malachi and Sir Leon to go out into the forest with us on patrol? Perhaps you can track the boy and lead us to him?”

Max’s eyes went wide. “Hey, yeah! I could track him! I got a good lock on his smell for sure!”

“Excellent! We’ll ask them after sword training practice this afternoon.”

Max nodded excitedly, but then paused and deflated a bit.

“No, wait. That won’t work!”

Thori blinked. “What? Why not?”

Max blushed a bit and Thori tossed his head back with a groan. “Aw, Max! Really!? What did you do this time?”

“Nothing!” Max said, tucking his hands beneath his armpits and blushing harder. “Baptiste was being totally unreasonable and—”

“You pissed off Overseer Baptiste!?” Thori cried.

“Look, it wasn’t that big of a deal! But Baptiste told Leon and Leon got mad and he isn’t gonna let me go out on patrol today with him!”

Thori huffed in irritation, shoving his hand beneath his eyepatch to rub at his scar and empty eye socket firmly. 

“All right. Leave it to me. Just be ready to go.”

*****

Max was sweating hard when Leon finally lowered his sword and signaled the end to their training session. He snatched his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, watching Leon check the edge to his sword. Swallowing nervously, he approached his master and waited to be acknowledged. When Leon glanced up and found his squire nervously twisting his fingers, he sighed and turned to face Max. 

“Yes?” Leon asked impatiently. 

Max twisted his fingers more, and Leon was reminded of the day he met Max, when the boy had twisted his fingers nervously after being caught trying to steal from Leon’s rations pack. 

“Um… I was just wondering, sir,” Max began, and Leon nearly rolled his eyes. Max only ever used ‘sir’ when he was in trouble or trying to get something he wanted.

Leon crossed his arms and arched a brow. Max swallowed heavily. 

“Well, I was wondering if we could go out on patrol in the forest today?” Max asked. 

Leon blinked. Then, he glanced around to be certain no one was close enough to hear and leaned in close to his squirming squire.

“You can’t seriously be asking me to take you out on patrol after the way you behaved yesterday. After I had to tan your arse not even twenty-four hours ago?” 

Max blushed, stuttering.

Neither noticed Thori observing from across the training field. He turned to Malachi casually. 

“It’s a beautiful day,” he said conversationally.

Malachi glanced up at the clear, blue sky, squinting in the sunlight. 

“Aye. Really nice.”

“It’s too bad we can’t go on patrol today.”

Malachi turned to him with a questioning look. 

“Why not?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? It’s the yearly inventory day. You know? The big one. Baptiste will want us down in the cellars for the rest of the night counting all of our supplies. I’m surprised he’s not down here already looking for us…”

Malachi’s eyes went wide and his head whipped towards the door that led towards the keep as if Thori mentioning him might summon the overseer. Then, he turned back to Thori.

“Go saddle up my horse.”

Thori turned, his eyebrows raised. 

“Oh, can Leon and Max come, too?”

“Yeah. Just hurry the fuck up. I’ll go get them.”

Thori nodded, smiling softly, and went to go and prepare the horses. Malachi was quick as he strode over to where Leon and Max were speaking in hushed tones. He gave Leon’s ass a quick, friendly swat, then tossed his arm around his best friend’s shoulders. 

“Hey, Lee. Let’s take the boys out on patrol. Max, go get Leon’s horse ready.”

Leon turned to give him a severe look, then glanced behind them to see Thori walking to the stables slowly with his hands in his pockets casually. His eye narrowed suspiciously. 

“Mal, no. We have things to do today.” 

“Yeah. Fucking boring things. Max, get going before Baps gets down here.”

Max didn’t wait for further protests from his own master and took off, chasing after Thori towards the stables. Once he was gone, Leon rounded on Malachi angrily. 

“Mal. What the fuck are you doing? You’re playing right into their hands!”

Malachi blinked at him in surprise. 

“Oh, come on, Lee. It’s just patrol. I don’t want to be cooped up in the keep anymore than you do. Let’s go enjoy an afternoon with the boys.”

“That’s what they want, Mal. To go frolic around in the forest for the fun of it.”

Malachi blinked. 

“Uh. Duh. That’s what I want to do, too! So let’s go!”

Leon huffed in annoyance. 

“I’m trying not to reward my squire’s bad behavior. And you’re not helping matters by letting him go and goof off for an entire afternoon, Mal.”

Malachi arched a brow. 

“What did he do?”

“He—” Leon cut himself off, glancing around to be certain they were far enough away from the others not to be overheard. Then, he stepped a bit closer to his friend and lowered his voice. “He earned himself a spanking yesterday.”

Malachi blinked. “It’s been a while. What? A whole month?”

“It’s not funny, Mal. He’s fifteen.”

“Well, did you ground him or something?”

“Well… No. Why?”

“Then why can’t he go on patrol?”

“Because he got in trouble yesterday!”

“Yeah. But if you spanked him for it, it’s over, isn’t it?” 

“He’s too old to be misbehaving in such a way still.”

“Lee,” Malachi gave his friend a little shake. “Aren’t you the one that told me all those years ago that if you give a spanking then it’s over and finished with? You’re not supposed to keep punishing him unless you tell him he’s still being punished.”

Leon blinked, then let his shoulders sag. 

“All right. Fine. We’ll go on patrol.” 

Malachi smiled brightly. 

“Excellent! Now hurry up before Baps sees us!” 

*****

Max and Thori walked a few paces ahead of their masters, who rode their horses calmly behind. Technically Thori was leading the group, but he was watching Max and taking his cues from his friend, who was sniffing the air like a wolf on a hunt. 

“Anything?” he whispered.

Max shook his head a bit. 

“I lost him near the river. He’s sticking to the water, the little bastard. We need to head further south. I bet he’s camping near my clearing.”

Thori nodded and shifted direction slightly. 

“You don’t think he might be at your hoard, do you?”

“My lair, Thori. And no, I doubt it. But we can check there tonight after supper.”

“And just what are you planning to do if we do catch him?”

“Kill him. Obviously.” 

Thori halted, staring at Max in shock for a moment, before jogging to catch back up. 

“Max, you can’t just kill him if he isn’t attacking us,” he whispered furiously. “That’s not how a knight works.”

“He’s a Bikra, Thori. He’ll attack us. I’m sure of it.”

“And if he doesn’t attack us?”

Max was silent for a long moment. Then, he shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll just let Leon and Malachi decide.”

Thori went quiet for a while, just following Max silently. Then, he perked up again.

“So, what did he look like?”

“Like a Bikra.”

“ Duh. But I mean what’s he wearing? How did he have his hair styled? Any distinguishing marks?”

“I… honestly, I didn’t really pay much attention to all of that. I just… saw him and knew.”

“You mean to tell me you met some random person in the woods and didn’t even get a good look at him before you tried to attack?”

“You weren’t there, Thori! He was in my clearing!”

“Max. Be careful. I know you’re territorial of the valley, but you have got to get a hold of yourself.”

Max sighed heavily, trudging ahead with determination. 

“Let’s just focus on finding him…”

Behind them, Leon watched Max closely, noting the hard set of his shoulders and the way he was all but snarling at his best friend in the world. Both Max and Thori had developed bonds with the other squires over the years, enjoying a more communal experience of brothership that Leon and Malachi hadn’t ever seemed to really get the hang of. Leon had been too wrapped up in his grief, and the added effect of having a master that everyone knew would be the future overseer of the keep, had most of the other squires too nervous about approaching his prickly self when he’d been younger. Malachi, of course, hadn’t cared in the slightest if Leon was terse with him, considering he had been dealing with a far more dangerous demon in his own bedroom each night. 

But Max and Thori were different. True, they shared many personality traits with their masters, though the roles were flipped. Malachi often complained that Thori was a ‘mini Leon on strength enhancing ‘shrooms’, and Max was as wild and carefree as Leon remembered Malachi being. But they were also so different from their respective masters as well. Max had a keen sense of justice, while being frankly ruthless when involved in anything to do with strategy. More and more, Leon had found himself having in-depth, hard conversations with Max regarding his apparent dismissal of the value of life when it came to the Bikra. Oh, he was eager to protect anyone who needed it, so long as they didn’t bear the slanted eyes and dark skin of a Bikra. Leon knew that Max drew most of his experience with the Bikra back from that horrible night that his parents had been murdered, and he understood, but the lack of empathy Max sometimes expressed concerned Leon deeply. 

Leon knew His Lordship would be eager to get someone as bloodthirsty as Max in his inner circle, and that thought scared Leon more than he cared to admit. 

Thori, on the other hand, was as gentle and considerate as ever. He held one true hate in his heart, and it was directed towards the man who killed Sir Garrett and slashed his eye out. And considering that man was some sort of general, Leon doubted Thori would ever see him again anytime soon. Thori had matured and grown so much since Malachi had taken him on as his squire, and Malachi had changed, too. 

Gone was the reckless streak that Leon’s best friend had possessed. At least, for the most part. Malachi still threw himself into his sword work like it was a dance, and he was the only one who knew the tune to move to. It frustrated Leon to no end, having to constantly improvise when Malachi added some flair of his wrist or a skip to the side, but that unpredictability was what had kept Malachi alive all of these years. And it translated strangely to his raising of Thori. Thori had always been an independent little boy, but when Malachi had come stumbling into the portrait, completely out of his element and unsure of himself, Thori had adapted in a manner few expected. 

Squire Mother Thori had been an interesting individual to meet, but Leon hadn’t been able to deny the accuracy of the unofficial title. Thori mothered just about anybody or anything he could. The new, youngest squires in the keep could often be found tucked up in his lap in the evenings while he watched Max arm wrestle anyone he could. He fussed after everyone from the youngest boy to Baptiste himself over proper eating habits, wrangled Max when his ideas of ‘fun’ got too outlandish, and he’d taken to personally documenting everything he possibly could about their little dragon to better care for the creature. 

Leon smirked, remembering that it had been Thori who had figured out the dragon shed his scales once every two years, needed regular deliveries of different kinds of meat to help it grow, and preferred to be observed from afar rather than chased after. 

Max had taken a different approach to maturing, though. Where Thori buckled down and observed carefully before making any major decision, Max seemed to just glide through life at a lackadaisical pace that drove Leon simply mad. He didn’t much care for rules, though Leon knew he never had, and would do his best to follow them in the loosest manner possible. He would wrestle with the squires his age for hours on end, his energy levels seeming near endless, and then tumble into their room with an exuberance that often left Leon feeling as though he’d witnessed a tumultuous summer storm in human form. 

And when he was wronged or slighted, he would either fight against the injustice of the situation tooth and nail until he came out on top, or he would brush the negativity away with casual ease that left Leon feeling frankly rather jealous. Leon gave Lacey a gentle stroke along the side of her neck absentmindedly, worrying his lower lip, as he thought back to the night before when Max had so violently turned away from him when Leon had tried to kiss his head. 

Malachi stopped them briefly, which seemed to irritate Max, to pluck a few apples from a tree that was near the path. After tossing one each to both Thori and Max, Malachi rejoined Leon, clucking his tongue to urge his own horse on. Leon watched Max immediately hand Thori his apple to put into his satchel, his head on a swivel as if he were scenting the air like Leon had once seen their dragon do. Now Max wasn’t even indulging in a snack? What was wrong with his boy? Leon had noticed both boys had barely touched their breakfast that morning, and his worry only deepened as he watched Max move with his natural grace through the underbrush, his hand tightly gripping his sword. 

Malachi eyed him for a moment, sinking his teeth into his own apple with a sharp snap, before he held out the final one he’d picked to Leon. 

“So,” Malachi said, smacking his lips obnoxiously. “You gonna tell me what’s got your undershorts in such a twist, or am I to guess?”

Leon shot Malachi an annoyed glance, taking the apple and tearing into it. 

“Nothing is wrong,” he said shortly. 

“Horseshit it is.” 

Leon turned to glare at Malachi who only gazed back with an infuriatingly knowing look that he’d never used to possess before he took Thori on as a squire. When he didn’t answer, Malachi only pressed again.

“Come on. It’s eating you up, man. I can tell. What’s going on with you and Max?”

Leon jerked so hard that Lacey snorted in irritation beneath him. 

“What? What do you mean about Max?”

Malachi gave him an unimpressed look. 

“You’ve been glaring at Max’s back so hard that I’m surprised the back of the brat’s shirt hasn’t spontaneously caught fire.”

Leon glanced away with embarrassment, realizing that that was exactly what he’d been doing.

“Now come on. Tell me what happened that got you two so wound up. I can tell something is off with Max, too. He’s been tearing through the forest like it called his mother a whore.”

Leon sucked his teeth in annoyance. “Since when did you get so good at reading people?” he muttered, slowing Lacey a bit to fall further behind the boys and fully out of earshot. 

“Since I took Thori on. The kid is a little wizard at reading people. He’s been giving me people reading lessons.”

Leon paused, thinking back to Thori sitting with Malachi and speaking into his ear softly while Malachi watched the people in the keep’s communal room. 

“Wait, like, for truth?”

Malachi preened. “Aye. He learned it from being a noble and he’s been showing me.”

Leon shook his head, wondering just how that worked, but dropping it. He sighed deeply, watching Max crouch down and look at what he assumed were some animal tracks before lurching up and abruptly shifting direction towards the west. 

“I’m pretty sure Max hates me,” he bemoaned. 

Malachi blinked in surprise. “What? What would make you ever think that?”

Leon blushed, feeling like a fool for even having to say it, despite knowing that Malachi would never judge him.

“Well, I told you I had to punish Max last night?”

“Aye. That’s nothing new. The brat is always pushing. What makes this different?”

“He… he refused to come out of the damned corner after I put him there last night! And when he finally did come out, he damn near dove into his bed. It was like he could hardly bear the sight of me!”

“So he was a bit testy about getting his arse smacked. So what?”

“He… he wouldn’t let me give him his goodnight kiss last night.”

Malachi was silent, blinking in confusion. Leon didn’t sense any sort of derision, but rather simply lack of understanding. Leon struggled to explain. 

“Max is- Well, I always-” he cut himself off with a sharp sigh. “Ever since Max was a boy, I’ve always given him a goodnight kiss. He gets upset if I don’t. It’s just something I’ve always done for him. To remind him that he’s loved, you know? He’s never in his life refused it no matter how angry he was. But last night he wouldn’t even look at me. I… I feel like I did something wrong. What if I hurt him and he was upset with me? Or maybe there was more to it with what happened with Baptiste. I just don’t know why he wouldn’t have told me, you know? I don’t understand what’s going on with him, but I’m afraid to push him further away.”

Malachi thought about it for a long moment, leaving Leon to stew in his agony. Then, he glanced over at Leon curiously. 

“So, let me get this straight. Baps whipped his butt yesterday for being disrespectful, and then you got him later for it, and he got angry and wouldn’t let you kiss his head goodnight?”

Leon groaned, feeling stupid. “You don’t get it, Mal. I just-”

“When did Baps take him out yesterday? During sword training? I thought he was there with us?”

“Aye, he was. It was after.”

“So… during Max’s free hours?”

“Aye. Why?”

Suddenly, Malachi tossed his head back and had a hearty laugh. Thori and Max turned, but Max only glared and returned to his walk with Thori chasing behind.

Malachi leaned over and gave Leon’s arm a hard slap, hardly able to stay in his saddle for laughing so hard. 

“Lee! Oh, by the gods you’re so dense, man!” 

“What? What did I say?”

Malachi finally got ahold of himself, smirking at Leon. 

“Lee. Think about it. Baps took him during the few free hours he gets in a week to romp around the forest with a basket of stinking fish that we caught the day before to see a dragon that didn’t even show up. Of course he was pissed off about it! For the obvious reason!”

“And what obvious reason might that be, Mal? Because I’m clearly missing it.”

Malachi gave him a look as if he pitied Leon for his naivety. 

“Lee. My dearest, most beloved, stupid friend. He was horny. He was probably trying to find a nice, quiet place to crank one out and Baps interrupted him.”

For a moment, Leon could only sputter in shock, his eyes wide at the mere suggestion.

“He- He was not horny, Mal! Gods! He’s a fifteen year old boy!” 

Malachi only lifted his eyebrows in silence and waited. Leon stared at him for a long moment, then groaned and buried his face in his hands, letting Lacey walk on her own and guide him. Preferably straight off of a sheer cliff to his death.

“Oh, by the gods, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? He was wanting to… EW!”  

Malachi tossed his head back again to laugh some more, finding great pleasure in his friend’s horror at the idea of his fifteen-year-old squire having ‘adult’ urges.

Up ahead, Leon saw Max stop suddenly. He struggled not to think of his boy in that light, but it did make an awful lot of sense. Oh, he was going to have to have a talk with Max about such urges, wasn’t he? Just the thought was enough to make Leon grimace, much to Malachi’s amusement. 

Leon made to call out to the boys so he could tell them to come back closer to them. Then, he saw Max draw his sword. Both Leon and Malachi froze in their saddles, going rigid. Leon opened his mouth to shout Max down for daring to draw his blade when there was no danger present. Then, Max turned to face their way, though his attention was on something in the underbrush. Leon heard him clear as the afternoon sunlight shone.

“Bikra!” Max shouted, dropping low into a full-blown sprint. Movement to their right pulled Leon’s attention away from his enraged squire as a small, thin, dark-haired individual sprung up from where they’d been hiding beneath some bushes. How Max had even seen the person was a mystery, but that wasn’t important. 

The Bikra was running straight for Leon and Malachi.

Chapter Text

Max charged the Bikra like a demon straight out of the hells. Leon and Malachi dismounted in practiced, quick ease, drawing their swords. Behind Max, Thori had also drawn his weapon, but was approaching more cautiously. Something struck Leon as wrong with the situation, but he couldn’t quite place it.

At least, not until Malachi figured it out. 

The Bikra was looking over his shoulder as he ran, his attention fully on Max. He didn’t even notice Leon and Malachi until it was too late. Malachi, quick on his feet like always, lowered his sword and stuck his arm out. The Bikra man ran straight into it, effectively clotheslining himself, before collapsing on his back and gasping for air as the breath was knocked from his lungs from the impact. Malachi sheathed his sword, whipped out his dagger, and snatched the Bikra man up by his long hair. He snarled down at the man, before a sudden look of confusion swept over his face. Then, as Max and Thori reached them, he turned to Leon in confusion. 

“He’s just a kid, Lee,” he said. 

The man—no, most definitely a young boy— began to kick and struggle almost immediately. 

That was when Max finally caught up. With a red, rage-filled face, he lifted his sword up high. Leon caught his arm before he could do more. For a second, Leon was nearly dragged forward. Then, Max seemed to register who had grabbed him, and he paused, panting harshly from the run.

“ Easy, Max!” Leon said. “Calm yourself. We don’t harm unarmed men. Especially not young boys.”

Max was shaking.

“But he’s Bikra! He’s in the valley! That means more must be around!” Max argued, but after a tense moment, he lowered his sword.

“We’ll figure it out. Just… calm down, Max.” 

Thori came up to Max then, placing a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, and murmuring into his ear while looking the Bikra boy over carefully. Once Max was no longer on the warpath, Leon turned his attention back to the squirming boy in Malachi’s grip. 

He wasn’t particularly big. In fact, the boy barely came up to Malachi’s chest. He wore loose pants that flared at the ankles and a tight shirt that hugged his thin torso firmly. It only had one long sleeve. His other arm was exposed all the way up to the shoulder and was decorated in swirling, intricate, striking black tattoos. His thick black hair was longer than any man’s that Leon had ever seen, reaching to nearly his waist, and was pulled to the side in a tight braid. Strapped to his waist was an ill-fitting sword belt and a sword that looked far too large for him to use effectively. 

He thrashed violently, shouting a rambling of gibberish that none of them could understand, and when one of his flailing hands came up and gave Malachi’s face an accidental slap, Malachi had enough. 

Jerking back, Malachi’s face twisted into a snarl, and then he pressed his dagger blade firmly against the boy’s throat. The boy gasped, going still in Malachi’s grip, his dark eyes wide with terror. A soft whimper came from between the boy’s wobbling lips.

Malachi stood panting, holding the boy tightly, and looked at Leon. 

“What in the hells is this? When did the Bikra start using little kids in their ranks?” he demanded.

Leon took a closer look at the boy, eyes narrowing. The boy did look quite young. Judging by his size, he suspected the boy might even be younger than Max. 

“I… I don’t know, Mal.”

“Well, what do I do? I’m not gonna kill a kid!” Malachi demanded.

“But he’s Bikra! We can’t let him find his way to the keep! He’ll tell the other Bikra where we are!” Max insisted.

“Well, it’s not like our location is exactly a secret, Max,” Thori cut in. 

“That’s not the point, Thori —”

“Pres no maak key teevall!” the Bikra boy snarled. “Pres no maak drakkon see tu laa!”

Max’s face flushed with rage and he stormed forward towards the boy. 

“You shut your stupid face up, you nasty little—”

“Max!” Leon bellowed, dragging Max back by his upper arm. He was a bit surprised that he found it rather difficult to move his boy. “This is behavior unbefitting of a knight! Control yourself! He’s only a boy!”

Max had eyes only for the boy, but finally, he pulled back. He huffed angrily, and turned away to go stand beside Thori, who was looking the boy’s tattooed arm over curiously. Leon could have sworn he’d caught a whiff of smoke coming from Max’s mouth, but dismissed it quickly. He was pretty sure he’d have noticed if his brat had picked up a dub smoking habit. He must have stood near one of the knights while they’d smoked that morning or something. It was unimportant.

Turning his attention back to the terrified boy, Leon considered what they should do. First, he unbuckled the belt from the boy’s waist and took the sword away. The boy kicked at him, but with Malachi holding his dagger to his throat with one hand and the other wound tightly in his braid, the boy couldn’t do much but squirm as Leon patted him down and searched him for other weapons. He found none, and once he was finished, Leon stepped back with his hands on his hips. 

“We’ll take him to the keep. Baptiste will decide what to do with him,” Leon finally decided. 

“The keep!?” Max asked, still agitated. “Where are we going to keep him?”

“We have a dungeon, Max,” Thori said. 

Max paused, having obviously forgotten. The keep’s dungeons were not often used. Perhaps only once or twice in Max’s time of living there had it been used, and only for the odd prisoner being transported through the valley on His Lordship’s orders. Leon felt uncomfortable with the obviously scared boy sitting in a dark, chilly cell, but he was a Bikra, and could very well be a spy. It was for the best. 

“We’ll see if we can’t figure anything out about him once we have him secured. Who knows? Perhaps we can ransom him back to the Bikra?” Leon said, nodding for Malachi to lead the boy along. His friend did, but Leon noticed he was being careful not to nick the boy’s throat. He nearly smiled, thinking that Thori’s kind heartedness had bled just a bit into his best friend. 

Together, the four of them began to escort the squirming Bikra boy back towards their home. The boy fought hard, spitting what Leon suspected were curses in his own language, clawing at Malachi’s hand in his hair, and even going so far as to try to bite him. Malachi eventually grew tired of the struggling, and paused only long enough to twist the boy around and deliver a few sharp smacks to his backside that echoed throughout the clearing they were in. The boy gasped, twisting in an attempt to escape Malachi’s hard hand, and only succeeded in giving Malachi a fresh spot to target with each turn. 

He became a fair bit more subdued after that, a deep blush darkening his already deeply tanned cheeks. 

Thori gave Malachi a reproachful look and Max smirked. 

For a while, they were silent after Leon had mentioned that while the boy might be speaking in another language, it didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t understand theirs. Then, they paused to drink some water. The boy stared longingly at Leon’s throat as it constricted with each deep swallow he took. He smacked his lips a bit, clearly thirsty, and Thori paused before taking his own drink after Max had passed him the waterskin. He came over to the boy and held it up for him.

“Thori, don’t give him any, he might try something,” Max warned. 

“He’s human like the rest of us, and it’s hot out today. Just because he’s a captive doesn’t mean we have the right to make him suffer thirst while we quench our own right in front of him.”

Max snorted, but didn’t comment further. Leon shared a quick, proud look with Malachi at Thori’s mercy. Thori lifted the waterskin up for the boy, who narrowed his eyes and glanced at Max. After a moment of hesitation, he carefully opened his mouth a bit. Thori lifted the waterskin higher, intending to pour it into the boy’s waiting mouth.

That’s when it all went to shit. 

A shout from above them had Thori pausing and snapping his head up. Two Bikra men stood at the top of the small hill to their left, pointing at the boy in Malachi’s grasp. 

“ Zizka! Mala sek na! Pre starlechna zizka malatree!” the man shouted. 

The boy didn’t waste a second. Tilting his head down thanks to Malachi’s loosened grip, he did the little hand motion that Max recalled him doing the night before and said something in that lyrical language. 

“NO!” Max roared, lurching forward towards them. “Malachi!”

Vines erupted from the ground all around Malachi’s feet and ankles, growing and entangling themselves up Maalchi’s legs with startling speed.

“Hey, hey, oh man!” Malachi said, dropping his dagger in his shock. The boy dipped down, snatched the dagger up, and was off sprinting in the other direction before any of them could properly react.

Leon turned, shouting, but moved towards Malachi. 

“They’re going for my dick, Lee! Get them off of me!” Malachi wailed, thrashing as the vines continued to climb him. 

No one saw the third Bikra man until it was too late. He leapt up from behind Leon, holding a section of tree branch that was as thick as Max’s forearm, and cracked it hard across the back of Leon’s head. Leon stumbled, not knocked out but close to it, and fell heavily to his hands and knees as he was stunned. Max and Thori gasped as the Bikra began to close in on them, and Max thrust out a hand towards Malachi. 

“Thori! Get Malachi loose and help Leon! I’ve got these assholes!”

Thori nodded, brandishing his blade with a grim expression, and began to approach the Bikra who had struck Leon. The man tossed the branch aside, smirking, and said something as he pointed to his left eye, clearly not expecting Thori to be much of a fighter with only one eye. Perhaps, when they had been children, Thori might not have stood a chance against the man. But Thori had been trained by Malachi Pisanio Talbot. The Bikra man was dead within thirty seconds of locking blades with the thin, half-blind junior knight. 

And now Thori’s kill count is three, Max thought to himself, charging towards the two men at the top of the hill. Time to even things up.

He clashed heavily with the two men. Leon slurred his name, still struggling to rise from where he’d collapsed as Thori began to carefully hack at the vines trapping Malachi. 

“Kid!” Malachi called. “Disengage! You’re outnumbered! Get back here! Thori, forget me. Go and help Max!”

But Max didn’t need any help. He caught the wrist of one of the men as he tried to slash at Max, headbutted him firmly to stun him, and ended him with a quick jab and twist of his sword. The other man was just as easily dispatched, being no match for Max’s raw strength. Once he was certain there were no other men lurking about, Max rejoined the others. He helped Leon stand, leaning down to check his eyes and make sure he hadn’t been injured beyond a stunning blow.

“Come on, Leon!” Max urged. “If we go now, we can catch that boy before he gets away!” 

Max could smell the little bastard and he wanted to hunt.

“No,” Leon said. “He’s long gone. We need to get back to the keep.”

“But Leon—”

“I said no, Max. Mal is hurt. We’re going back to the keep.”

Max blinked, turning to find Malachi seated on a nearby log, hissing through his teeth as Thori gently checked his left leg over. 

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Thori said. “Just got sprained by the vines wrapping around it too tightly.” 

His hands shook as he spoke, his hands fluttering around Malachi’s ankle carefully. Malachi, in a rare show of complete seriousness, gently clasped Thori on the back of the neck. He leaned down and murmured softly, but Max could hear him nonetheless. 

“Easy, Squirt. You’re all right. It’s over. We’re both okay. You did good.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thori breathed, standing and letting Maalchi toss his arm over his shoulders. 

Max joined them, the red that had been rimming his vision for the past few minutes beginning to fade as he let Malachi put his other arm over his shoulders. Leon guided them back to the horses, and Max gave himself a moment to take a few deep breaths, sucking in the familiar scent of Malachi and Thori. By the time they’d helped Malachi onto the back of his horse, Max had fully calmed. He felt strange, as if he were settling back into his own skin a bit. 

“Thori,” Leon said, taking charge. “Lead Mal’s horse for him. Max, you’re to stay by my side.”

As they made their way back home, Max grimaced as he heard Malachi speak softly once more. 

“I gave you an order to go help Max, Thori. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“Max had it, sir. Your leg was being crushed by those vines.”

“Doesn’t matter. When you’re given an order in a fight, you obey that order. We’re going to be having a long talk about this later.”

Max winced right alongside Thori. He did not envy his friend one bit. Malachi seemed pissed enough to spit venom. 

A flick to his ear had him jumping and turning to Leon. 

“You okay there, Max?” Leon asked softly, keeping his voice low and his eyes on their surroundings. 

“Fine. Why?” Max asked, confused. “You’re the one that got his head nearly split open.”

Finally, Leon stopped glancing around to give Max a long look. 

“Max, you just killed two men. It’s okay to be upset.”

Max blinked. He hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest. Besides, his first kill had been years ago when he’d saved Malachi in the battle of the keep. Not that Leon knew that. Max took a bit of grim satisfaction in the fact that his kill count finally matched Thori’s. 

“I’m fine.”

“Max. Listen to me, son. I know that—”

“They were just Bikra, Leon. I’m fine. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. We’re too exposed.”

Max jogged ahead just a bit to get in front of Lacey. Her scent was throwing off his sense of smell. Leon went silent, but his eyes stayed on Max for the rest of the ride home. They reported back, dropped Malachi off with the healer, and delivered their reports to Baptiste. Max was still angry that they’d lost the Bikra boy, but it wasn’t quite so dire now. He had the boy’s scent. The next time he went hunting…

They were dismissed to evening meal and Max didn’t think twice about it when Baptiste ordered Leon to stay behind for a more detailed report. 

When Max met Thori in the training ring for morning sword sparring, Leon and Malachi were not present. This didn’t concern them, as occasionally their masters were pulled aside for odd tasks here and there. They began to stretch without needing guidance, well-acustomed to the routine by now. 

“So,” Max said casually as he and Thori clasped hands and braced their feet against one another to stretch their calves out. “How pissed was Malachi about yesterday?” 

“He certainly wasn’t pleased with me. But I knew you had those two men. He needed my help.”

“He tan you arse?”

Thori huffed, giving him a glare. 

“So,” Max said, smirking. “That’s a yes, then.”

“Shut up, Max,” Thori said, a blush creeping its way up his fair cheeks all the way beneath his eyepatch.

“What? It’s not like Leon wouldn’t have done the same to me. He’s always on my arse about something or other. I can’t wait to turn sixteen so we can move into that room in the Crow’s Tower.”

“Your master is always riding your arse because you’re a nosy, impatient, annoying, disobedient—”

“Okay, okay! We get the idea! You’re grumpy when you’ve got a smarting arse.”

Thori rolled his eye, and soon they were finished stretching. They glanced around, watching the other squires and junior knights they’d grown up with train with their masters or spar. 

“Should we just start sparring?” Max asked. “I mean, technically you’re allowed to since you’re not a squire anymore.”

“But you’re still technically a squire. I don’t want to get you into trouble…”

“I doubt Leon will care.”

Then, the door to the entrance of the keep swung open and Leon strode through, face stormy. 

He crooked a finger in Max’s direction, and Max felt his stomach drop. His master looked downright furious, and the worst part was that Max had no idea what he might have done to put such a look on Leon’s face. Max and Thori shared an uneasy look before Max began to jog for the keep, not willing to make Leon wait when he was so red in the face. 

“ Thori! You too!” Leon shouted, making the one-eyed teen jump. Thori was quick to sprint after Max, equally eager to avoid further angering Leon. 

Leon didn’t say a word once the two boys joined him, merely pivoting on his heel and storming back up the stairs he’d come down. Max slipped over to Thori’s right side, knowing Thori preferred him there when they were safe in the keep, and they shared frantic, nervous looks as they followed close behind Leon. Soon, as they climbed higher and higher, it became apparent that they were destined for Baptiste’s office, and their nerves both skyrocketed. Their looks to one another became more pointed and soon they were communicating in that silent language that only the best and truest of friends were able to understand. 

What in the hells did you do, Max? Thori’s uncovered eye asked. 

I don’t know! I didn’t do anything! Max shot back with his own wide green eyes. What did you do, you skinny beanpole!?

Nothing! I am never the one that gets us into trouble. Especially not with Baptiste, you big, silly lizard!

You get us into trouble sometimes! Remember that time you tried to cultivate a new species of mushrooms in Malachi’s best boots?

We are not bringing the mushrooms back up again, Max! We’re in trouble!

Well, I don’t know why!

I don’t either!

They reached the office door and Leon swept in without so much as a knock. The two boys shuffled in, standing awkwardly in front of the door. Baptiste sat calmly at his desk. Two chairs were placed in front of him and Malachi was already present, leaning against the wall behind Baptiste with his foot drawn up against the wall and his arms crossed.

“Come in, Max. Thori. Close the door behind you and have a seat. We need to have a discussion and it is private in nature.”

Max shuffled back and shut the door with the air of a man about to be executed before he joined Thori in his seat in front of the desk. Leon took up a position behind Max, crossing his arms and glaring at the wall behind Baptiste. For a long moment, the two boys squirmed nervously in their seats.

Max had been in Baptiste’s office countless times. He’d played beneath the man’s desk as a little boy while he’d written his letters and reports. He’d sat on the top of the desk while Baptiste had gently bandaged his scraped knees. He’d been paddled on three miserably memorable occasions over the years. He’d studied his books and lesson notes at the little desk nestled up against the wall behind Baptiste’s desk, which was the same desk that Leon had occupied during the years he’d served as Leon’s squire. (He knew because he’d found Leon’s name scratched into the side of the desk when he’d been eleven.) He’d sat in the very chair he sat in right that moment and been taught the intricacies of battle tactics and noble court procedures by the grey haired man who was looking at him now. 

Baptiste was looking at him as if lost in those exact same shared memories. As if he couldn’t quite believe Max wasn’t still a rough and tumble seven-year-old with a cursing problem and a preference for naughty behavior. Max wondered what he saw when he looked at him now. 

“You sent for us, Overseer?” Thori asked, breaking the silence and the shared trance. Max peeked over at him and found his friend sitting with his back ramrod straight like he always did when he was in trouble. “Have we… Have we done something wrong, sir?”

Baptiste glanced over at him and cleared his throat. 

“No, Thorimastrus. Neither of you are in any sort of trouble.”

Max and Thori both deflated a bit, letting out a sigh of relief. 

But if they weren’t in trouble, then why did Leon seem so angry, Max wondered. Baptiste ignored Leon, which Max found strange, and turned his attention back to Max. 

“I’ve called you both to my office today to discuss certain… matters that are about to fall into motion. Matters that might pertain to the both of you. Certainly you, Thorimastrus.”

Max wanted to know why Baptiste was using Thori’s full name. He hadn’t done that in years. Not unless he was speaking to Thori in a ‘professional capacity’ now that Thori was a junior knight. 

“Max, I want to begin with telling you that I was very pleased to hear how you handled yourself yesterday with the attack against the four of you. It is… concerning that this Bikra boy is a magic wielder. I haven’t heard of someone with such abilities in a long time. The last magic wielders that I am aware of existing were the king and queen of the Sukha Kingdom.”

Max thought back to his history lessons. “They were the ones that were wiped out by the Bikra about ten years ago, right? Across the sea to the east?”

Baptiste nodded.

“Aye. The very same. But if the Bikra have a magic user on their side, things have just become a lot more difficult for us. Even one as young as you’ve described can be extremely dangerous.”

“So, what does that have to do with us, sir?” Max asked.

Baptiste gave him another long look, glancing up at Leon briefly before returning his gaze to Max. 

“Max, I will be frank with you. With both of you. I suspect something is coming. I don’t know what, but this Bikra boy and his magic spell trouble that could lead to many good men dying. You both handled yourselves very well during that ambush. Throimastrus, that kind of behavior is expected of you as a junior knight.”

Max supposed Malachi and Leon had left out the bit about Thori not obeying their orders then. Thori squirmed in his seat, obviously thinking the same thing. 

“But you, Max, I am most interested in at the moment.”

“Me, sir?”

“Aye. You. Your skills with a blade have not gone unnoticed. His Lordship himself has taken an interest in you. You are a prodigy when it comes to battle tactics and improvisation when you apply yourself. And you are, dare I say, even more skilled at sparring and close combat than even Leon was when we was twenty. All that to say, I know that you are not technically of age, but after much discussion with your master, I have decided to allow you the choice of taking your vows early and becoming a junior knight now instead of waiting until you turn sixteen.”

Max sat in stunned silence. 

“I understand this is a lot to take in. It is a very big decision, and I do not want you to take it lightly. Not one person in this room will fault you for wishing to wait until you are of age to take your vows. Should you accept, I want to place you, and Throimastrus, in the reserve guard ranks to act as backup for the more seasoned knights should we find ourselves being attacked in the coming months. We could use someone with your skills, Max.”

Max blinked, still shocked to his core. Beside him, Thori was also still with surprise. 

“W-When would I take my vows, sir? If I were to accept?”

Baptiste cleared his throat. 

“Tomorrow evening.”

It was as if he were in freefall above the valley as high up as he could push himself. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of. Everything he wanted. If he were a junior knight, he and Thori could go on patrols without their masters. They could hunt down the Bikra boy. He could help right the wrongs plaguing the valley. 

He opened his mouth to say ‘yes’.

“May I have the day to think about it, sir?” is what came out instead.

Behind Baptiste, Malachi’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Baptiste blinked, as if shocked to not see Max leap up and crow with joy, accepting the offer with a shout. Max was honestly probably more shocked that that’s what hadn’t happened.

“You may. Might I expect your decision by the time we are called in to prepare for supper?” Baptiste asked slowly. 

“Aye, sir. I will have an answer for you then.”

“Very well. I am pleased to see you taking this so seriously. Take your time. Aside from your daily chores, I have cleared your schedule.”

“Thank you, sir. May I leave now?” Max asked. 

Again, Baptiste seemed surprised, but he nodded.

“Yes. Thorimastrus? Stay. I need to discuss your new posting with the reserve guard.”

“Of course, sir.” 

Max didn’t say another word. He got up, dipped into the polite bow he’d been taught to give Baptiste every time he left his presence (though he rarely bothered to bow to Baptiste. After all, he was the man’s grandsquire and that position came with perks.), and walked straight out of the room at a brisk pace. 

He barely registered the voices of Baptiste, Leon, Thori, and Malachi as he left. It wasn’t until his feet had taken him back to his and Leon’s room that he stopped to take a breath. His and Leon’s room. He knew he was going to be moving out soon. Hells, he’d been excited to share a room with Thori. One that had a big window he could leap from without being seen. One with a massive bookshelf for Thori to call his own. One with bigger beds meant for adults to sleep in.

But he liked his window that was beside his little soft, cozy squire’s bed. Max had slept in the same room as Thori plenty of times before, but never without a third person’s breathing, be it Leon or occasionally Malachi. There would be no more comforting Leon smell mixing with his own in the new room. No more raspy snores or groans caused by a stiff back or knee in the mornings. No more gentle shoulder shakes to wake him. Or annoying smacks to the butt when he took too long to get up. No more polishing boots and swords together with Leon. No more watching Leon draw in bed or write letters to his friends at the little desk while Max read a book.

No more bedtime kisses.

Suddenly, Max desperately wished to be seven years old again. If only for a night, so that he could curl up beside Leon in his bed and cuddle close. 

“Max?” 

Max whipped around, feeling tears flood his eyes as he found Leon shutting the door behind himself. 

“I won’t do it!” Max cried, before he threw himself into Leon’s warm, comforting arms, squeezing hard. 

And Leon held him just as tightly.

Chapter Text

Leon’s strong, rough hand came up to gently stroke the back of Max’s head, smoothing down the unruly hair that always had a cowlick somewhere in it no matter how often Max brushed it out. Max could feel his lower lip wobbling as he pressed his face hard against the side of Leon’s throat, breathing in the smell of his master. 

His. No one elses. His.

“Max,” Leon said softly. “I don’t understand. Getting to this level has been all you could talk about since you were thirteen. What’s going on with you?”

Max snuggled in even more. “I… I won’t do it. Not without your blessing. And you don’t want me to do it. I can tell.”

Leon stiffened. “I do want this for you.”

“No, you don’t. You were angry when you brought us to Baptiste.”

Leon sucked in a deep breath, giving Max a tight squeeze before pulling away. Max sniffled miserably. He wanted to be a junior knight so badly. He would miss this room and being with Leon, but he also craved more independence and he needed to have fewer eyes on him so that he could shift. He wanted to move in with Thori. He wanted freedom.

“I… Oh, Max. You’re right. I don’t want you to take your oaths early.”

Max’s lower lip wobbled dangerously. 

“But… It’s not for the reasons you think,” Leon continued.

“What do you mean?”

Leon shifted Max and led him to take a seat beside him on the edge of his bed. He kept his arm around Max’s shoulders and Max leaned against his master, soaking up his warmth and scent. Leon took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts and absent-mindedly rubbing Max’s arm. 

“Max… Things are happening… I know you are aware of some of it, but the Bikra have returned to the valley. In force. Baptiste has been getting reports from across the valley that the Bikra are coming in numbers we’ve never seen before. Rachdale Keep and the Pelsley stronghold have fallen.”

Max gasped. He hadn’t heard about that, and he was certain if Thori had been told, he would have shared it with him. Max sometimes flew over Rachdale. He’d done so not even a month ago. How could it be gone? 

“We’ve been keeping it quiet because we don’t want to cause a panic, but… Max things are about to get bad. And if you take your oaths early, there’s a chance you might be called to the front lines. Max, I can’t bear the thought of you being in the heat of battle. I didn’t go into proper battle until I was twenty-two and I still have nightmares about it. It’s no place for a fifteen-year-old boy.”

Max squirmed in Leon’s hold slightly. “So, you don’t want me to become a knight because you think I’ll be sent away? Not because… because I’m not good enough?”

Leon huffed a laugh. “Oh, Max. I don’t say this to stroke your ego, but you are the most accomplished squire in the entire keep. You are magnificent. And it’s for that exact reason I fear for you. Baptiste wasn’t lying about His Lordship taking an interest in you. And if you become a junior knight, he might call you to serve in the palace. And that would put you in so much danger.”

“But if I don’t take my oaths, what will happen to Thori if he gets called in for battle!? I didn’t go with him once and he lost an eye. I can’t let something like that happen again. And what about you? You got knocked silly yesterday! If I hadn’t been there, Thori wouldn’t have been able to hold off all three of those men by himself. We’re a team, me and him!”

“I know. And as much as I hate to admit it, we really could use you. I just… it’s just so hard to see you grow up, Max. You’re… you’re my boy.”

Max glanced away, rubbing his neck. 

“It’s hard to be growing up. I… I’m really going to miss this room. And you. And… everything. It’s all going to change no matter what I pick, isn’t it? Even if I say no now, I’ll be sixteen in just a few months and then I’ll have to take my oaths.”

For a long moment, Leon was silent, staring at his feet. 

“You don’t have to.”

“And where would I go? What would I do?”

“Well… I am Lord Lartius. I could… you could be my legal heir. We could both leave this life behind. I could adopt you as my son and we could rebuild Lartius Manor and I could finish raising you away from all of this.”

Max stared at Leon in shock. 

“You’re shitting me.”

Leon snapped his head over to give Max a little glare. “Language, Max.”

“No! You’re actually shitting me! You seriously think I could ever be anything but a knight at this point?”

Leon sighed. “I’m only saying that it doesn’t have to be your only option, Max.”

“Is that what you want? To turn your back on Galubry and Baptiste and Malachi and Thori and… everyone!?”

Leon’s silence was all the answer Max needed. He nudged Leon with his shoulder. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. We’re in this together, Leon. You and me.”

Leon sighed again, and this time, it was one of reluctant acceptance. 

“So… If I were to say yes to Baptiste?” Max asked cautiously. “Would I have your blessing? Please, Leon. I can’t do it if you won’t give me your permission.”

Leon let out a little sniffle and Max was shocked to see tears glistening in his eyes. He pulled Max into a tight hug, as if Max might be snatched away from him if he didn’t hold on hard.

“Yes, Max. As much as it terrifies me, you have my blessing. I wouldn’t have let Baptiste even offer it if I hadn’t made peace with this. But just… just promise me you’ll be careful. Please?”

Max threw his arms around Leon, hugging him back just as hard. “I promise.”

He felt Leon press a hard kiss to the top of his head. 

“I love you, son.”

“And I love you, Leon.”

For a long while, they sat on Leon’s bed and held on tight. Max made sure he sucked in as much of Leon’s scent into his nose as he could, determined to remember this moment and how happy and safe he felt. If the Bikra were coming, then he was going to need such memories. After Leon had finished squeezing him half to death, Max left and took off down the hallway to go and tell Baptiste that he would take his oaths the next night. 

Leon stayed in their room, letting his boy run off to tell half the keep about his new status. Once he was certain Max was well away, he locked the door and snatched Max’s pillow up from his bed, buried his face in it, and indulged himself in a long, hard cry. Then, once his chest stopped feeling as though it was trying to crush his heart, he washed his face and went to Baptiste’s office to begin preparing for the oath-taking and induction of Galbury’s newest junior knight. 

Thori hadn’t been given permission to tell Max anything about his own oath-taking ceremony seven months ago, and he’d stayed stubbornly silent on the topic since. Now, he told Max only one thing. 

“Find something that represents the kind of knight you hope to be so that it may be forged into the handle of your sword. Something unique to you.”

Max thought long and hard about it. For a while, he considered requesting the Lartius family crest be stamped into the handle of his blade, but he was more than just Leon’s squire. He wanted something special, and that night as he lay in his bed listening to Leon’s raspy snores (for the last time), he figured it out. 

He clutched the item that he planned to have forged into his sword pommel tightly in his fist as he rode on the back of Thori’s horse, his free hand casually hooked into the back of Thori’s belt. Normally, he and Thori would be running their mouths a hundred leagues a minute, but today, they were silent. The air felt heavy with importance and tradition, and it felt wrong to talk at any volume louder than a whisper as they rode to the top of the hill that they buried their dead in. Baptiste was at the front, with Leon close behind and Thori and Max pulling up the rear.

Max had scrubbed himself near raw in the bath not an hour ago, and he wore his best uniform. He fidgeted nervously, catching stray scents and sounds from all over and snapping his head back and forth as he searched for their origins. He felt so nervous that he had nearly made himself sick. What if he’d made a mistake? What if he made a fool of himself, and thus made a fool of Leon? No one had told him anything about the ceremony! Was this how Thori had felt coming up here? Had he puked? Max was almost certain he was going to puke. 

Just as soon as he’d been getting ready to tap at Thori’s shoulder to tell him to stop the horse so he could lean over and toss up everything he’d eaten for his lunch, they stopped. Max’s heart nearly stopped as well. Baptiste didn’t wait up for them, swinging off of his horse and striding ahead. Leon joined them and directed Thori to go ahead. Max watched his best friend leave him, feeling lost and a tiny bit frightened. 

Leon reached up, clasping him firmly by the scruff of his neck and Max felt himself immediately loosen up and relax. 

“You’ll do well, Max. I know it’s nerve wracking, but you’re ready.”

“It’s just… no one will tell me anything. Not even Thori. I don’t like not knowing what to expect.”

“That’s the life of a knight, Max. Not knowing what’s coming, but having to prepare for anything. Now, chin up and take a deep breath. Are you ready?”

Max sucked in a tight, heavy breath and nodded, scrubbing his sweating palms against his hips. 

“All right. Let’s go, my boy.”

Leon gave his shoulder a friendly swat and led the way up the small path to the top of the hill. Max swallowed heavily, snatched his trousers up firmly, and followed. 

When he got to the top of the hill, he gasped at the sight before him. 

Every single knight from the keep was present. They all knelt with one knee on the ground, fully armored up with their swords drawn and the tips planted firmly against the bedrock that made a sort of natural stage. Their heads were bowed. Only two men were standing, at the farthest point from where Max stood. Baptiste, fully armored with his arms tucked behind his back, and Leon at his side, smiling proudly. Max clutched his chosen symbol so tightly he worried it might shatter, his hand aching. He shuffled forward through the crowd of knights. As he passed each row, the men rose and swung their swords up so that they then pointed to the heavens. Max finally found Thori by his eyepatch, nearly hidden behind Malachi, but his friend gave him an excited smile and a quick thumbs up that made Max’s heartrate ease just the tiniest bit. 

Thori had done this without Max there to give him a smile and thumbs up. Max could most definitely do it with his friend there to support him. He stopped in front of Baptiste, unsure of what he should do. Leon caught his eye and gave his hand a tiny little wave to tell Max to kneel. Max dropped down on both of his knees, feeling the dampness of the most recent rain seeping through his trousers. Baptiste stepped forward, placed a hand on Max’s shoulder, and addressed the crowd of knights who stood with their swords drawn and facing them. 

“My brothers!” Baptiste’s voice boomed, loud in a way that Max had only ever heard once before when he’d been issuing orders in a battle to protect the keep and the squires deep down in the cellars.

“Our leader, our master, our father!” the men echoed back in unison. Max jumped a bit, having not expected the voices to batter against his back so firmly. He hunched a bit further down, trying to hide his shaking hands. 

“Tonight, I bring to you one of our squires! Tonight, I bring to you a young man who has shown dedication to the knight’s way of life! Tonight, I bring to you a potential brother in arms! What say you, my brothers!?”

“Speak his name!”

“Maxamillion Dallas Gallagher! Squire to our brother Leon Mamillius Lartius!”

“We will hear his oaths!”

Max trembled beneath the weight of those voices. Of the expectations. He tried to pick out Thori or Malachi’s voice in the cacophony, but it was impossible. It was as if a god was standing behind him, demanding his oaths and his life, instead of the fifty-seven knights of Galbury Keep that he'd grown up around. Baptiste glanced down at him, crooked his finger beneath Max’s chin, and lifted Max’s face up.

“Maxamillion Dallas Gallagher, do you swear to serve the people of the Valley of Morinrior Rise?” he asked, letting his voice continue to carry, but no longer booming.

Max nodded. “Yes, Overseer. I swear,” he said, praying his voice didn’t shake and carried as well. 

“Do you swear to give your life in service to protecting this land in the name of His Lordship Demetrius Cronos Argyros against any and all who would seek to do it harm?”

“I swear, Overseer.”

“Do you swear to uphold and obey the laws of this great land?”

“I swear, Overseer.”

“Do you swear to lead our squires by example and guide them in all ways?”

“I swear, Overseer.”

Max did a lot of swearing. If someone had asked him later to recall everything he’d sworn to do, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to answer. But in what felt like hours and yet no time at all, Baptiste stopped asking him to swear things to him. He looked back to the men, who Max didn’t dare try to peek back at, and his voice once again echoed across the hilltop. 

“What say you, my knights? Shall we accept this young man into our ranks as a brother in arms and shield?” Baptiste called out. 

“We shall!”

“Do any wish to contest this appointment of knighthood, or otherwise disagree with my decision to bring young Maxamillion into our fold as one of us?”

The silence was profound. Max felt tears well in his eyes at the total acceptance and support. 

Baptiste pulled away from Max and Max found himself leaning forward just a bit, chasing the warmth of Baptiste’s hand. He leaned back just as quick when Baptiste drew his sword. He held it just above Max’s head. 

“Then by the power vested in me by His Lordship Demetrius Cronos Argyros and in the presence of our forever resting brethren, I, Overseer Baptiste Videric, hereby knight Maxamillion Dallas Gallagher. May he serve us honorably and with grace, bringing glory to Galbury Keep and all those housed within its strong walls. Welcome to the brotherhood, Maxamillion.”

The men cheered, the sound roaring around Max as Baptiste tapped the flat end of his blade to Max’s right shoulder, then his left, and then back over his head to his right once more. Leon smiled, cheering and clapping right along with the men, and Max had never been more happy in his entire life seeing that look in Leon’s eyes. 

Once the men had calmed down, Baptiste held out his hand towards Leon. Leon slipped his glove off, held it out, and let Baptiste swipe his blade across his palm, slicing him cleanly open. Max gasped as Leon smirked, squeezing his fist to coat his hand in blood, before he went to the small, natural stoop behind Baptiste and picked up a new helmet. He placed his bloody hand firmly against the side of the helm, leaving his print, before he slipped the helmet over Max’s head. 

It was a perfect fit. 

Baptiste gestured for him to stand. 

“Rise, my brother and son,” Baptiste said. “And make an offering to act as your personal symbol, to be placed into the hilt of your blade.”

Max stood on shaking legs, but was proud that he didn’t stumble as he approached Baptiste. He held out his hand and gave Baptiste his offering. Baptiste took it, looking it over curiously before smiling widely upon recognizing what it was. 

He held it up to the fading sunlight, looking it over, before he offered it to the blacksmith. He turned back to Max, smiling with a mischievousness that Max rarely saw. 

“A scale from our little dragon?” he asked. 

“The dragon protects our valley and so will I,” Max said. 

“Where did you get it? It’s in very good shape.”

“I found it down by the river, a few weeks back.”

Actually, Thori had yanked it straight out of Max’s back three weeks ago by accident when Max had made a sharp roll in the middle of the sky and Thori had nearly fallen off…

“Dragons can be temperamental and dangerous creatures, Max,” Baptiste said.

Max shrugged. “So can I. No one will come into my valley with the intention to harm people without me having something to say about it.”

Baptiste and Leon both smiled, and Leon yanked Max into a tight hug as the men all began to crowd him to shake his hand. The gathering took on a loose sort of style after that. Many returned to the keep after offering Max their congratulations, not willing to leave the keep and all the squires unsecured with so few guards for long, and a few remained to look at Max’s dragon scale. Many seemed to think his choice of symbol fit him perfectly. Max could only smile, knowing that they had no clue how much the choice “fit” him. 

Thori held him tight for a long time, jumping up and down and crowing about how he would finally be allowed to discuss ‘knightly’ things with Max now that he was no longer a squire. Malachi surprised Max with a fancy sword polishing kit before snatching him up and pinning his head beneath his armpit and grinding his knuckles against Max’s head. Leon handed Max a horse bridle, which at first confused Max. He could smell Lacey’s scent on it, and he looked up in confusion. 

“A proper knight needs a horse to get him from place to place, no?” Leon asked. 

Max’s eyes went wide. “You’re giving me Lacey!?” 

Leon nodded. “Treat her well like you always do and she’ll never leave your side.”

Baptiste kissed each of Max’s cheeks fondly, and Max was shocked by the familiar treatment. Baptiste was allergic to hugs, so getting not one but two kisses from the stoic man was unbelievable. His gift from Baptiste was the key to his and Thori’s new room and a fancy bottle of wine. 

Max held up the wine to show off to Thori, who took one look at it, glanced nervously at Malachi, and shook his head firmly no. Max laughed hard, clutching the bottle tightly in his hand. Together, they made their way back to the keep, because dark clouds were brewing high above and it looked like a nasty storm was coming in. His new sword, complete with a dragon scale embedded into the pommel, would be ready come morning. 

They feasted that night, and Max ate so much that he felt positively stuffed by the end of the night. Together, he and Thori made their way up to their new room. Max felt a tight squeeze of his chest, already missing Leon, but he knew that it was just a part of growing up. Their things had already been moved to the new room. Thori’s bookshelf was already nearly overflowing, and the writing desk was brand new. The beds were large and the window was massive. Max picked the bed closest to the window. Sitting on his bed was a wrapped parcel. Max came up to it curiously, sniffing at it. He could smell Thori all over it. 

“What’s this?” he asked. 

Thori fell into his bed with a sigh. “Open it and find out, brother.”

Max opened it carefully, and when he saw what was in it, he gasped. 

“Thori, this is… it’s too much!” 

The cloak was a crimson red so dark it was nearly black. Just like his scales. The clasp was solid gold and shaped like a dragon. It swept down to Max’s feet, being just short enough to avoid dragging across the ground, but was lined in heavy fur to keep the winter’s chill away.

“Nonsense. I have to do something with the ridiculous allowance Father gives me each month. And your cloak is a ragged piece of shit. No offense,” Thori said, smiling. 

Max felt his heart swell, and he tackled Thori, wrestling with his friend and laughing. 

A knock at the door had them stopping. Max hopped up and opened it to find Leon there, waiting. Slipping out into the hallway, he said, “Yes, sir?”

Leon seemed nervous. “I, uh, I was just checking that you and Thori were settled?” 

Max nodded, smiling brightly. “We are! The room is magnificent!”

“Good, good…”

Leon looked so out of place that Max simply had to have mercy on the poor man. 

“I could use my bedtime kiss, though, sir.”

Leon paused, looking startled, before he smiled softly. He wrapped his arm around Max’s shoulders and pulled him in close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“You’ll come to me if you need anything?”

“Aye, sir. Of course.”

“Good. I’m still your master, even if you are technically a knight now.”

“Always, sir.”

“Well, good night, I suppose.”

Max pulled away, smiling up at Leon gently. 

“‘Night, Pa.”

Then, he slipped back into his room, listened to Leon’s footsteps fade, and promptly pounced on Thori to resume their wrestle game.

Zizka lay shivering beneath a large tree as the rain pelted him from above. He missed the arid, dry weather of his homeland. This strange valley was just so wet. Its trees were all so massive. The animals were terrifying. It had drakkons. As if things couldn’t get worse for him, he was pretty sure the drakkon boy had his scent and was hunting him, which was a whole new level of terrifying in and of itself. 

But he’d live in this wet, cold, miserable, dangerous land forever so long as it meant staying far away from Uncle Nutesh.

He fell asleep curled into a tight little ball. He’d continue moving as soon as the storm cleared. If he were lucky, he was moving out of the drakkon boy’s claimed territory, and not further into it. If he were really lucky, then Uncle Nutesh would move into the drakkon boy’s lands and piss the monster off enough that the beast would just eat him. 

Oh, one could certainly dream such pleasant ideas up. 

Of course, the gods just loved to make Zizka regret even his own damned thoughts. Because he wasn’t woken by the chirping of birds in the dawn’s light, or even more rain. No, he was woken by the toe of a hard boot slamming into his thigh. 

He shouted in surprise and pain, cringing against the trunk of the tree and blinking rain out of his eyes as he looked up. 

Please, he begged the gods that he didn’t think listened to him anymore. Please let it be those men in the armor from the other day. Or even the drakkon boy. Anyone but Uncle Nutesh.

It was Uncle Nutesh. 

In one hand, he held his broadsword loosely at his side as he regarded his runaway nephew. 

“Zizka,” Nutesh said, his voice barely carrying over the rain and thunder. “Did you think you could get away from me? You know better.”

Zizka tried to scamper away from beneath his uncle, but Nutesh simply caught him by his brain and jerked him back so roughly that Zizka was certain he felt his spine creak in protest. He collapsed back against his uncle and Nutesh simply began to drag him towards the edge of the cliff Zizka had been hiding on. At first, Zizka thought his uncle just wanted more room to maneuver around him while he gave him the beating he knew he was in for. But Nutesh didn’t slow as he approached the cliff’s sheer edge. 

Panic set in as his uncle dragged him up by his shirtfront and shoved him so hard his feet flew from beneath him and there was nothing to stop his plummet. He screamed in terror, clawing at his uncle’s wrist as he dangled, the tips of his toes barely reaching the cliff’s edge as his uncle held him there. All Nutesh had to do was let go and that would be the end of Zizka. All of the magic in the world wouldn’t bring Zizka back from such a fall.

“Please! Please, Uncle Nutesh, no! Please! Mercy!” Zizka begged, all but babbling in his uncle’s preferred Bikra language as he fought to cling to the man’s hand.

“And why shouldn’t I?” Nutesh snarled, giving Zizka a shake that made one of his feet slip. Zizka screamed again, tears streaming down his face and mixing with the frigid rain as the only thing that kept him from his death were a single tip of his foot and his uncle’s merciless grip.

“Why should I not kill you, disobedient boy!? You ran away from me!? Me!? After all these years I’ve raised you and fed you and clothed you! Why should I not rid myself of such a thankless, dark magic wielding little blight such as yourself?” 

“Please, Uncle Nutesh! I’m sorry! I- I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll be a good boy! Your good boy! I’ll obey!” Zizka pleaded. It was a familiar exchange after all of these years, and Zizka hated himself for his weakness, but his uncle scared him and he didn’t want to die. He could sacrifice his pride if it meant he lived. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d grovelled for his life and he doubted it would be the last. 

Because he was weak.

His uncle jerked Zizka towards him until his face was right in front of his wild, furious eyes. 

“You will be punished, boy!” Nutesh shouted. 

Zizka nodded, knowing he would be in for a hell of a beating this time around. He just hoped his uncle didn’t break any of his bones. It took so much of his magic to heal broken bones.

He nodded, whimpering, knowing his uncle expected a response. “I- I deserve to be punished! Severely! Please, Uncle Nutesh, don’t drop me…”

After a long moment where Zizka truly didn’t know if he was about to be released to fall to his death, his uncle finally dragged him back onto solid ground. He hadn’t even seen the whippy cane that his uncle preferred to use when punishing his ‘unruly’ nephew, but Nutesh usually kept it tucked into the side of his boot for quick and convenient access, and in a flash it was in his uncle’s hand.

He yelped as it cracked down firmly across his soaking wet back once, twice, thrice. Then, Nutesh’s hand was wrapping his braid up and snatching his head up again. Zizka whimpered, staring up at his uncle’s suddenly calm face. Nothing terrified him more than when his uncle went calm and quiet. When Nutesh was screaming and kicking and punching? Zizka could handle that. But when he went quiet, that meant he was thinking carefully about something. Something that always meant very bad things for Zizka. 

“I will not abide by your disobedience any longer, my nephew. You will obey me, or you will die. That is the end of it. Understand?” Nutesh asked.

Zizka sobbed, nodding as best he could with his uncle’s hand still wound up in his braid. His uncle’s free hand pressed the whippy cane to the side of his face, sliding up and down the length of  his jaw gently. 

“And you’re going to use those disgusting abilities of yours to my advantage now. Because I know you’ve seen the drakkon boy. You put the beast to sleep. You caught him unawares, didn’t you?” 

“I- I- It was an accident. He has my scent now, Uncle Nutesh! He’ll know I’m coming!” 

His back burned from the fresh stripes he’d been given. His uncle’s eyes burned even hotter.

“It matters not. You will capture the drakkon boy or the gods help you, I’ll make sure you die screaming.”

Zizka nodded. He had no other choice. His uncle tapped his face with the cane.

“Good boy. Now, we are going back to our camp and I am going to teach you a lesson in respect. Walk.”

He threw Zizka down into the mud, and when Zizka didn’t get up fast enough, he kicked him hard in the stomach. 

Zizka went with his uncle. And when they got to his uncle’s tent, he got the worst beating he’d ever gotten in his entire fourteen miserable years of life. And when morning came and the storm broke, Zizka did what he had to do to survive. 

He let his magik stretch out far, seeking, and he led his uncle’s soldiers through the forest as he began to hunt the drakkon boy down.

Chapter Text

Max and Thori sparred in the ring without anyone else present. Max loved it. Now that he was a junior knight, he was given new responsibilities, but even more freedom. He’d flown into the early hours of the morning once everyone had settled for the evening. He hadn’t bothered with hunting for the Bikra boy just yet. Max would get him soon enough. For that night, he just wanted it to be about him. He’d woken the next morning with Thori, risen with only minimal nagging to ‘roll his lazy lizard arse out of bed’, got dressed and then prepared for the day. Now, they sparred. No one fussed at them for using the training ring for too long or to mind their foot placement or even to keep his eyes on his partner when he worked. 

In fact, many of the knights watched Max batter Thori down with clear approval and excitement, as if they were finally allowed to show something more than disappointment in the improper sword usage when Max tossed his blade in the air and caught it with one hand mid-spar now that he was a junior knight instead of a squire. 

Max sparred freely, letting go in a way he rarely could. 

He felt good.

Thori gave as good as he got, having developed over the years into a rather accomplished swordsman under Malachi’s near brutal tutelage. Even missing an eye and lacking in the raw physical strength that Max had, he was clever and witty when he fought, and his lanky body would twist and turn in impossible to predict ways. Plus, Thori was a sneaky foe, because he would use his impossibly smart brain to watch his opponent and learn his fighting style before truly engaging them. Having sparred for so many years with Malachi, then Max, and even occasionally Leon, Thori was a near prodigy himself. 

But Max still held the record for most spars won. The next in line was Leon when he’d been twenty-one. Max tried not to let it go to his head, knowing that a fair amount of those matches were won because he had a hidden dragon’s strength beneath his tiny human body. 

His blade clanged loudly with Thori’s, who was beginning to huff with exertion already. His red dragon scale, firmly fixed into his pommel, shone brightly in the morning sun. He gave Thori’s knee a firm kick, knocking his friend off balance. 

Thori went down. 

Max followed. 

“I yield,” Thori gasped, thrusting his hand out to catch Max before his heavier friend could try to sit on him and gloat like he sometimes did. 

Max shoved his hand away, planting his hand firmly on Thori’s chest and shoving him down hard. No one was paying them much attention and they were in the corner ring, so no one heard Thori’s grunt of pain as his back slammed none-to-gently into the hard-packed dirt. He grabbed Max’s wrist, trying to shove up.

“Max! Arsehole! I said I yeild!” Thori insisted.

He lifted his single eye up to meet Max’s gaze, irritated by the too rough play that Max was trying to initiate on his first fucking day of being a junior knig-

He went still as he met Max’s slitted, yellowish, non-human pupils. His best friend’s lips were pulled back as he bared his teeth. They were all sharp and heavily slickened with saliva. His tongue was thin and forked. Scales were beginning to erupt along his cheekbones. 

Thori froze, his hand splayed out on Max’s heaving chest. He could feel each rasping pant through Max’s chest as he sucked air in. 

“Max,” Thori whispered. “Max, come back to me.”

He felt it before he heard it. A growl, rumbling up through Max’s chest. Max didn’t take his eyes away from Thori’s for a second. From his prey.  

“Max,” Thori hissed through his teeth. “Snap out of it. Malachi and Sir Leon will be down here any second.”

He glanced around as he heard Malachi’s boisterous laughter echo across the training yard. Literally any second now they’d be here. Where Malachi was, Sir Leon was rarely far behind. 

Max lowered his head, sniffing at Thori’s throat and flicking his tongue out along the sweat soaked skin. 

Tasting him.

“Kill… you… Bikraaaa…” Max hissed softly.

Malachi’s voice drew closer and Thori did the only thing he could think to do and prayed it wouldn’t send Max into a rage. He drew back as far as he could, and headbutted Max as hard as he could square in the nose. 

Max’s head snapped back as blood spurted out of his nose in an impressive arc, spattering across Thori’s face. He fell back with a cry of surprise, clutching his face, and suddenly Leon and Malachi were there, kneeling down and checking him over. Thori’s heart seized, but neither man drew back in shock as if they had just seen dragon’s fangs in Max’s mouth rather than normal human teeth. Sure enough, when Max turned to him, he was back to normal. 

For a moment, everyone was still. 

“Ow…” Max said, looking stunned. 

Leon and Malachi turned to Thori as one. Malachi’s face was confused, as if he couldn’t understand why Thori might hit his best friend. Leon, on the other hand, looked positively furious. Thori thought fast, eager to spare himself from Leon’s anger.

“It was an accident!” he cried, stumbling forward over his awkward legs. They shook beneath him as he tried to stand. Malachi helped him up, holding his upper arm tightly to help him find his balance. His master probably thought Thori had pushed himself too hard and gotten fatigued. Thori wasn’t about to tell him his legs were shaky because a few seconds ago he’d been staring potential death in its slitted eyes.

“I thought you would pull back, Max! I’m so sorry! I got too caught up in the sparring and didn’t think!” Thori said, shouldering the blame without hesitation. 

Some of the tight fury in Leon’s shoulders eased. 

“Thori!” he scolded, helping Max up as well, who was still clutching his gushing nose and looking stunned. “You know better than to pull that kind of shit when you spar! What has gotten into you, boy!?” 

Thori hunched his shoulders, hating to be in the elder knight’s bad graces even if it was to protect Max. 

“I’m truly sorry, sir. It won’t happen again,” Thori promised.

“See that it doesn’t or I’ll take my belt to you myself. Now go help Max get cleaned up and then meet us down in the lower bailey. I want you both in your leathers. We’re going on patrol in thirty minutes.”

Thori hunched down even further and obeyed, taking Max gently by the elbow and leading him up to their room. Max followed without a word, as if dazed. His pupils were blown wide as he glanced around as if amazed by the passing scenery of the keep they’d both lived in for nine years. Thori didn’t speak, trying to figure out what was wrong with Max. Once they were in their room, Max beat him to it.

“What’d you hit me for, Thors?” Max asked, clutching the handkerchief Thori offered him tightly to his nose to slow the bleeding and looking hurt.

Thori whirled around on him as soon as the door shut. 

“Me!?” he demanded in a whispered shout. He gave Max’s chest a hard thump with his knuckles. “What the hells was wrong with you!? You were fucking shifting into your other form right on top of me!”

Max looked even more confused.

“What? No, I wasn’t!”

“Yes! You were! You were licking my fucking throat and saying you’d kill me!”

Max blinked, lowering the bloody handkerchief and staring at it.

“You said ‘Kill you, Bikra’. I thought you were about to tear my face off! I- You- You scared the shit out of me, Max. I had to hit you because you were about to be seen.”

“I… I really said that?” Max asked, slumping to sit on the edge of Thori’s bed. Thori joined him, ignoring the tiny spike of fear that shot through his chest at being so close to Max. Max was his friend. His brother. He hadn’t meant it and he wouldn’t hurt Thori. 

Thori ignored the tiny, niggling doubtful voice in the back of his head that whispered at least he wouldn’t hurt you on purpose…

“Max,” he said softly, slinging his arm around Max’s shoulders. “Are you saying you don’t remember it?”

“I… I was sparring with you. I remember I kicked your knee out from beneath you and then… and then you hit me in the nose.”

Thori blinked, shifting nervously. This was bad.

“Max, you got on top on me. Held me down. Your eyes and fangs were out. Scales were across your face.”

Max swallowed heavily. 

“You- You’re serious? You’re not shitting me?”

“Max. I wouldn’t lie about something like this and you know it.”

Max nodded as if he’d just needed the confirmation. 

“I- Oh, man, Thori. This is… this is really bad. I can’t risk forgetting when I shift.”

Thori gave Max’s shoulders a tight squeeze. 

“We’ll… We’ll figure this out. Together.”

He held his fist out. Max stared at it, his eyes wide with fear. Then, he lifted his own shaking fist up to gently bump his knuckles against Thori’s. 

“Aye. Together. Thanks, Thors. You’re always there for me. I appreciate it.”

Taking a page out of Max’s book, Thori tried to lighten the mood by planting a wet, smacking kiss to Max’s cheek. 

“It’s what brothers do.”

Max gave him a little half-smile and got up to change shirts and grab their leathers. By the time they were meeting their masters down in the stables, Max was all smiles and chattering at Leon excitedly. But there was a tenseness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and Thori knew he was scared.

Max watched the trees carefully as he rose astride Lacey. It was strange to ride Lacey without Leon being in front of him. Leon’s new horse, a strong fellow Leon had named Ollie, was moving along calmly beside Malachi’s larger, nastier stallion. Malachi’s horse had a habit of biting anyone who wasn’t Malachi or Thori, though Max knew that Malachi’s horse only tolerated Thori because every time the younger teen approached him, he snuck him a sugar cube. Lacey snorted, and Max gave her a soft smile as he patted her on the side of her neck. He loved Lacey dearly, and he was thrilled to have her for himself. Plus, he was fairly certain she knew he was a dragon. Just a hunch. 

Thori watched him carefully, and though Max wanted to be irritated at being so closely monitored, he knew Thori only meant well and that he needed minding. It frightened him that he’s not only started to shift right in the middle of the damned training court, but that he’d been so rough with Thori. And he hadn’t even realized it, nor could he remember it. 

Disturbing indeed. 

He sighed as Leon led the group through a more out-of-the-way path, searching for the Bikra boy as well as anything else that might be amiss. Max sniffed the air, but the smells in the area were… off. He wondered if this was because of his little slip earlier. What was wrong with him? 

Eventually, Leon seemed to catch sight of something that caught his interest and he dismounted. Malachi soon followed, and with him, Max and Thori joined in. Leon was kneeling down, eyeing a broken branch near to the ground. 

“It’s nothing, Lee,” Malachi said as Thori and Max joined them. “It’s just a damned deer trail.”

“It’s too low to be a deer. Might be that boy,” Leon said.

Max gave the area a quick, subtle sniff, and when Thori glanced at him behind their masters’ backs, he shook his head. It wasn’t the Bikra boy. But it also didn’t smell like a deer. Leon drew his dagger and began to creep forward, and despite Malachi’s clear belief that there was no threat, he drew his as well and followed. Max and Thori split up, slipping close to their respective masters. Thori put Malachi to his blind side, trusting his master to keep his less protected side safe, and Max took to Leon’s left, scanning the underbrush. 

For a few minutes, the four knights were silent, communicating in the hand gestures they all learned from their tutors when they were twelve for situations just like this. Eventually, Leon huffed a sigh and stood straight. 

“I suppose it’s nothing. I just thought—” Leon’s eyes went wide and he jerked back, motioning for everyone to get down. Max jumped as he heard the sudden voices of men who were unfamiliar to him. They were close. How had he not heard them well before they’d gotten so close? 

Leon immediately tucked his arm around Max’s shoulders, pushing him to the side and leading him to crouch down out of the way. The four peeked over the ridge and Max’s eyes went wide as he saw at least ten Bikra loitering about. In the center of the group was a large man wearing a set of black armor. Leon’s eyes darted about, counting, before he tapped Malachi’s shoulder and began to draw back. Max stared for a long moment, utterly shocked. Then, after a more insistent tug to his shoulder from Leon, he pulled back as well. Thori stayed there the longest, and Max couldn’t see his expression because he was on his eyepatch side, but his friend’s mouth was drawn down into a tight frown.

Together, they grouped a few paces away from the small camp. 

“Holy hells, Lee,” Malachi said lowly. “There’s way more of them here than reports suggested. What do we do?”

“We go fight them,” Max whispered, balling up a fist and smacking it firmly against his palm. 

“Easy, Max,” Leon said, giving Max’s shoulder a squeeze. “There’s easily ten or more men down there. We need to be careful. Even with the four of us, we won’t be enough to take them on now.”

Thori crouched beside Malachi, glaring at the ground between them. “So what? We just let them get away?”

Max gave him a curious look. Thori sounded… angry all of a sudden, but his friend wouldn’t look up to meet his eyes. 

“No. Max, Thori, I want you two to get back to the horses and ride like the hells to get back to the keep. Alert Baptiste. He’ll send out a group of knights to assist us. Malachi and I will scout the area further and make sure there aren’t more around.”

“But what if they see you?” Max asked. 

“Then you and Thori best be quick, Max. Now, hurry up, both of you. There’s no time to waste!” 

Max didn’t want to leave Leon, but unless he planned to shift forms and expose himself to Leon and Malachi, he had to suck it up. He could perhaps shift and let Thori ride on his back to the keep to make things move along more quickly. After a final uncertain glance at Leon, Max nodded and pulled away. Thori came along silently, still glaring at the ground, and together they took off back towards the horses. Once there, Max untied Lacey and Thori untied his horse as well. They slapped the rumps of the horses, sending them off to safety. They knew how to get back home to the keep without a rider.

“Come on,” Max murmured to Thori, and together they took off running for home. 

“If we get far enough away, I can shift and—”

“Hold, Max,” Thori said, grabbing his arm. Max paused, looking back in confusion. “I need to get another look at those Bikra.”

Then, Thori turned and began to make his way up around the ridge again, in the opposite direction of their masters. After staring at him in shock for a moment, Max chased after.

“Thori! Wait! We’ve got to go to the keep! We can’t just take a detour!” 

“I have to see something,” Thori insisted. 

“But… But Thori! Leon gave us a direct order. We can’t—”

Thori whipped around, his face so wrathful that Max’s breath caught in his chest. Very rarely had he ever seen sweet, level-headed Thori so angry. 

“I. Need. To. See,” Thori insisted through clenched teeth. 

Max followed in silence, then. Together, they laid down on their bellies at the edge of the ridge, crawling the last few paces to peek over at the group. Max tried to see whatever it was that had enraged Thori so much, but he could only see Bikra soldiers milling about. 

“What are you looking for?” he whispered to Thori. His friend pointed to the man in the black armor. 

“I know that armor. That… that’s the man who killed Sir Garrett. That fucker took my eye.”  

Max’s eyes went wide. Thori never talked about the day Sir Garrett was killed. It was the one thing Max had never pried about, because it hurt him so much to remember. He knew that Malachi had managed to speak with Thori about it once they’d grown a bit closer, but Max had never felt willing to push. Thori would tell him if he wanted to. He turned, looking at the man in the black armor. Thori’s hand was shaking. 

“He… he looks wrong, though,” Thori said.

“How so?”

“I can’t tell. I can’t get a good enough look at him. I just… I thought his face was different.”

“Maybe you forgot? I mean, a lot was happening when you saw him.”

“I don’t forget anything and I’d never forget him,” Thori said, his eye narrowing. 

“Thori, we need to go. We’ve got to get to the keep. We—”

Max’s eyes went wide as he heard something familiar. A voice, soft and melodic. 

“Th- Thooorriiii—” Max groaned, his eyelids getting heavier with each breath he took. 

Thori turned to him just as Max slumped fully to the ground. 

“Max?” Thori asked, finally ripping his attention away from the Bikra below. He shook his friend’s shoulder, but Max’s eyes only rolled back in his head and he flopped to the ground. “Max!?”

“Do not worry, little knight,” a deep voice said from behind them. Thori gasped, turning over to meet the eyes of the man who had murdered his first master. He wasn’t in his armor and he wore a nasty smirk on his face. “The drakkon boy will live. And so will you.”

Then, he turned and said something in his language to the men who stood behind him. Thori pressed back, positioning himself over Max’s limp body protectively. He noticed a third person behind the man. The Bikra boy was standing behind the men, twisting his hands together miserably. His face was bruised and he stood hunched over as if he were in great pain. He looked at Thori with a sadness that made Thori’s heart clench. 

Then, one of the soldiers’ booted heel slammed down hard against Thori’s temple, and Thori collapsed back over Max’s body, limp and unconscious. 

Nutesh smirked, roughly patting Zizka on the back, making the boy wince. 

“Excellent job on disorienting the drakkon and pushing him into a half shift this morning, nephew. I knew you had it in you,” he said in Benash. “Men, load these two up in the wagon. Put them both in chains, make sure you get a collar around the dakkon’s throat, and be quick about it. Oh, and ensure my nephew doesn't get any ideas about wandering off again.”

The men nodded. One grabbed Zizka by the upper arm, dragging him along as Max and Thori were picked up. Zizka squirmed against the rough grip of the man, but he only got a cuff across the back of his head for his troubles.

“What about the two knights that they were with, commander?” one of the men asked Zizka’s uncle.

“Kill them both. We don’t have any need for a half-breed and a lordling, even if the half-breed might make a decent slave…”

The soldier nodded, gestured to the rest of the men, and a group separated to hunt the half-Bikra man and his fair-haired companion. Zizka watched as the drakkon boy was collared and loaded without care into the wagon that bore the special cage meant just for him. The men were even less careful in their handling of the tall, one-eyed boy who’d been so kind to Zizka the other day with sharing his water…

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he drew up and stomped on the foot of the man holding him as hard as he could. He was let go as the soldier shouted in pain and he took off. But he wasn’t running away. No, the drakkon boy and the kind one needed his help. But so did those knights…

He crashed through the underbrush towards where the two men were hiding and after a few moments of frantic searching, he stumbled across them. The fair-haired one seemed startled as Zizka popped up from beside them, jerking to his feet. Zizka pointed in the direction of where he thought their big stone home was.

“Run!” he cried in Benash. Neither man seemed to understand him. “Run away! They’re going to kill you! Run away now!”

Then, the men heard the soldiers coming after Zizka and they understood. They took off towards their horses, fleeing. Zizka was ‘caught’ soon after and brought back to his uncle. He hunched down miserably, took the backhand to the face stoically for his disobedience, and was led back to the cage wagon that both of the boys were being kept in. 

A group had ridden after the two knights, but they returned after an hour or so with a report that the half-breed and lordling had escaped. Zizka ducked his head to hide a smirk, pleased with himself. He’d helped to save the knights. Now he just had to figure out how to save the drakkon boy and his gentle friend. But, when Uncle Nutesh looked over at him as they began to move out, his eyes calculating, Zizka felt a chill run up his spine. 

Then, Uncle Nutesh pulled out the chains…

Chapter Text

Max woke slowly, and the only reason he didn’t immediately begin to thrash about and snarl was because his face was buried in something that smelled of Thori. His eyes fluttered open and his body rocked slowly back and forth. He heard the distant clopping of horse hooves against hard-packed soil and strangely enough, what sounded like metal rattling. He wondered what had happened. His neck was terribly stiff and he groaned. 

“Ugh,” he moaned, nuzzling into the soft warmth beneath his cheek. Was he in bed? His vision cleared and he was confused to see long legs stretched out beneath him with familiar, well-polished boots. “Whu?”

He lifted his head, glancing up and realizing that his head had been lying in Thori’s lap. He sat up, struggling to keep his balance as he was rocked, and met Thori’s tear-filled eye. 

“Thori, what happened? Where—”

“I’m so sorry, Max,” Thori whispered, tears slipping down his cheek. “This is all my fault.”

It was then that Max realized he and Thori were surrounded by Bikra. And they were in a cage. His talons were out before he’d even thought about it. He charged the nearest Bikra man who was casually walking beside the cage and the man jerked back as Max crashed against the bars and started laughing. As if Max were some sort of funny thing with his sharp teeth and talons as long as his fingers.

“I would not try that, drakkon,” a deep, nasty voice said. Max turned and found a tall man with a cruel look about him walking on the other side of the cage. 

Max began to stalk towards him, his lips pulled back in a snarl, and the man lifted his hand to snap crisply. Suddenly, three of the Bikra lifted crossbows and aimed. Max froze, because the crossbows were not aiming at him.

They were all pointed at Thori.

“I am not stupid, Drakkon,” the man continued. “So, I make sure you have reason not to attack. If you try to harm us, we kill the one-eyed little shit.”

Max’s eyes darted around at the laughing men as the cruel man moved to the front of the cart. Thori curled in on himself, either having already been told or figured out on his own just why he’d been brought along. Then, Max saw another familiar face and he snarled, his teeth going sharp.

The Bikra boy stumbled along after the wagon that the cage was built onto, flushed and looking exhausted. He had a new bruise across his right cheek. Max listened for a moment and realized the rattling metal sound was coming from the boy. Max shuffled over, yanking at the thick metal collar that was locked around his throat and saw that the boy’s ankles were tightly secured by shackles that had a connecting chain between them. He had enough slack to walk, but no more. His wrists were tied together tightly with a thin, strong-looking rope that was attached to the back of the wagon and it dragged him along as he stumbled over the ankle shackles.

“You,” he hissed down at the long-haired boy. “When I get out of here, I swear I’ll—”

“Max,” Thori called from behind him. “Come here. We need to talk.”

With a final, heated glare, Max returned to Thori, checking his friend over for any injuries. Thori was sporting a fairly large bruise, but other than that, he seemed unharmed. 

“Thori, what are we going to do? Where are Leon and Malachi?”

Thori shook his head sadly, curling in on himself even tighter. “I don’t know, Max. They ambushed us. It’s all my fault! If I hadn’t made us stop to get a better look—”

Max put his hand on Thori’s shoulder. “Then they would have followed us and nabbed us closer to the keep and put even more lives in danger. Look, Thori, you can’t beat yourself up about this. Not right now. We slipped up. Now we’ve got to deal with it as best we can. Don’t let these arseholes see you get upset.”

Thori sniffled, wiped his face, and nodded. “You’re right.”

“Any idea what time it is? Or what direction they’re taking us?”

“East. I think they’re going to try to get us on a ship over to their homeland. Max, if they get us underneath the deck of a ship, we’re done for.”

“Then we’ll have to do something before they get us to the sea,” Max said, watching the man who had spoken in their language, if a bit roughly, closely. “Who is the nasty arse?”

“I heard some of the men call him ‘Nutesh’. A captain or a general or some sort. He’s their leader.”

Max sat down heavily in the thin layer of straw that had been placed in their cage and tugged at the collar.

“What’s someone so high ranking doing kidnapping a pair of junior knights? It makes no sense.”

“It’s you, Max. They know you’re a dragon.”

“But why you?”

“That Nutesh man called me your ‘heartmate’, whatever the hells that means.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah, I know. Totally gross.”

“Okay, well, they are Bikra. We can’t expect them to be too smart. We’ll just have to bide our time and wait for our chance to escape.”

“What if we don’t get a chance?”

“We will. You’ll see. I’ll get us out of this. They let their guard down for a second and I’ll burn them all to ash.”

“Max… If it comes to it, I need you to promise me something.”

Max turned, finding Thori’s serious eye and grim expression unsettling.

“I’m not gonna let them hurt you, Thors.”

“Max, you can’t let them get you overseas. They have magic wielders there that will make you a slave of your own mind. If there isn’t a chance and it comes to you getting on that boat and letting me die, then—”

“I said no, Thorimastrus. I’m not sacrificing you. We’ll get our chance. I promise.”

Thori went silent, curling up again. Max joined him, sitting curled up beside him and glaring at any Bikra who dared to try to meet his slitted, half-shifted pupils, and tried to think of a way out of the mess they were in. He could only hope that Leon and Malachi were safe, but right now, he had to focus on getting himself and Thori out of danger. Then, he’d find his master and everything would be all right. 

They rode in the cage for two days straight. The Bikra did not feed them, and they only got a single waterskin a day to share between themselves. Max let Thori have most of the water, and curled up to sun himself. He’d flared his wings out in a half-shift the first night. The Bikra knew he was a dragon, so there was no use hiding it, and he was able to drape his wing over Thori to create a sort of tent over his by now sun-singed friend. Nutesh, the bastard, watched every move Max made with a sinister smile, as if he were just imagining all sorts of things to do to Max. 

By the second day, Max and Thori were thoroughly confused about the status of the Bikra boy. He was clearly Bikra. He looked, smelled, and spoke like one. And yet…

Thori jumped as Nutesh’s thin whippy cane cracked across the back of the long-haired boy. Even Max had to hide a little wince as the kid let out a short bark of pain as he stumbled forward, using his bound hands to catch himself on the edge of the cart. Max let him regain his balance before he let a growl rip from his throat, warning the boy to let go, which he promptly did. 

Any Bikra that had dared to touch the cart that held the cage Max and Thori were trapped in had quickly learned that Max didn’t play nicely with them. Two men had long gouges running down their arms courtesy of Max’s talons.

The Bikra boy was letting out little raspy pants and swaying from side to side as he was dragged along by the cart, and the only thing that seemed to wake him up was a quick snap from Nutesh’s cane. Max was no fan of the boy, considering he’d gotten them into this whole mess, but even Max was uncomfortable by the spots of blood that he’d noticed blooming beneath the kid’s weird shirt along his upper shoulders. 

Thori coughed, waking up from his midday heat-induced nap, and Max pulled his wings in and shifted them back into his human shoulderblades. He handed Thori the water skin, and winced at the sight of his friend’s cracked, bleeding lips. 

The Bikra boy shouted behind them as the cane cracked down again.

Max had enough. 

He stood, the cage barely containing him, and whipped around to glare at the man. 

“Hey! Arsehole! My friend needs more water!”

Nutesh turned to Max with an almost lazy air about him, but Max could see his shoulders tensing up. The jerk didn’t like being spoken to in such a manner. 

Boo hoo, so sad for you, dickhead, Max thought.

“You get what we give you, Drakkon. Be thankful I don’t give you less.”

“You’re killing my friend. And the longer you treat him badly, the angrier I get,” Max warned. 

Nutesh tossed his head back with a laugh. He turned to the other Bikra and must have repeated what Max had said, because they all began to laugh. Max felt his face begin to heat with embarrassment. He hated to be laughed at. 

“Watch yourself, Drakkon. We have ways of making your kind meek.”

“Max,” Thori croaked, trying to warn him. But Max felt humiliated by the men’s laughter and angry about the situation and Thori was thirsty. 

“Go fuck yourself, arselicker,” Max snarled back. Suddenly the men went silent and Nutesh stopped dead in his tracks. He lifted his hand and snapped, and the cart carrying the cage lurched to a halt. The boy cringed, trying to slowly shuffle away from Nutesh as if the man might turn and suddenly start beating him for nothing.

“I will give you one chance, to kneel and beg for forgiveness,” Nutesh said calmly. “Or I will make you meek, boy.”

“I don’t kneel. Not to the likes of you. Filth.”

Then, Max did something that would have horrified Leon had it been directed at anyone save the enemy. He leaned forward and spat as hard as he could directly into Nutesh’s face. Nutesh jerked back, shouting, and Max smirked as his saliva burned the man. It wasn’t enough to melt his skin or anything (unfortunately), but Max knew from his experiments with Thori that his saliva hurt. The men jumped back as Max glanced at them while Nutesh snatched the closest bit of scrap cloth that his soldiers offered him. After wiping his face, he turned and jabbed a finger up at Max. 

“I will make you regret that, boy.”

Max made his knees smack together a few times comically. 

“Oh, I’m shaking in my boots…”

Nutesh turned, barking orders, and the men quickly began to move. Max glared at them, but the long-haired boy attached to the cart caught his attention. He looked positively stricken with fear, and suddenly Max felt a bit bad. Perhaps spitting on the man hadn’t been the best idea. 

When three men raised their crossbows at Thori, who was so weak from hunger and thirst he could barely sit up straight, Max knew something bad was about to happen. He shouted, trying to get the men to leave Thori be, but when they opened the cage door, Max knew he was in trouble. As he was dragged down from the cage, kicking and clawing the entire way, he had a sudden thought. Leon, glaring up at him sternly and saying that one day he’d meet someone who wouldn’t treat him like the boy he was. He was dragged over to a nearby tree and his knees were kicked from behind to force him to kneel. 

One Bikra took his wrists and forced him to hug the tree at its base, before he began tying Max’s hands together. Max thrashed, but with arrows aiming at Thori’s defenseless back, he couldn’t do anything. They’d kill his best friend if he dared to shift now. Max could kill them all after, but Thori would be…

He glanced back and saw Thori trying to fight his way through the entry to the cage to Max, but he was too weak. He saw the Bikra boy turn his face away and crouch down, clamping his fingers over his ears to block out as much sound as he could and hiding his face as if he couldn’t bear to see what might be coming. Once his wrists were tied so tightly he couldn’t feel them, two of the soldiers grabbed the sides of his shirt and yanked hard. The thin fabric tore easily and his back was bared to the hot midday sunshine. Max heard Nutesh coming from his other side and when he turned, he was thankful he was already on his knees, because he was certain they actually would start knocking together with fear if he’d been standing. 

The whip in Nutesh’s hands was a wicked looking instrument. It was long, braided leather, and Max could smell dried blood on the horrid thing. For a second, the smell seemed almost familiar before he realized it was. Max could smell the long-haired boy’s blood on it and the thought made his stomach flip. 

It was wet with something that smelled almost minty, and Max swallowed nervously, realizing he’d fucked up more than he ever had before in his life. In this moment, he’d give anything for this to just be Leon angry with him and about to toast his tail. This was a man’s punishment. But Thori needed him. He needed to be strong. He’d take this beating like a man. He was a junior knight. He wouldn’t make a sound and give this bastard Bikra the satisfaction. 

Nutesh tapped the whip across his upper back, speaking in his language, and Max felt a little sting at whatever it was that was coating the whip. Then, he drew the whip back and said, “I will teach you to be meek now, Drakkon.”

The first blow took Max’s breath away.

By the third, he was certain this was going to shatter him. 

Thori screamed in the background, but to Max, he sounded so far away. He heard his friend cursing and kicking at the cage, but the swooshCRACK was so much louder. 

The fifth stroke made Max whimper. 

The Bikra soldiers roared with laughter. One kicked Max in the ribs.

It was hellfire. Surely that’s what Nutesh had coated his weapon of choice in. There was no way that this is what a normal flogging felt like. 

The seventh blow was when Max lost the fight for silence. He shouted and it shifted into a high pitched whine. Above him, he heard Nutesh chuckle. The men grew even more rowdy, jeering and mocking him even though he didn’t know what they were saying.

By the tenth, Max was wailing with agony. Each stripe had him clinging desperately to the tree, his only source of comfort in the empty forest surrounded by cruel men and his friend’s desperate begging to beat him instead of Max. 

The twelfth blow drew blood. Max could feel the hot, thick wetness slipping down his naked back to soak into the waistband of his trousers and belt as the lash cut open the welts that crisscrossed his shoulders. 

By the fifteenth stroke, Max was certain he was going to die. There was no way he could bear such pain. And then, as he screamed beneath the lash, his ears picked up another sound. Beneath the jeering of the Bikra, the swoosh of the whip, the screaming of his best friend and brother, Max heard a new sound. It was soothing and gentle and didn’t belong in this horrific scene. He reminded Max of a lullaby his ma used to sing to him when he went to bed, but the language was different. 

Soft, melodic, otherworldly. 

The Bikra boy was singing. Singing so softly where he’d curled up into a little ball beside the cart, with his back to the men and Nutesh. Where he wouldn’t be noticed or seen. It was like his voice struck Max right through the heart. Distantly, Max was aware that he was still screaming and the whip was still falling onto his now bloody, ripped up back. But he couldn’t feel it anymore. He could only feel the Bikra boy’s song as it curled around Max like a blanket. Or a snake. 

Max’s eyes rolled up and into the back of his head and the last thing he was aware of was the screaming pain in his back, the rough bark of the tree pressing against his face, and a melody long forgotten.

Max jerked to consciousness once again with his head cradled in Thori’s lap, his friend gently stroking his hair. This time, he didn’t rise. He couldn’t. The pain was like nothing Max had ever felt in his life. Even that time he’d fallen off of Lacey when he’d been thirteen and broken his arm so badly was nothing compared to this. 

“Don’t move,” Thori warned him. 

Like Max could.

“We’re getting close to the sea, Max. I can smell it on the air. You’ve got to shift if we don’t get a chance to get out of here. You can’t risk them doing that to you again.” 

Max sniffed and realized he too could smell the sea. That was bad. The sea was a six day journey from the keep by horse. 

Before he could respond, his eyes fluttered closed again, and he was lost to sleep once more.

Thori wasn’t beside him when he woke up the next time. The cart was stopped, and Thori was near the entrance of the cage.

“Thank you,” Thori was whispering. He sat back, drinking deeply from the waterskin in his hands, and Max’s eyes lazily found the skin that the soldiers had given them. Thori finished drinking, crawled over silently to Max in the pitch black night, and pressed the waterskin to his lips. Max took the water gratefully, drinking desperately, and then it was empty. Thori returned to the cage entrance and Max saw the long-haired boy take the skin away. Thori returned and laid down beside Max. 

“That water was probably poisoned," Max said, his voice barely more than a croak.

Thori gave him a little eye-roll and gently flicked his nose. “He’s been slipping me more water and a bit of food here and there to help you, arsehole. Maybe a thank you?”

“Why would he help us? He’s the reason we’re here in the first place.”

“I get the feeling he isn’t really here by his own free will. Something to do with the ankle shackles, I think,” Thori said sarcastically. Then, his face drew down in worry. “How are you feeling?”

“Like my back is currently on fire. Why are we stopped?” 

“Because we’re at the sea. We got here this morning. I think they’re waiting on a ship to get here.”

“Well… that’s not good.”

Thori sat up. “I need to check your back.”

With great effort, Max laid on his front and let Thori look his back over. 

“It doesn’t look infected. But… it looks bad, Max.”

“I need to shift fully. I’ll heal, then.”

Thori laid back down, curling close.

“Max… When they open the cage, just go. You can shift and—”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Max, please.”

“I’m not. We’re a team. Brothers. You wouldn’t leave me if you could turn into a dragon.”

Thori sighed, but didn’t argue further because Max was right.

Despite their fears, the boat didn’t come the next day. But they knew it would be in by the next morning. Max could barely manage to sit upright, but with Thori’s help, he did. His back was… not good. Thori told him he’d gotten twenty lashes total, but had passed out near fifteen. Max couldn’t remember it well, but for some reason, a little nagging tune was stuck in his head. 

Together, they watched the Bikra soldiers relax and order the long-haired boy around, who had been released from his wrist bindings, but not his ankle shackles. The boy scrambled around, clearly afraid of Nutesh, who watched both him and Max like a hawk. Nutesh appeared to be in a foul mood, and the boy suffered for it damn near every time he passed the man, because he got a sharp crack across the back or rear end with that stupid whippy cane that Nutesh kept in his boot. 

Night fell, and Max and Thori huddled closely together and tried to plan a way to escape. Soon, the soldiers all went to sleep. There was a lone guard seated a few paces away from the cage, so Max couldn’t claw at him, and he seemed bored.

“We just need a chance. If we can come up with a distraction long enough for me to get in front of you and shift, we’re golden. I can take a few arrows to the chest and you can get on my back and—”

“And what if we don’t get a chance, Max?” Thori whispered. “We can not allow them to take you. You’re too valuable to the valley. You’re the only thing stopping a total Bikra takeover.”

Suddenly, they both heard the rattle of chains and sat up. The Bikra boy approached their guard in silence, giving him a little bow and lifting a steaming cup of what looked like tea up to the man. Max snorted at the display of submissiveness, ignoring Thori when his friend gave his knee a little flick. The soldier snatched the cup up, griping at the boy in their language, and downed the cup in its entirety. 

The boy took the cup back and then just… stood there. Watching the soldier. Max blinked, Thori shifted nervously, and the soldier grew irritated. 

He lifted his arm, gesturing for the boy to leave now that the tea had been delivered, and when the boy still just stood there, the man stood. 

Then, the man sort of stumbled. He coughed, fell to his knees, and grabbed at the boy’s flowy trousers as he began to choke. Thori and Max crawled to the entrance of the cage, watching as the boy impassively looked down at the man. Max smelled something bitter and it hit him. 

The Bikra boy had poisoned the guard. 

The guard died fairly quickly and the boy wasted no time in stooping down to search him for the key to the cage. 

Thori leaned over to Max and whispered, “I think we just got our chance.”

The boy tossed a smaller key up into the cage and Thori snatched it up and began to unlock the collar around Max’s throat while the boy worked to unlock the cage door. 

He was fast. But not fast enough. Suddenly, as if summoned out of thin air, Nutesh was there. He grabbed the boy by his braid and yanked him back so hard the boy fell to the ground. 

“Zizka,” Nutesh growled, kicking the boy hard in the stomach. “Preyteela, mak no slee.” 

The key was still in the door and Thori wasted no time. Nutesh turned at the sound of the cage door swinging open. 

“ALLA TRESS!” Nutesh shouted, but it was too late. 

Max leapt down from the cage in a half-shift, and by the time his feet hit the ground, he was growing. Nutesh stepped back, tripping over the prone body of the boy, as Thori climbed out safely behind Max’s mass. 

Then, Max towered over the entire camp and the men began to scream.  

Their screams echoed in the night, but were drowned out by Max’s roars as he dealt with them. 

Soon, the Bikra were scattered, all running for cover or dead, and Max began felt Thori climb up onto his back. He’d lost Nutesh in the fight, and Max wanted to hunt the bastard down, but he could come back after he’d flown Thori to safety. Thori settled onto his usual spot just above his wings. Max spread his wings, wincing at the pain in them. That whipping really had taken it out of him, but at least when he shifted back he’d be healed. 

Just as he prepared to take flight and leave behind the wrecked camp (Max had taken particularly viscous pleasure in destroying the cage), Thori smacked at the back of his neck. 

“Max!” Thori wailed over the screams of dying men and the roar of dragon’s fire. “Max! The boy! He’s in trouble!” 

Max turned to where Thori was pointing and saw towards the end of the beach where the forest began and found Nutesh dragging the Bikra boy away from the wreckage by his braid. The boy was fighting, or at least trying to, but his shackled ankles were tripping him and he was no match physically for the larger, older man. 

Max had seen a lot of the boy being dragged along by his hair over the past few days, and he always wondered why the boy didn’t just cut it, but it wasn’t really his problem. He snorted, deciding that Thori’s safety was far more important in this moment, and spread his wing further once more to take off. 

“MAXAMILLION DALLAS GALLAGHER!” Thori shouted, giving his neck a hard kick. “You go help that boy right now or so help me I’ll- I’ll tell on you to Sir Leon about being a dragon!” 

Max paused, shooting Thori a glare as best as he couldn’t without proper human eyelids, and let out a heavy huff. At least he’d get to kill Nutesh, he supposed. He stomped over towards the two, and the boy let out a terrified gasp as he saw Max approaching. Nutesh noticed too, and he quickly dropped the boy and brandished his sword. Max paused. He’d expected to see the man’s blasted whippy cane, not a sword. Had he been planning to kill the Bikra boy? The kid couldn’t be older than Max was. Max snorted, a bit of fire bursting out of his nostrils, at the thought. 

Max didn’t like the Bikra boy, but… he’d helped them out of the cage. And he’d given Thori water and food. And while he’d been fully prepared to kill the boy back in his valley, watching him stumble after the cart for nearly a week and looking at his too young face, Max had softened just the tiniest bit to the boy. Even if it was all his fault Max and Thori were even in this mess.

The boy dropped to the dirt with a scream of terror, curling up on his knees and throwing his arms over his head. Nutesh charged Max, bellowing in his language. 

Max, as was his nature as a dragon, did what was natural and spewed fire straight at the evil bastard.

Nutesh went to the ground, screaming in agony as his face took the brunt of the attack. Max watched him flail on the ground for a moment, decided the entire thing was a bit pathetic, and stepped over him casually and spread his wings to take off. Nutesh would die. No one could survive an injury like that. 

“Max! Get the boy! They’ll kill him if we leave him!”

Max took off, flapping his wings hard and lifting off steadily so he could turn and check on the boy. He was still curled up, the big baby, and Max dropped his tail to wrap the tip around the boy’s too thin waist. The boy jerked as Max’s tail wound tightly around his middle, clawing at the ground in an attempt to get away, but Max didn’t give him the chance. He took to the skies, eager to leave this whole miserable experience behind them. 

“Max! You arsehole!” Thori wailed over the wind as they climbed into the air. Below them, the Bikra boy howled in terror, and Max could feel him clinging desperately to his tail as he kicked and flailed. “Let him ride on your back ! He’s gonna piss himself with you carrying him like that!”

Max began to glide, at a safe distance from any stray arrows that might come their way, and flicked his tail up and let it unravel. The boy went sailing above them, screaming the entire way, and Max would have laughed if he’d had the vocal cords for it. The boy did sound pretty funny as he landed with a hard oof on his stomach just in front of Thori over the back of Max’s neck. Max kept the glide steady so Thori could help the boy into a more generally seated position, and when Max checked the boy had wrapped his arms around Thori’s waist so hard his friend looked as though he couldn’t even breathe. 

Served him right for threatening to tell on Max to Leon…

Together, they flew, but within an hour of the boy letting out a terrified scream every time Max so much as tilted in the air, Max was feeling quite tired of things. He tipped down towards the ground. It was safe now. They were leagues away from the remains of the Bikra camp and no one would be hunting for them anytime soon. Max needed a little break. He was actually feeling rather exhausted. And as the ground rushed towards them, he felt his wings begin to give out.

Uh oh.

“Uhh, Max! You okay, brother!?” Thori called around the Bikra boy currently trying his best to squeeze the life out of him. He’d buried his face against Thori’s chest some time ago and hadn’t looked up since. 

Max felt his left wing go out, and suddenly he realized he wasn’t just tired, he was shifting back in midair.

He plunged, trying to beat the shift. Max was no stranger to a shift taking over his body, but he’d never had it go the opposite way. He landed just in time to avoid a full out crash landing, colliding with the ground of an overlook, the sea barely visible behind them. Thori and the boy tumbled off of his back with a shout of surprise and Thori shouted Max’s name as the shift took Max completely. His wings tucked in and disappeared, his talons returned to dull fingernails, and his teeth went blunt and nubby. 

Max collapsed, the freshly ripped up dirt of his panicked landing smelling fresh but not particularly sharp like it usually did as Max’s face went down into it. 

“Max! Max, what’s wrong! Max are you— Oh, my! Max, your back,” Thori said, his hands flying to cover his mouth in shock. 

Max could barely lift his head.

“Huh? Whaddabout my back?” he groaned. 

He didn’t hear Thori’s answer. His head fell with a soft thunk into the dirt and he began to snore. 

Chapter Text

When Max woke this time, he groaned in pain. His entire body ached fiercely. He was getting really tired of waking up in pain. There was no comforting Thori smell, but he could hear his friend’s voice murmuring lowly nearby. Another, even softer and more melodic voice was answering, but Max’s brain couldn’t comprehend what was being said. A fire was crackling merrily nearby, warming Max’s chest and legs, telling Max he was facing the fire. Sure enough, when he cracked his eyes, a small fire was a few paces away from him. The air was dank and musty, and as his eyes rolled to take in his surroundings, he found the tight walls of a cave surrounding him.

He groaned harder, and the voices suddenly stopped. Max heard footsteps coming his way and he peeked up at Thori as his friend crouched down and helped him to sit up. 

“Easy, Max,” Thori said gently. “You’re still hurt.”

“H-How?” Max asked, feeling a sharp, shooting pain rip up his back. “I shifted. How come I didn’t heal like normal?”

“I’m not sure. Your back looks better than it did yesterday, but it’s still pretty messed up. I tried to clean it out as best I could, but I didn’t want to risk injuring you worse. How are you feeling?”

“Like I fell out of the fucking sky,” Max said miserably. He reached up to rub at his eyes. 

“What happened? How did we get here?”

“You collapsed after you landed on that cliff’s edge. Zizka and I carried you further inland until we found this cave to hunker down in. We’ve been letting you sleep since.”

“Zi-Zizka? Who is…?” Max asked, more confused than ever. Then, a bit of movement just behind Thori caught his attention and he saw the long-haired Bikra boy peeking at him from behind Thori’s back. 

“YOU!” Max roared, his talons surging forth as he surged upwards. The boy stumbled back, tripping over his ankle chains as Thori caught Max by his midsection. 

“Easy, Max! Calm yourself! Zizka is on our side!” Thori cried, clinging to Max as he tried to drag him back. 

“Bullshit he’s on our side! He’s the reason we got captured in the first place! Why is he still here!” Max demanded, though he stopped trying to escape Thori’s grip. Mainly because his back had gone from general ache to shooting agony from all his thrashing. 

The Bikra boy, Zizka, began to speak in a language that Max was unfamiliar with, gesturing to Max and Thori and making a flapping motion with his hands. 

“Max, easy. He helped drag you through the forest for nearly a league. He helped us escape, remember?” Thori asked. 

Max turned to glare at his friend. 

“So!? He is the reason we got taken! Why in the hells is he still here! I let him live, but that doesn’t mean I want him tagging along for the rest of the trip home, Thori!”

“Oh, stop talking like you’re some kind of god who gets to decide who does and doesn't deserve to live, Max! Just because you can grow wings doesn’t make you the boss!”

Max whipped his head around to face Thori.

“So you want to let a Bikra stay in the valley! One who has already proven to be untrustworthy!?” Max demanded, feeling himself heating up the angrier he got. 

Thori opened his mouth to respond, but a quiet voice interrupted. 

“Nai Bikra,” Zizka said, glaring at Max. 

Max turned his attention back to the boy, who was an all too convenient target for his ire.

“Oh, you’re a fucking Bikra all right, you little slimy piece of shit!”

“Nai Bikra.”

Max jabbed his finger against Zizka’s chest, his nostrils flaring and scales erupting up the length of his arms and along his cheeks. 

“Yeah. Bikra! I’m sure you think you can get away with lying to Thori, but I know the truth! I can smell that asshole Nutesh on you! You’re related to him. Blood kin.”

Behind them, Thori paused, clearly having not expected such a revelation. Max turned to him with an arched eyebrow. 

“Oh, yeah, Thors. You think this little asshole is on our side? I’d bet my left wing he’s spying for that Nutesh guy. You know, the one who slashed your eye out and killed Sir Garrett!?”

Thori made a soft sound of pain, as if just the mention of his old master hurt him physically. Max hated to cause his friend such distress, but he couldn’t let Thori be put in danger by letting this kid stick around. At the sound of Nutesh’s name, the boy seemed to get nervous. He turned to Thori, speaking quickly and gesturing in his direction. Max slapped his outreached hand away.

“Oh, no! Don’t go crying to him for help! I could have let your blood kin kill you, but I didn’t. I even let you ride on my own whipped back. You don’t get to hang on to us anymore. You either leave, or I kill you here and now. You are not our problem.”

Max pointed towards the mouth of the cave. Zizka flinched at the movement, glancing fearfully at the land stretching outside of the mouth of the cave, the setting sun’s light shining dimly across it. He wrung his hands, whimpering and stuttering as he spoke. 

“Go, Bikra!” Max shouted, pointing again, this time with a clawed hand. 

“Max, wait,” Thori said, catching his arm gently in his hands. “This isn’t right. It’ll be nightfall soon. We’d be killing him.”

“He’s Bikra, Thori. What part of that don’t you get?” Max demanded.

“But he’s not! I’ve been learning some of his words and I have a bit of an idea about him. He’s not Bikra, even if that awful Nutesh man is his kin. He’s Sukha.”

Max blinked and the boy seemed to perk up at the strange word. He began to gesture to himself desperately. 

“Yei! Yei! Zizka pree na Sukha! Nai Bikra! Nutesh Bikra nex malla nak way!” 

“Shut the fuck up!” Max shouted and the boy immediately clamped his mouth shut. Turning back to Thori, he gave him an exasperated look. “Thori, what the hells is ‘Sukha’?” 

“It’s that kingdom that the Bikra took over to the east ten years back. I think this boy was a captive of the Bikra. Nutesh was a traitor of some sort to his people.”

“Great. He’s the kin of traitors. That shouldn’t be comforting news, Thors.”

“A man isn’t his kin, Max. You know that! Hells, just look at how different I am from Gaspard. Zizka isn’t Nutesh. I’d think watching him get whipped with that awful cane for nearly a week straight would tip you off to that, you silly lizard!” 

“Thori, even if he isn’t evil, which I’m still not sure he isn’t, he is not our friend! He can put me to sleep in a second! With his voice. What will happen if he decides I’m a threat and takes me out? No one will be there to help you!”

Thori gave him a little glare. “I can take care of myself, Max. I’m not eleven anymore. I was trained by Malachi.” 

“And Malachi got tangled up in his little vines like that,” Max lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. 

“He was surprised! We can watch him to be sure he won’t try that!”

“Thori, we can’t trust this little twerp. He’s dangerous. I won’t allow it!”

Thori paused, shifting to cock a hip and cross his arms. “Oh, you won’t allow it, will you? And what makes you think you’re in charge?”

“Well… Well, you’re not in charge!” 

“Oh, ho! I most certainly am! When junior knights are separated from their masters, they defer to the one with the most experience. Which, in this case, is me. You’re been a junior knight for literally a week, Max. I outrank you.”

“Oh, bullshit, Thori! I’m the one who can track and hunt and find our way home!”

“And you’re also so weak you can barely stand! Look at you! You’re swaying on your feet!” 

Max was startled to realize he was swaying. Just a tiny bit. 

“It doesn’t matter!” he cried, throwing his hands up. “We are a team! You and me! Not you, me, and tattoos over there! This isn’t up for a vote! I won’t travel with him! I refuse!” 

Thori’s eye narrowed in that way he saw it narrow when Thori wanted Malachi to do something and Malachi was being stubborn. 

“Oh, you refuse to let Zizka come along, do you?” he asked, his tone full of warning. 

Max did what came most naturally to him. Thori wasn’t Leon and he couldn’t make Max do whatever it was he wanted him to do. Max was a gods damned dragon and he was not about to be pushed around by his friend. 

He narrowed his own eyes right back, crossed his arms, and prepared for a long fight. He’d argue for hours if he had to. 

The argument lasted about two and a half minutes. 

Thori won. Naturally.

Max trudged along behind Zizka as their little group walked westward. Thori was in front and would turn to check on Zizka and Max every few minutes, and Max was forced to walk behind slow little Zizka. The younger boy, who they’d learned the night before was fourteen years old and thus the youngest of them, would trip and stumble as the chain connecting his ankles snagged over branches and roots. Max wanted to go ahead of the boy, because he was so fucking slow, but he wouldn’t be caught dead putting his back to the little ass. 

So, he was stuck in the back, not even able to talk with his best friend anymore because he was too concerned with the stupid little stupid head with his long hair and his chained up ankles and his weird little pants and one-sleeved shirt and—

Max let out an annoyed snarl as Zizka stumbled and tripped, falling to his hands and knees in front of Max and nearly making him trip himself. 

“Zizka!” Max shouted as Thori turned to help the little punk up. “Stop fucking tripping all over the place and look at where you’re going!”

“He can’t help being chained up, Max,” Thori snapped, equally irritable and annoyed thanks to the day’s heat and their slow progress. 

“He isn’t even looking down, Thori! He’s hopeless out here!”

Thori didn’t bother with answering, instead helping Zizka back to his feet. The boy was flushed and clearly miserable. He panted, murmuring what Max assumed was a ‘thank you’ to Thori, and began to trudge along once more. 

The day didn’t get any better.

Max lit the fire that night and they cooked one of the two rabbits that Max had chased down and captured. His back simply roared with pain, but Max kept silent as Thori cooked the smaller of the two rabbits over the fire to share with Zizka. Thori had refused to take the larger rabbit, insisting that Max needed the extra nourishment to heal faster. So, after being told off three separate times for trying to switch the rabbits out, Max sat quietly on Thori’s left side and ate his rabbit raw, as he preferred. Zizka seemed uncomfortable with the sound of Max tearing the rabbit apart with his teeth and bare hands, and Max wanted to be as loud as he could, but Thori was also looking a bit green in the cheeks so he held off for his friend’s sake. 

Thori’s rabbit was just finishing cooking as Max sucked his fingers clean, pulling bits of fur from his sharp teeth. He had to admit, being half-shifted for most of the day had felt good. Max had alternated between walking on two legs and on all fours, and he’d been able to have his tail out. He’d have to hide away his other half in the next day or two as they got closer to the keep, just to be safe. He watched as Thori carefully split the rabbit up and handed Zizka his half. The younger boy tore into the food ravenously, and even proper Thori was fairly messy with his own helping. 

They were all hungry. 

Max hadn’t been able to hunt properly, despite seeing a few deer earlier, his aching back just didn’t allow for him to hunt like he usually did. Despite his griping about Zizka slowing them down, he knew it was really him that had them moving so slowly. Every league or so they walked, Max would tire to the point of near collapse, his back shooting little lightning bolts of pain through his body. He grimaced as one of those jags of pain hit him in the moment, hissing through his teeth. Thori, of course, noticed. 

“Is it your back?” he asked softly, moving to look at Max’s back. He’d stripped his torn up shirt long ago and had tied it around his waist with the sleeves. Max hissed harder when Thori lightly prodded at the aching, raised welts. Max turned, baring his teeth at Thori in pain, and Zizka froze at the sight as if Max might bite Thori’s hand straight off. Max snorted, sticking his thin, forked tongue out at the boy. As if he’d ever bite Thori. 

“I just don’t understand why I didn’t heal. I’ve never not healed before.”

Zizka perked up, pointing at Max and speaking. Max snorted, letting fire poof out of his nose and then smiling when the boy shrank back in fear. A smack sound rang out in the little clearing they were in and Max hissed again, rubbing at his thigh where Thori had given him a sharp spank.

“Thoriiiii,” he whined, glaring at his friend. 

“I understand you’re in pain, Max, but cut it with your cranky little attitude. Zizka isn’t going away just because you don’t like him.”

Zizka was silent for a moment, then began to speak again, pointing at Max and then gesturing to his own back as Thori took his seat beside Max again. 

“I can’t understand you, Zizka.” Max said.

Zizka paused, a hand covering his mouth as he pondered something. Then, he snapped his fingers and stood, shuffling off to the edge of the clearing to break a thin branch off of a tree. He returned, swiping his hand up the length of the stick to clean it and then showed it to Max and Thori. 

He swiped it through the air, mimicking a whipping motion and pointed at Thori. Both Max and Thori stared at Zizka, lost. Then, Zizka reached down and collected a big handful of mud and then he coated the stick in the mud, swiping it through the air again, flicking mud everywhere. Then, he pointed at Max and said,

“Drakkon.”

For a moment, they were all silent. Then, Thori gasped in understanding, making the connection. 

“They coated the whip in something that hurts dragons! That’s why you didn’t heal like normal, Max!” Thori said, turning to Max with wide eyes. “Do you realize what this means?”

Max shrugged and then winced. “No. What?”

“Max. If the Bikra have some kind of potion or poison or whatever meant for dragons, that means they have dragons where they come from!”

The realization hit Max like a blow to the chest. He turned to Zizka. 

“There’s dragons where you’re from? Dragons like me?” 

Zizka nodded, pointing at Max. “Yei. Drakkon. Max.”

He babbled some more in his language, gesturing to Max and Thori together. Thori snapped his fingers together when Zizka finished speaking. 

“I remember that word! Nutesh said it. It means ‘heartmate’. Zizka, what is that?” Thori asked. He repeated the word until Zizka understood what he was asking. 

Zizka thought for a moment, trying to figure out a way to explain things, but finally he shrugged and just gestured at Max and Thori together and clasped his hands together. 

After that, Zizka fell silent, clearly as exhausted as they were, so they all settled down to sleep. They all sat in awkward silence, not quite knowing what to do with themselves. Max wished dearly to just do away with Zizka, but Thori had presented a compelling argument. They had officially taken Zizka hostage and would bring him to the keep for questioning. Then, Baptiste would decide what to do with the boy. Max wondered what his grandmaster would do. 

Surely he wouldn’t order Zizka executed, would he? No, Max thought. There was no way. Still, as they all laid down to sleep for the night, the thought began to nag at Max. He was pretty sure he hated Zizka. He’d been the reason they were caught, after all. Everything bad that had happened to Max since he’d found the little rat in his field had been Zizka’s fault. But what frustrated Max the most was the lack of constants when it came to Zizka.

He helped kidnap them, but then he poisoned their guard and helped them escape. He didn’t lift a finger to help Max when Nutesh whipped him, but then he sang the sleep lullaby that made Max go unconscious so he wouldn’t have to continue bearing the agony of the lash. He served the Bikra without a word of protest, but he snuck Thori food and water when they were in the cage. He made so much noise with his shackled ankles that no animals within a league would come near them for Max to hunt, but then he found herbs to stuff the rabbits with so that they tasted better. Well, at least for him and Thori. Max preferred his meat raw when he could get it that way. 

The boy was simply infuriating to Max! Why couldn’t he just be all evil so Max wouldn’t feel bad about snapping his skinny little neck!? Max curled up closer to Thori’s back, seeking warmth and glaring at the muddy shirt his friend wore in the darkness. Then, he heard a soft sound. He froze, closing his eyes to pretend to be asleep, and waited patiently as Zizka slowly crept to his feet. His shackles jangled lightly, but the boy held them so that they didn’t drag and make noise as he began to creep away from where he’d been curled up into a little ball on the other side of the fire. 

Max waited until he was a good ways away before he rose in silence and followed. It was easy to find Zizka, even in the dark, because while Zizka’s eyes were normal human ones, Max’s were plenty sharp in the soft moonlight. He climbed a tree and began to follow the boy via the branches. Zizka turned back, checking that he wasn’t being followed, and then dropped the chain with a sigh of relief. Max climbed down and dropped behind him without a sound, crossed his arms, and waited. 

Zizka was still looking back towards the low fire where Thori lay alone when he tried to shuffle back and bumped straight into Max. He gasped, whipping around to look up into Max’s slitted pupils as they glowed in the moonlight. Max didn’t say a word, just bared his sharp teeth in silent warning, not wanting to wake Thori by yelling like he wanted to. Zizka stumbled back, tripped, and fell onto his rear in the dirt. 

A long, tense silence followed as the two boys locked eyes. Max was tempted to just let the boy go. Sorely tempted. But Thori had been right that Zizka might have information that Baptiste would want to help in the war effort. Maybe he’d even let Max be there when he interrogated the little brat. So, he narrowed his eyes and then lifted his hand to point back towards their fire. 

Zizka whimpered softly, pulling his braid around to wring it nervously between his hands, and then got back to his feet. He began to walk back to the fire and Thori slowly. Too slowly, in Max’s opinion, so Max grabbed a random stick and swept his hand down its length to strip it of any leaves before he gave Zizka’s rear end a solid whap. Zizka gasped, his hands leaving his braid to clutch at his bottom as he double timed it and made his hobbled way back to camp as Max prowled behind him, growling lowly. 

Max jabbed a finger at the spot behind Thori and Zizka meekly dropped down and curled up with his back to the fire and his front facing Thori. Max took the spot on Thori’s other side, curling up tightly and tucking his head beneath his friend’s chin. Thori mumbled in his sleep, clearly exhausted considering he hadn’t woken up when Max and Zizka had left, and tossed an arm over Max’s shoulders and hugged him close. 

Zizka mumbled something softly, grumbling for a moment before going silent. Max stayed awake until he was certain Zizka was asleep. 

Zizka tried to escape every single night without fail. Max caught him and marched him straight back every time, too. Max had to hand it to the kid. He was nothing if not persistent. 

Max was forced to shift back into his human form fully when he finally began to recognize the forest of their valley. They were close. So close to getting home. 

Max couldn’t wait. 

It had taken them days to get so far. Nearly a full week. If Max hadn’t managed to fly them so close back in their initial escape, it would have likely taken them weeks to get back. Max couldn’t shift, which they supposed was part of whatever poison that Nutesh had coated the whip in. Max hated it, and more than a few times he and Thori had blown up into full on screaming arguments as they walked, both of their tempers frayed to the snapping point. 

Their most recent argument had been over something stupid that Max couldn’t even really remember. Probably Zizka, who had taken to stopping every few paces and picking some sort of leafy bit of foliage. They’d both blown up at one another, red-faced and shouting as they walked in the direction of the keep. Thori had gotten so angry that he’d reached out and given Max a hard shove on the shoulder. Max had gasped as pain ripped up his back into his skull and Thori had instantly frozen, a look of horror on his face. He’d apologized profusely, and when Max had asked to stop for a rest, Thori had immediately agreed and they were still sitting in silence with their arms crossed as they glared at everything but each other. 

Max chose to glare at Zizka, just because he was there.

The younger boy was stooped down, though, mumbling to himself and ignoring Max completely, picking plants again. Max was at his wits end. 

“Zizka!” he shouted. “What in the hells are you even doing, you stupid boy!?” 

“Just let him pick his damned flowers, Max,” Thori sighed, clearly fed up with Max and Zizka and the world at large. 

“He’s slowing us down, is what he’s doing!” Max complained, despite him being the reason they were currently stopped. 

Zizka stood, making his way towards them as he popped a large wad of the plants into his mouth and chewing. Max and Thori both stared at him as he hobbled around behind Max, speaking around the wad of leaves in his mouth casually. Max turned to Thori for the first time since they’d stopped shouting and said, 

“Great! The magic boy has officially lost it!”

“I’m sure he’s just hungry like we are.”

“Well, you don’t see me eating fucking grass.”

Whatever Thori was about to say was cut off as Zizka spat the now thoroughly chewed wad of leaves out into his hand and promptly smeared the mashed up mess across one of the split parts of Max’s back. Max stiffened, his eyes going wide. Thori watched in horror as Max’s pupils went from round, to tiny little slits, and back to round once more wildly. He watched as Max flushed red all the way from his throat to his forehead. He could practically see the bellow of rage bubbling up out of Max’s throat and backed up, wary of catching stray flames as Max lurched up to face Zizka. 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU—”

Max froze, eyes wide, and went so still that Thori was certain he had finally broken his brain.

“Max?” Thori whispered after a tense, still few seconds. 

Max didn’t even look at him, staring at Zizka with wide eyes. 

“What did you just put on my back?” Max asked, his voice so soft it was practically a whisper. 

Zizka, still holding a clump of chewed up leaves, cocked a hip and held it out. 

“Meshinaka. Drakkon Max preelana bre mor neeka. Med-ee-sin. Yei?”

Thori blinked. “Med-ee-sin? Medicine? Those are medicinal herbs you’re putting on his back?” 

“Yei.”

Max blinked, shared a look with Thori, and then cautiously sat back down with his back to Zizka. The boy jammed another wad of leaves into his mouth to begin chewing and went back to smearing the mess carefully across Max’s back. He hummed softly as he did, and Max recognized the tune from the song that had put him to sleep when Nutesh had been—. 

He cut his own line of thinking off and focused on trying to ignore the feeling of wet, spitty, disgusting goop being spread across his back, because it was as if it were sapping the pain straight out of him. 

That night, Max slept soundly and without much more than a bit of discomfort for the first time in over a week. 

He still woke up and caught Zizka when the boy tried to run, though. 

They were walking again. Because that’s all they ever did, now. Max and Thori didn’t even really talk very much, because they were both so tired and unwilling to start another argument. Zizka had shown them the herb to look for to help with Max’s injuries, and so their eyes were all on the forest floor as they searched for more. All of the boy’s pockets were stuffed with the waxy, fat leaves. Max could hear both of Thori and Zizka’s stomachs growling every few minutes and knew they were as ravenously hungry as he was. 

Max was stumbling more and more, his head feeling woozy and light.

He was so focused on spotting the little white flowers that usually grew next to the pain easing herb that he nearly missed it. 

“No, I don’t fucking know if they went this way! I thought you were the great tracker, you asshole!” 

Max froze, catching Thori by the shoulder and ignoring Zizka as he tripped in an attempt to avoid running into Max’s back. 

“Max!” Thori scolded, bending to help the younger boy up from where he’d fallen flat on his face. But Max shushed him, crouching down as well. 

“Shut up. I hear voices.”

The three of them went dead still and silent. Thori perked up as he heard the voices as well. 

“-ucking useless! We need to go back and try to find the tracks from the camp!” 

“The camp!? That’s leagues back! Every second we waste is the longer they have our boys!”

Thori blinked and recognized the voices at the exact same moment as Max. They met each other’s eyes, smiling excitedly, and jumping up. Zizka grumbled and grabbed Max’s belt, hauling himself up grumpily. He griped at Max, scowling. He’d gotten a fair bit more mouthy over the days as his stomach had gone unfilled for longer and longer stretches. But Max ignored him, as did Thori. Their eyes were turned to the left, where two men on horses were coming into the clearing across the way.

Leon and Malachi were gearing up for a thorough argument, and Malachi was slapping at a branch that was in his way as they rode through the underbrush. Neither man had noticed the three boys yet. 

“LEON!” Max cried. 

Leon’s head snapped over in their direction, his hand going to his sword. Then, after a moment, he recognized his squire and his face broke out into the biggest smile Max had ever seen on it in his life. 

“Max!” 

Leon and Malachi jumped down from their horses and then masters and squires were charging each other. They crashed together and clung to each other. Max felt tears fill his eyes and beside him, Thori sobbed softly into Malachi’s chest. 

“I’m so sorry, Malachi,” Thori was murmuring into Malachi’s chest. “It was all my fault. I’m so sorry…”

Max slumped in Leon’s arms, his back screaming with pain but he didn’t care. He breathed in the smell of his master and closed his eyes. It was finally over. Leon was here and he’d make everything better. He vaguely heard Thori say something, and suddenly Leon was letting him go and roughly turning him around. Max groaned, feeling sickly. Behind him, Leon gasped sharply. 

“Max,” Leon said. “Oh, my dear boy…”

Max was more than pleased to let Leon take the reins. He was helped up onto Leon’s horse and after Malachi and Thori collected Zizka, whose presence gave their masters a fair bit of pause, and then they were riding back home. Max slumped against Leon’s back, snuggling close. 

“Max, what happened?” Leon asked softly. Malachi was behind them, on foot as he led his own horse with Thori and Zizka riding on the back of the beast. 

Max sniffled, feeling overwhelmed. “I… I met someone… someone who didn’t see me like the boy I am…” 

“Oh, Max…”

Max fell silent, feeling for all the world as if he were coasting over the clouds. 

“I wanna go flying, Leon,” he mumbled. 

Leon glanced back with a curious expression. 

“Are you feeling all right, Max?” 

“I don’t wanna go to Dalhurst… My uncle is there…”

“Dalhurst? Max, what are you talking about?”

“I need to check my lair… Can’t let the Bikra find me… Need to… Zizka… Thori is gonna miss his books… Leon is looking for me…” 

Max felt his head loll back and Leon’s strong arms wrapped around him. He stopped the horse and grabbed a waterskin, pressing it to Max’s lips and insisting he drink. 

To Max, the ride back to the keep felt as though it took hours and seconds at the same time. He heard the cheering of the knights and squires as they came through the gates. Thori was ushered away and Leon helped Max off of the horse. Baptiste was there next, tucking him under his arm and pulling him close to his side. Max let his head drop against the overseer’s shoulder. 

“Hey, Baps,” he murmured. “Miss me?”

He was led towards the keep by the two men, Leon saying something about going to see the head healer. He heard his name being called by a voice that was far more familiar after hearing it so often recently. 

Zizka sounded… scared. When Max managed to roll his head enough to see Zizka on the other side of the courtyard being dragged off by two of the older knights, he met the younger boy’s wide eyes, and suddenly felt uncomfortable. Zizka’s long hair was whipping in the wind and tears shone in his eyes as he called Max’s name. He reached his hand out weakly as Zizka thrust an arm out, begging silently for his help. He couldn’t go help, though. He was so tired. His limbs were heavy and he felt himself going limp in Leon and Baptiste’s hold. 

“Hey,” he said, slurring. “Leave ‘im alone. Only I get to be an asshole to him…”

Then, Zizka was gone, being taken down towards the keep’s dungeon, and Max was led to the healer’s tower. He was laid down on a soft bed, with Leon’s hand gently stroking his sweaty, filthy hair.

He shut his eyes and the last thought he had was that he’d have to go get Zizka out of his cell before the little shit got too worked up over nothing. 

He just needed to take a little nap first…

Chapter Text

Baptiste sucked in a deep breath to calm himself and prepare for the tasks ahead. Thori was resting in Malachi’s room after having inhaled nearly three bowls of stew, too exhausted to bother with climbing the stairs to his own room that he shared with Max. Apparently there was a young boy in his dungeon, Max had been whipped, most everyone in the keep was desperate to check on the boys and ask them what had happened to them, he had reports to write, His Lordship to respond to, someone needed to ensure this week’s grocery order was sent out to Krasna, and his damned knees were positively screaming at him to sit down for a few minutes. 

He stepped into his office after sending a squire to summon Malachi and Leon. He collected the necessary items for the coming discussion with his knights and took a seat, sweeping his hair back from his face. 

He was getting too damned old for this shit. 

A knock came from his door about twenty minutes later and he straightened up, setting aside his quill and calling for his visitors to enter. Leon strode into the room with Malachi trailing behind. 

“Shut the door behind you,” he said. Malachi winced and did as asked. It seemed he knew why he was here, and Baptiste suspected Leon did as well, but he was far less contrite. He waited for his knights to come stand at attention before his desk and looked them over carefully. They were both filthy from tromping about in the woods for days as they searched for their missing squires, looked as exhausted as he felt, and while Malachi kept his head down Leon glared down at Baptiste steadily. Baptiste decided not to mince words. 

“You disobeyed me.”

Leon glared even harder and Baptiste matched it with one of his own as he laced his fingers together, braced his elbows on his desk, and collected his thoughts.

“I gave you both strict orders when you came back to the keep and we realized Max and Thori were missing. I told you to wait. And what did you both do? You left the keep anyway and went galavanting off in the damned forest! Explain yourselves!”

“We were searching for our brothers in shield,” Leon said stiffly. 

“I am well aware of what you two told yourselves you were doing. What I want to know is what made you think you could disobey a direct order from your overseer.”

“Well, it’s not like you were doing much to help get them back, sir,” Leon snapped. 

Baptiste’s patience ended there. He stood so abruptly that his chair nearly toppled over behind himself and slapped his hands down hard against the top of the desk. Both Leon and Malachi flinched. 

“Don’t you dare try to say that I wasn’t just as desperate to find those boys and bring them back as you two were!” Baptiste shouted. He strode around the desk and got close to Leon. His old squire was taller than him by just a few inches now, but Leon still cowered back as if he were ten years old once more as Baptiste jabbed a finger up and pointed at his nose. “You’ve got some gall about you, you little shit. How dare you make it out like I don’t care about Max? When we realized what happened I thought I was going to throw up I was so scared and you come in here acting as though I haven’t spent the last two weeks busting my ass trying to pull together the resources needed to get them back?”

Leon finally dropped his gaze, ashamed of himself. 

“I was working on a solution. I had everything planned. I was going to send out half of the damned keep to look for our boys and then you two went and ruined everything! As soon as His Lordship heard that the two of you had gone off, he said the two ‘best knights in the valley’ were on the case and he forbade me from sending anyone else out! And mind you, I lied to his damned face to protect you two. If he finds out you two hadn’t been acting on my orders, he’ll have you both flogged for your disobedience, and I would be flogged for covering for you!” 

Now, the two men at least looked contrite. 

“Baptiste, sir…” Malachi said softly. He cringed when Baptiste turned and his full attention landed on him. “We’re sorry. We just couldn’t leave the boys behind like that. Every hour we wasted waiting for troops to be sorted and given permission to go out, was an hour that our boys were being dragged further away.”

“And by not waiting, you nearly killed them. If those boys hadn’t managed to get away from the Bikra, who knows what might have happened. The group I was putting together would have been able to take those Bikra bastards, but just the two of you? With Max, who need I remind you both is one of our best swordsmen, as injured as he was? He wouldn’t have been able to fight beside you or even protect himself! The Bikra might have just slit their throats and been done with them had you two tried to take them on alone!”

Baptiste swept away from them, dropping back into his seat with a huff of exhaustion. He cradled his head in his palm for a moment before straightening back up. Leon was staring at the table, clearly lost in thought. Baptiste sighed, knowing his old squire was mentally berating himself now that he was taking a moment to think. 

“How is he?” Baptiste asked, softening his tone. Leon glanced up and Baptiste was struck by just how miserable and exhausted Leon looked. The poor man had barely slept since Max had been taken. 

“Headhealer Jomen is sitting with him. He’s got him in his squire’s bed in my room. We thought it might help him to wake up somewhere more familiar to him.”

Baptiste thought back to the nonsense Max had been spouting when he and Leon had helped him up to the healer’s tower. Somewhere, Max had gotten the idea that he and their valley’s little red dragon were one and the same, saying he’d wanted to go flying and asking for a new basket of fish to be delivered to his room. It was delirium, of course. Thori had told them that they hadn’t eaten for days and water had been scarce. 

“And his back? Were there any other injuries aside from his back?” 

Leon shook his head. “Not that Jomen found. He said the herbs they’d been putting on his back were doing wonders and that he was healing really well despite the conditions.”

Baptiste nodded, then turned to Malachi. 

“And Thori? He is all right? Was he… beaten as well?”

Malachi shook his head. “No, sir. He’s pretty bruised up, and he’s got a nasty welt on his shoulder from where one of the Bikra hit him with some sort of strap, but other than that, he’s fine.”

“And his report? How were they captured? What happened?” 

Malachi hesitated for a moment and Baptiste knew without being told that either Thori or Max had ignored the order to return to the keep. Most likely Max, but with how protective Malachi was of Thori, he wondered…

“He says they were ambushed on the way back to the keep, walked a few days by the Bikra, but in the night that boy that was with them freed them and they escaped together.”

“Yes, the Bikra boy. What was his name? How does he fit into all of this?”

“Zizka. Thori said he was the one who knew to pick the herbs for Max’s back. Apparently, the Bikra were keeping him in chains and shit. He’s the magic wielder we ran into a few weeks back. Must have been trying to escape the Bikra when we found him. He was also the one that warned Leon and me about the Bikra coming up behind us. He can’t speak our language, but Thori has tried to teach him a few of our words.”

Baptiste nodded. “I’ll deal with him soon. But right now, we’ve business to attend to between ourselves.”

The shift in his tone set both younger men on edge. 

“Sir…” Leon said softly. 

“Don’t start, Leon Lartius. You two disobeyed a direct order from me. It could have cost us the lives of our two newest junior knights. I can’t leave such a thing unpunished.”

All three men knew what that meant. The whip that was used to discipline the adult knights was rarely used and Baptiste preferred it that way. He wanted his men to serve him because they respected him, not because they feared the lash. Leon and Malachi seemed to brace themselves and Malachi was the first to speak as they both tucked their hands behind their backs and stood a little straighter. 

“It was my idea, sir,” Malachi insisted. “I deserve to take the punishment.”

“Bullshit,” Baptiste said, and both of the younger knights blinked in surprise at such foul language coming from their normally perfectly reserved overseer. 

“Did you knock Leon out and drag him along behind you as his captive as you searched for the boys? No? Then you are both equally to blame. And you will both be punished.”

Leon shifted uncomfortably. “H- How many lashes are we to take?”

Baptiste met his eyes and made sure he understood the gravity of the situation. 

“Fifteen.”

Both men shuddered. It was the maximum amount Baptiste was allowed to give in a twenty four hour period. 

“That being said, I do not want this getting out to His Lordship. It will lead to… uncomfortable questions. No one outside of this room is aware that you two were acting without my permission and it is going to stay that way. So, I will be handling things more privately.”

Baptiste leaned down and picked up the thick rattan cane he’d collected from the bottom of his clothes chest in his quarters before coming into his office earlier. Both Leon’s and Malachi’s eyes went wide at the sight. 

“Oh, hells,” Malachi said softly. He met Baptiste’s eyes with a pleading look. “You’re not serious. Please. I’d rather take the flogging.”

“And have Thori see you in such a state after the fact? Where he will no doubt tell Max when he wakes up? I think not. I am the overseer of this keep. It is my sworn duty to protect the knights within its walls and I will uphold my duty. I will not let your actions bring more pain down on the heads of our newest knights by forcing them to see you punished so harshly. So you are both going to submit to the punishment I have chosen for you with grace and dignity, and if you ever disobey me in such a way again, I’ll strip you of your titles as knights. Am I understood?” 

Both Leon and Malachi gaped at him in shock, but Baptiste was entirely serious. He would not let them get away with this. Though, he had a feeling once he was finished with the men, they’d think twice about ever crossing him again.

They both bowed their heads, looking for all the world like a pair of naughty squires, and nodded. 

“Good. Malachi will be first. Leon, step outside into the hall and wait for me. I shan't be long.”

Leon shuffled out of the door with a mumbled apology to his friend and Malachi visibly braced himself before stepping forward. Baptiste had to admire the man’s bravery, even if it more often than not nearly killed him some days. He gestured to the desk, which he had already cleared. 

“Drop your trousers and bend over there.”

Malachi’s head whipped to face him so quickly his tied back hair whapped him in the cheek. 

“You can’t be serious! You want me bare arsed!? I’m not some little boy!”

“Your back would be bare if you were taking the flogging you deserve. So your arse will be bare for the cane. Hurry up, I haven’t got all night.”

Malachi swallowed heavily and then fumbled about with his belt and trouser ties, eyeing the cane in Baptiste’s hand nervously. 

When his trousers were loose he stepped forward and tugged them down until they stopped just beneath the curve of his backside before leaning forward and placing his hands down flat on the desk. Baptiste arched a brow.

Stepping forward, he placed a hand low on the small of Malachi’s back and pushed until the younger man was forced to bend further and further down. 

“I know it’s been some time since you’ve found yourself facing corrective measures from me, Malachi, but I think you remember well enough how I expect you to present yourself.”

Malachi huffed and finally gave up on resisting, bending over fully at the hips and lying over the desk so that the sturdy furniture held up his torso. He tucked his arms beneath his chest, his right leg nervously bouncing up and down as he waited for his discipline. Unfortunately, Baptiste took the time to tug his trousers down fully so that they pooled at his knees.

“Baps,” Malachi muttered, and Baptiste could see his dark skin going red as he flushed at the cheeks. “Seriously?”  

Baptiste wasn’t interested in humiliating the man, and knew that no matter how different he was from Malachi’s old master, being punished was always something that was hard for Malachi to take simply because of the memories that surfaced. He gave the cane a sharp swish through the air before he gave Malachi a tap on the roundest part of his backside. It had been some time since Baptiste had been in such a position with Malachi and Leon, and he found it rather strange to be back here, where he’d never expected to be again. 

Lifting the cane up high, he brought it down with a sharp crack. Malachi stiffened, sucking in a surprised breath through his teeth, and peeked back over his shoulder at Baptiste with a look of slight betrayal as the burn began to spread. Baptiste could already see a thick welt beginning to rise up on Malachi’s backside. 

“Face forward,” he said curtly, tapping Malachi again and lining up his next shot just an inch below the first. “You are in no position to act as though I am being unfair.”

Snap. Malachi jumped a bit, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“You are lucky a few welts across your arse are all you’re getting.”

Whap.

“Thori might have died out there because you couldn’t be bothered to wait for backup.”

Three more blows landed, and Baptiste was back at the top of Malachi’s rear. Time to begin layer welts over welts. Malachi had dropped his forehead to the top of the desk and laced his fingers behind his neck. He was trembling lightly, but he didn’t move out of position.

“Because you disobeyed me.”

Another two cracks. 

“And that is not even bringing up the fact that you might have lost your life, Malachi.”

The next crack of the cane had Malachi’s foot popping up and a cry breaking free from his tight lips. 

“Do you think I don’t value you, Malachi? That I find it acceptable to let you throw your life away? I will not have you acting so recklessly. Your master was a bastard who never cared for you, and I know you have struggled in the past to place the importance you deserve on your own life, but I happen to hold you in the highest of esteem. You are not replaceable to me. Or to Thori.” 

He ripped two more harsh, barking, ragged cries from Malachi with the following four strokes. Then, he placed a firm hand on Malachi’s shaking back. 

“Two more and we will be finished with this matter. And you will not ever put your life so needlessly at risk again. Agreed?” 

Malachi wasn’t sobbing, but Baptiste noted there were a few tears on the desk as he frantically nodded his sweat-soaked head. 

“Very well, lad. You’re doing well. Hold still for me.”

Malachi’s rear end was liberally covered in welts. Baptiste decided to aim for an area that was not yet punished, and tapped the backs of Malachi’s thighs. Malachi let out a low, sad sounding moan as he correctly guessed where the cane was going to bite next. 

Baptiste didn’t draw it out. He gave Malachi his final strokes, which had the younger man bellowing his pain out, and set the cane to the side. He gave Malachi’s back a firm rub and a pat, letting the knight collect himself briefly, before he pulled away. 

“There. The matter is settled. Now, I want you to go tend to Thori and I expect you to collect a full report and write it up for me by tomorrow evening. Please send Leon in on your way out.” 

He stepped back, turning so Malachi could have a moment of privacy to pull his trousers up. He listened to the whisper of fabric over flesh and heard Malachi hiss as it scraped over his welted arse. Malachi sniffled, and when Baptiste turned back to him, he was surprised when the younger man bowed deeply towards him. He’d expected to get the cold shoulder from Malachi for the rest of the day. Or month. It was how Malachi had always responded to being hauled up to his office for an arse whipping in the past. 

“I’m sorry, sir. For disobeying you. I just… I was just…”

“I know, my lad,” Baptiste said, more gently than he’d spoken the entire afternoon. “I was scared, too. It’s behind us. Now go tend to your boy.”

Malachi left, sneaking a hand back to gingerly rub at his rear end. 

“Thanks, Baps.” 

Baptiste rolled his eyes are the familiar nickname, but didn’t scold Malachi for using it. Just this once. 

Leon had waited in tense, uncomfortable silence in the hallway outside of Baptiste's office, and listened to his best friend take his punishment. He winced with every snap of the cane he heard, and when Malachi began to shout, it had been near unbearable to hear. But Leon forced himself to stay still and listen. He deserved to hear his friend cry out, because it was his fault Malachi was in such a position to start with. 

Malachi, bless his brother in shield, had lied. It had come so naturally, so smoothly, that Leon had nearly been tricked himself, and he’d been there the day they decided to go out on their own to search for their boys. It hadn’t been Malachi’s idea to ignore Baptiste’s order to leave and go after the boys. 

It had been Leon’s.

Of course, no one would have ever believed it. Leon was the rule follower. He didn’t ignore orders, no matter his personal feelings. But this time… Oh, this time it had been all Leon. Malachi had even argued against the notion. He’d told Leon to wait for more knights to be assigned to join them in the search. But the terror that had lived deep in Leon’s bowels since they had been chased out of the forest by the Bikra and returned to their keep to find no sign of anything amiss had driven Leon to a mindset of pure desperation that he’d never experienced before in his life. 

And so, when Malachi had realized that Leon was leaving to go search with or without him, he’d simply gone silent and saddled up his horse right there with Leon. Then he’d ridden out of the lower bailey beside Leon without a single word more about the matter. 

A harsh shout came from the office as Leon finally counted the fifteenth stroke landing, and Leon cringed. Oh, loyal, brave Malachi. Leon wasn’t sure how he’d managed to go so long without his friend before he’d returned home and taken Thori on as his squire. 

A few moments passed in silence, where Leon could hear Baptiste’s low voice as he spoke. Then, the door opened and Malachi slipped out. Leon was facing the window as Malachi came to stand beside him. He heard Malachi let out a soft sniffle and peeked over to find his friend’s face flushed and his eyes filled with unshed tears. Malachi gave him an embarrassed little half-smirk and swiped his hand across his eyes to clear them. 

“Sooo,” Malachi said after a moment. “He’s like, real pissed. I don’t think he’s ever thrashed me like that before.”

As he spoke, he reached back to give his backside a gentle rub, wincing as he did. 

“I’m so sorry,, Mal,” Leon said softly. 

Malachi sniffled again, joining Leon in staring out of the window. “Don’t be. I made my choice and I’d do it again. I’d do it a hundred times again. I’ve never been more scared in my entire fucking life than when we got back and the boys were gone.”

“You lied to Baptiste.”

“Eh, it’s not such a stretch to believe it was my idea to go—”

“You lied to him about Thori’s report. I heard you talking to him on the ride back. He disobeyed our orders and didn’t go back to the keep like we told them to.”

Malachi grimaced. “Shit. I didn’t think you’d caught that.”

“So you’re lying to Bapstiste to cover for him now?”

“Trust me, Lee. As soon as he’s rested and settled, I’m going to light his arse up like I never have before. And I… I’m gonna use the brush, too. I made my mind up about that a few days ago. Baps doesn’t need to be involved.”

Leon paused, surprised. Malachi had sworn off using anything but his hand when he’d first taken Thori on.

“I… I can’t stomach the thought of using the belt on him. I just… too many bad memories. The belt still scares me. But, I need this to stick, so I’m going to do it. For Thori. He needs me to be hard about this. Not just because he disobeyed but… he’s cried so hard in the bath earlier I thought he’d puke. He blames himself for what happened to Max. I gotta talk to him about everything, but…”

Leon placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know. I won’t tell. I know you’ll handle things well. And if you need me, I’ll be right next door, just like always.”

“Thanks, Lee.”

They stood in silence for a beat.

“Baps is waiting for you. You’d best get it over with. Then you can go sit with Max. I’m sure he’d like to wake up with you there.”

“Aye. Is it pathetic that I’m a bit scared? By the gods it’s been years since he’s…”

“Nah, it’s not pathetic. You should be scared. That cane hurt like fuck.”

“Thanks, Mal. Real comforting.”

“You’re welcome.”

They both heaved a heavy sigh before Leon hiked his trousers up a bit and turned. Time to face his master. He left Malachi and went into Baptiste’s office. Baptiste was waiting for him in front of his desk. The cane was laying on the top of the desk, innocent as could be. Leon swallowed heavily, and stepped forward. He stopped a respectful few paces away, but Baptiste didn’t spare a second. He snapped his fingers smartly and pointed at the spot directly in front of himself. 

“Sir,” Leon said, fighting not to fidget. 

“Here in front of me. Now, Leon,” Baptiste said firmly. 

Leon shuffled forward, feeling like a little boy. For a long moment, Baptiste stared at his face with a slight glare. When he next spoke, it was so soft that Leon had to lean forward a bit to hear him properly. 

“I’m disappointed in you, Leon.”

“Sir, I couldn’t just leave Max. I had to—”

“Be silent.”

Leon’s mouth shut so quickly his teeth clacked. He listened in silence to his old master, knowing the man hated to be interrupted. 

“I am not upset that you ignored my orders. Hells, I was another day away from leaving the keep myself with or without His Lordship’s permission. No, what I am disappointed in is your assumption that I… what? Didn’t care about the fact that Max had been taken? How could you think such a thing of me, my lad? Do you truly think me so heartless?”

The small break in Baptiste’s voice nearly broke Leon then and there. The stress, exhaustion, fear, pain; it all came crashing down on Leon at that tiny wobble in his master’s voice. 

“Sir… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I was just… I wasn’t thinking. Of course I know you were worried for Max,” he said, fighting against the burn of impending tears behind his eyes with all of his might. 

“I wasn’t worried, Leon. Budgets worry me. You and Malachi practicing new swordwork with real steel worries me. Max being taken away from us by those monsters damn near took me to my knees. And as horrible as it was for me, I knew it had to be ten times worse for you. Then, you up and left without a word. Without me.”

Baptiste’s voice did crack then, and Leon broke right along with it. He sucked in a shuddering breath, his lower lips wobbling, and bowed his head as the tears flooded out of his eyes. He was ashamed of himself for crying, but he was even more ashamed for hurting Baptiste. For disappointing him. His shoulders shook as he began to sob in silence with his fists balled up at his sides as he desperately fought not to begin bawling like a little boy. Then, Baptiste’s hand came up and settled on the back of his neck, pulling him forward until his forehead was resting against Baptiste’s shoulder. Leon cried harder, soaking Baptiste’s tunic, as Baptiste’s thumb gently stroked up and down across the little patch of shorn down hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’m so, so sorry, Master,” he said haltingly. Baptiste shushed him softly, as if he were a child or a frightened animal, and Leon felt just the tiniest bit better. “I did- didn’t mean to leave you behind. I just… They took my boy from me. They whipped him. He was so weak and hurt when we found him. I was s- so scared. Every day I woke up wondering if I’d find my boy’s dead body in that forest and I just couldn’t bear the thought.”

“I know. I know, lad. Shhh. He’s going to be all right. He’s back home. He’s safe. He’s got us to help him heal.”

“But I wasn’t there to protect him!” 

Leon threw his arms around Baptiste, abandoning all hope of keeping even a shred of his composure, and began to sob so hard his entire body shook. Baptiste’s warm arms came up to tentatively encircle him, and Leon could just barely pretend that it was Max wrapping his arms around him instead. 

“You did all you could, lad. This is the life of a knight. You know this. What happened was not your fault, and when we find the man who was responsible for harming Max, we will see justice delivered. I swear it to you.”

Leon wasn’t sure how long he cried, but Baptiste’s shoulder was thoroughly wet by the time he was finished. He sucked in deep breaths, trying to calm himself, and was thankful when Baptiste led him to a chair and offered him a handkerchief to mop at his face with. 

Unfortunately, Baptiste had placed him in the leftmost chair, and that put the cane in his direct line of sight. Leon stared at it miserably, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes, and knew he’d have to buck up and take what he was due. He deserved it. For letting Baptiste down. For letting Max be stolen away. For letting Malachi take the blame for something he didn’t do. For… everything. 

Baptiste waited patiently for Leon to collect himself. As Leon drew himself up, he seemed to sense the shift in the air and straightened. 

“I suppose I ought to take my licks now, sir?” Leon asked, twisting the handkerchief in his hands tightly. 

“Aye. If you’re ready. I can wait a few more minutes if you need them.”

“I think I’d like to get back to Max as soon as I can, sir.”

“Then we’ll get on with things. Please stand, lad.”

Leon stood, gave his nose a final blow into the handkerchief, and tucked the wet, limp thing into his pocket. 

“Trousers down, my lad,” Baptiste said, his voice far more gentle than Leon knew he deserved. Leon sighed, unbuckled his belt, and dropped trou before bending over and bracing his forearms and elbows against the top of the desk. He was, unfortunately, quite familiar with the positioning his old master preferred him to be in. 

He hadn’t been taken up for a trip to the office often as a boy, and while the frequency grew when he hit his teenage years, even then it was rare that he got Baptiste's paddle. His master had tended to be more comfortable swinging his belt across his backside than the paddle. The paddle was for serious offenses. And the cane…

Leon had only ever gotten the cane once growing up. He’d been caught with his hands beneath a young maiden’s skirts at the ripe age of sixteen and Baptiste had gone ballistic. He’d gotten five strokes with the cane and hadn’t even gotten to grab anything fun for all of his trouble. 

He stared miserably at the desk, clasping his hands together tightly beneath his chest and held his breath. Fifteen strokes would be hard to take, but he was a full-grown man and a knight to boot. He’d taken slashes with swords and been bashed with the broadside of shields before. A caning wasn’t anything. He still jumped nervously when the cane tapped him on the fullest part of his bared arse. 

“You’re getting twenty,” Baptiste informed him. Leon’s breath wooshed out of him as he peeked over his shoulder. 

“You said fifteen earlier!”

“Aye. Fifteen is what you’re getting for disobeying your overseer. And the five following are for your disrespect and shitty attitude towards me. I might not be your master in an official capacity any longer, but I raised you and I know you know better than to talk to me like that.”

Leon wanted to argue and say he’d just been distraught, but Baptiste did have a point. He’d been raised better. Before he could say anything in response, the cane swooped down in an arc and snapped across his cheeks with such ferocity that he let out a startled, high-pitched yelp, rocking forward a bit on the balls of his feet. Pain ripped across his arse in a single, horrid stripe that was nothing like what he remembered from when he’d been a rowdy teenager. Leon sucked his lower lip into his mouth to worry at with his teeth and hunched his shoulders. 

He was a knight. He could and would bear his punishment with dignity and stoicism. 

The next crack of the cane landed against the undercurve of his backside and Leon nearly whimpered. 

Oh, there was no way he was going to get through this without a full breakdown.

Another few strokes fell before the tears returned, silently slipping down each side of Leon’s face. As the seventh (or at least that’s what Leon thought they were at) stroke fell, he arched his back and clung to the desk’s edge.

“Ah! Sir! Too hard,” he whimpered. He hadn’t meant for it to slip out. He deserved every bit he was getting and more, but he could feel the welts rising up across his arse and he trembled with the effort it took to remain still. 

“Too hard?” Baptiste asked. “I dare say it’s less than you would’ve gotten had you been any other knight.”

The cane snapped down across the backs of his thighs and Leon yelped, fighting to keep from wiggling about and throwing off Baptiste’s aim. He did not need to take a crack of the cane to the hip. 

Over and over the cane snapped down across the expanse of his backside. By the twelfth stroke, Leon had hunched his shoulders down and begun to truly sob. One foot had popped up and he balanced on the ball of his left foot, letting the desk hold him steady. 

“It- It’s not fair,” he wept. 

Baptiste paused, letting the cane rest against Leon’s backside.

“Not fair? I dare say it’s plenty fair, my lad.”

“No,” Leon sobbed, pressing his forehead against the desk. “It should have been me, Master. Why didn’t the Bikra take me? I was the senior most knight. It should have been me taking that whipping. Not my little boy. Not my Max…”

Baptiste’s hand came to rest on his back, just between the shoulder blades, and gently rubbed up and down. 

“I know it’s been hard for you. What happened to young Max was terrible. But it should not have been you, my lad. It should not have been anyone. But don’t worry. I think once I’m through with you, you won’t be thinking you got off so easily…”

Before Leon could even think of how to respond to that, the cane snapped down again, so hard he jumped. By now, no part of his backside wasn’t thoroughly welted, so the new strokes layered over the early ones. Leon let loose, sobbing so hard his entire body shook. His master, bless him, didn’t draw the rest of the punishment out. At the fifteenth stroke, he gently informed Leon that his punishment for disobeying orders was complete and that his punishment for his disrespectful behavior was beginning. 

Leon knew the last five strokes were going to be the most painful because they were being delivered on an already well-thrashed arse, but the shame he felt for how he’d spoken to Baptiste and treated his beloved master made them feel all the worse. When it was finally over, he didn’t even notice. Baptiste gently tugged his trousers back up, covering his modesty, and placed his warm hand on the nape of Leon’s neck. The touch was grounding, as it always was, and Leon didn’t pull away like he always had as a boy. 

Growing up, when his master had to take him in hand, it always left Leon horribly embarrassed. Baptiste never mocked him or made him feel as though he were less than for his tears, but Leon hated to cry. Crying always made him feel weak. Pathetic. It wasn’t until Leon met Max that he learned that crying wasn’t something to be ashamed of. 

He’d never expected that becoming a father meant being taught so much by a child.

He stayed bent over the desk for a long time, sobbing fitfully into the crook of his elbow, and let Baptiste’s thumb rubbing up and down the length of his neck soothe him.

“I- I’m sorry, Baptiste,” he said, trying to catch his breath as he finally began to calm. Baptiste took that as his cue to help Leon up. 

“I understand, lad. I forgive you.”

A fresh handkerchief was offered to him, and Leon wondered briefly if Baptiste kept a hidden supply in his desk for when he dealt with naughty squires. 

And disobedient knights, as well, he supposed.

After a while, Leon was finally calm enough to think. And as horrible as the entire past thirty minutes had been, he felt… lighter. He scrubbed at his eyes, washed his face in Baptiste’s bathing room after his master kindly let him go into his bedroom to freshen up instead of making the shameful walk to the washroom downstairs that all the knights used, and then returned to Baptiste’s office to find the man straightening up. The cane was nowhere in sight. 

“Leon, my lad. I don’t ever want to have to do that again,” Baptiste said, turning to face him. He looked tired. “Please don’t make me do that again, son.”

Leon swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. I won’t. I’m sorry, sir.”

Baptiste’s hand snuck up to the nape of his neck once more. 

“Good lad. Now, go tend to Max. I’m certain he’ll be pleased to see you when he wakes.”

“Come see him with me.”

“I need to see to this new boy that your brat brought home.”

“The Bikra boy?”

“Aye.”

“Come see Max first.”

Baptiste sighed, glancing back at his desk. It was covered in letters.

“Come see Max, Baptiste. It’ll make you feel better.” 

Baptiste glanced up and found Leon staring at him with pleading, red rimmed eyes. 

He joined Leon to go and check on his resting grandsquire. 

On the way to Leon’s room, he caught a knight and sent the man to collect the boy who was sitting in their dungeon and ordered him to be brought up to his office for a chat. There wasn’t anything in there that the boy could use to get up to too much mischief, not that he expected the boy to try anything. From what he’d heard, the poor boy was so weak from hunger he’d barely done anything more than whimper and cringe as he’d been placed in his cell.

He’d tend to the boy and see what he could figure out soon, but for the moment, he was going to go be with his lad and his grandsquire.

Chapter Text

Baptiste checked on Max with Leon, who was sleeping deeply with his upper body bandaged up. Leon had gone to the young man the second he’d entered the room, hardly sparing the headhealer a second glance before he was kneeling over Max’s prone form and stroking his messy hair out of his face. He stayed long enough to see Leon settled and spoke softly with the headhealer, Jomen. Once he was certain that Max was healing and resting as comfortably as he could with his master to fret over him, he slipped out. 

He peeked into Malachi’s room and found the man sitting in a chair beside Thori’s bed, tugging the blanket up more firmly over the boy. Satisfied that their two youngest knights were safe and as comfortable as they could be, he made his way back up to his office after confirming the Bikra boy had been delivered there as he’d requested.

He paused outside of his office door, listening, and heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes, opening the door carefully and entering. He didn’t see the little Bikra boy immediately as he stepped into his office, and he shut the door firmly behind himself, glancing in the area that the door hid. The boy wasn’t there, either. 

The rattle of the chains against the wooden floor alerted Baptiste to the boy’s location, coming up behind him. 

He turned, and a sharp pain in his shoulder had him barking out a startled shout. 

The boy was panting, and he’d stabbed Baptiste in the shoulder with his own letter opener. Baptiste caught him firmly by the upper arms, and the boy immediately began to thrash in his hold, babbling in his strange language and fighting to push the letter opener deeper into Baptiste’s shoulder. Together they struggled against one another, until Baptiste finally lifted the boy clear off his feet and tossed him to the side. 

Baptiste hadn’t meant to be so rough, but when he’d finally managed to dislodge the boy from himself, the boy was tripped by the chain connecting his ankles and he collapsed to his knees. Baptiste yanked the letter opener out of his shoulder with a hiss. It hadn’t gone very deep, stopped most by his leather jerkin, and hardly a trickle of blood came forth, but it still stung. The boy stayed on his knees where he’d fallen, hunched down low with his arms crossed over his head, as if preparing to be struck. Baptiste took a deep breath, watching the boy’s shoulders and back shake as he trembled. 

For a long moment, it was silent save for their combined ragged breathing. Then, Baptiste sighed and lifted his foot up, stepping over the boy entirely and making his way towards his desk. The boy huddled further down when he sensed Baptiste passing over him, and peeked up when he wasn’t harmed as he was clearly expecting to be. As soon as Baptiste was clear of him, he threw himself towards the door, stumbling around the chain. Baptiste didn’t react as the boy reached the door and began yanking at the handle, taking a seat behind his desk and watching. Of course, Baptiste had locked it. Eventually, the boy came to the same conclusion, and he cast Baptiste a terrified glance over his shoulder. His lower lip wobbled as he looked wildly around the room, as if searching for another escape. Finding none, he crawled towards the corner that was the farthest from where Baptiste’s desk was, and wedged his body as tightly as he could between the wall and the cabinet that was there, whimpering the entire time. Once there, he curled up tightly into a little ball, his back to Baptiste and the room entirely. Baptiste could hear him weeping softly, nearly silent save for his sniffles and heavy breaths. 

For a long while, the boy wept. 

Baptiste cleaned his shoulder, then cleaned his letter opener and returned it to its proper drawer, poured himself a small glass of whiskey, and settled in to write up a report. Soon, the boy fell silent save for the occasional sniffle, still curled up tightly in the corner. Baptiste was not surprised by the boy’s pluck. He’d expected some kind of attack. What he hadn’t expected was for the boy to attempt to attack him in his office, in one of the highest towers of the keep, with over forty knights all milling about below. He supposed he should be thankful it had just been a letter opener he’d been stabbed with, and not the sword from his dragon hunting days that he kept locked in a display case. Then, he caught sight of gouges in the wood near the lock of the case and realized that the boy must have been using the letter opener to attempt to carve around the case’s lock before Baptiste had interrupted him by coming in.

He was ballsy, as Malachi would put it, Baptiste thought with a little smile. 

Over an hour passed, and eventually the boy shifted to peek over his shoulder at Baptiste. Baptiste was careful not to look up or acknowledge the boy, and after another few minutes he repositioned himself, facing the window a bit more to look out at the sky and birds nesting on the roof. About halfway into the second hour of complete silence save for Baptiste’s quill scratching away gently at parchment, the boy gave a soft sigh and began to pick at the wall. 

Good, Baptiste thought. The boy was getting bored. And if he was bored, then he likely wasn’t quite as afraid. 

Near the third hour, Baptiste very clearly heard the boy’s stomach growl quite loudly. The boy clutched at his midsection, as if holding it tightly would contain the noise, casting Baptiste a worried look. Baptiste finished up the letter he’d been writing, put his quill away, and stood to stretch. The boy’s eyes went wide and he watched as Baptiste went to the cabinet by his desk and began to prepare a plate of cheese cubes, dried meat, and grapes. Baptiste noticed that he actually licked his lips, and his gaze stayed firmly locked on the food until Baptiste turned and began walking towards him. 

As Baptiste came closer, the boy jerked and curled right back up into his little protective huddle, scooting around on his backside until his back was once again presented to the older man. He hunched his shoulders, wrapping his arms over his head and the back of his neck, and the movement made his too-tight shirt ride up his back a ways. Baptiste could see the scars and fresh bruises from just that tiny bit of exposed flesh, and his heart ached with sympathy. 

He crouched, watching the boy begin to tremble again, and then gently placed a little cube of cheese on the tattooed shoulder that didn’t have a sleeve covering it. The boy froze, tensing up so hard that Baptiste was surprised he hadn’t gotten a cramp from being wound so tight. Then, very slowly, the boy peeked over to look at the cube of cheese. A single, shaking hand came up to carefully pick the cheese up before the boy pulled it around to look at it closer from where he’d all but plastered himself against the corner. 

Baptiste watched as the boy sniffed at the cheese, then pulled it apart, as if searching for something that might be hidden in it. He wondered if the boy had ever been drugged before with food. The way he so carefully examined it suggested he had. 

Finally, the boy deemed the cheese safe, and he popped it into his mouth. He let out a soft little moan of pleasure at the taste, his jaw working as he chewed it for a long time, as if he were trying to savor the taste for as long as possible. Baptiste knew the boy had to be starving, and his thin little waist hinted that hunger was a constant companion of his. Based on Thori’s report, the three boys hadn’t found much to eat as they’d traveled back to the keep, favoring speed over trying to camp for long on account of Max’s injuries. 

As soon as the boy’s jaw stopped working, Baptiste placed another cube of cheese on his shoulder. This time, it was picked up far more quickly, given the same thorough inspection, before being eaten and savored just as carefully. He ate another two cheese cubes in this fashion before Baptiste balanced a grape on his shoulder. That finally made the boy peek over his shoulder and meet Baptiste’s eyes. 

Baptiste held up an apple. He’d picked the prettiest one in his bowl to tempt the boy, and after a long moment, the boy shifted to scoot around once more, this time facing Baptiste. His eyes darted from the apple to Baptiste’s face, then back again, clearly trying to figure out if this were some sort of trick. Baptiste kept a carefully neutral face, and didn’t move, letting the boy set the pace. As the boy considered the apple and the man holding it, Baptiste took the time to really look at him. 

His hair was the same silky black that Malachi had, though it was messy and tangled despite being in a braid thanks to the long nights of sleeping in the forest with Max and Thori. His skin was darker in tone than Malachi’s, but not by much. Deep, dark brown eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and his crying had left streaks of cleanliness through the filth that covered every inch of him. This close, the youthful and childlike features were stark, and Baptiste felt a surge of anger at whoever had left such cruel marks on the poor thing’s back. His full lips were shining in the light from the pink tongue that darted out to wet them. 

Finally, the boy decided he was hungry enough to chance getting closer, and he slipped forward, staying on his knees, to gently grasp Baptiste’s wrist. Baptiste had intended for the boy to take the apple from him and had planned to step away, but the boy simply sunk his teeth into the apple with a wet snap. From there, he devoured the apple so quickly that Baptiste nearly worried he might lose a finger in the process. Even the core was eaten, and the boy surprised him by pressing a gentle kiss to his palm once he was finished, before he pulled away again. 

Baptiste rocked back onto his heels, not quite sure how to react, before he stood. The boy watched him, his hands clutching his loose trousers tightly at the knees, as he walked back towards his desk. There, he lifted the plate of food he’d prepared to show the boy, giving it a little waggle, and set it down on the edge of his desk in front of one of the chairs that his visitors sat in. He barely had to wait a full minute after taking his seat for the boy to slink his way out of the corner, the chains rattling noisily as he moved, before he’d carefully perched on the edge of the seat. 

He took the plate, balancing it carefully on his lap, and began to lift pieces of food to his mouth. He kept his head bowed low as he ate. After he’d swallowed a few bites, he spoke so quietly that Baptiste nearly missed it. 

“Dasaya,” he said. 

Baptiste smiled, nodded, and responded in the Bikra language. 

“Denocha.”

The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, as he recognized the language that Baptiste spoke.

It was fairly safe to say that Zizka had had an overall shitty life. His uncle had stolen him away and helped the Bikra to take over his own home when he’d been four, and kept him in his pillaged castle for years. When Zizka’s tattoos had first begun to show, and his magical abilities had developed, his uncle had been furious. But he’d been kept at his uncle’s master’s insistence when his tattoos had indicated he was a future drakkon speaker (even if he’d never managed to mentally connect with any of the drakkons that the masters had). 

Then word had spread to their lands that there was a drakkon to the west. A wild drakkon that didn’t have a master bonded to him mentally. The Bikra commanders all went rabid, each eager to bring their masters a new drakkon to dominate and use in their eventual takeover of the valley called Morinrior Rise, but Uncle Nutesh had been chosen. He’d been thrilled, only to discover that the masters expected him to bring along his pitiful, filthy little magic wielding nephew to see if they could force a connection. Zizka, of course, had no choice but to obey as did his uncle, but the months-long journey to the valley were some of the most miserable Zizka had ever endured. At least in his uncle’s castle he’d been able to hide in the massive place. Rarely did he earn his uncle’s interest unless he made mistakes or broke things trying out new magic, so being in such close quarters with the vile man was downright dangerous. 

He’d tried to escape in the new land. Multiple times, in fact. Anything was better than staying with Uncle Nutesh, but then he’d had the horrible luck to run into the only damned drakkon in the entire valley. And worse, that drakkon had scented him almost immediately and set to hunting him down with his terrifying men in metal. Capturing the boy and his friend had been exhausting, and Uncle Nutesh had made certain that Zizka wouldn’t be getting away easily, and the chains around his ankles chafed terribly at this point. 

Making the mental bond with the drakkon boy had been an honest mistake. He’d never been able to connect with other drakkons before, no matter how hard Uncle Nutesh beat him or what the masters threatened him with. They’d eventually declared him something of a dud considering he couldn’t even really control the elements that well outside of vegetation and a slight affinity for fire manipulation. But watching the poor drakkon boy be beaten by his uncle had been too much. He’d been singing to soothe himself, because hearing the crack of the whip and the screams of agony had brought back horrible memories, but as the drakkon boy slipped away into unconsciousness, the mental bond had snapped so hard into place it had nearly made Zizka throw up what meager rations he’d been allowed that morning. 

Zizka had gone near frantic with worry, then, because if the drakkon boy died then he likely wouldn’t be far away. Everyone knew that when drakkons were killed, their mental masters died with them. He’d already planned to help them escape, but the pressure had upped significantly once Zizka could feel the phantom jags of pain up his own back as they echoed from the drakkon boy.

The escape had been horrible, and Zizka could still vividly hear his uncle telling him there would be no more of his filthy magic-making as he’d dragged him off away from the raging drakkon. He’d thought that would be the end of his life, then, but the drakkon—Max—had saved him and flown him away from danger after torching his uncle’s face. 

Zizka wasn’t quite sure what to think of Max. He was aggressive, but that was hardly surprising considering he had no mental handler until now. He wondered how the boy hadn’t gone insane before now, though he suspected the handsome one-eyed boy had been a large part of it. They’d traveled together uneasily, and Zizka had hoped that if he could slip away in the night it might help dissolve the mental bond he and Max now shared, but every time he tried the drakkon boy’s eyes would snap open and he’d catch Zizka trying to leave. 

Because fuck Zizka’s life, he supposed. 

By the time they’d reached the ‘keep’ as Max and Thori called it, the bond had been fully formed and Zizka knew there would be no breaking it now. He was scared. He had no idea how Max would react to learning about the bond that Zizka was fairly certain he had no idea even existed, Thori had a master who was half-Bikra and Zizka knew that if there was anyone in the world who tended to hate the Bikra the most, it was a half-Bikra, and as soon as they were within the tall walls of the structure that Max and Thori called home he was taken away to a dark cell. That had been the worst part. 

Zizka was afraid of the dark. Paralyzingly so. 

He’d sat curled up in the farthest corner of the cell, pressing his face against his knees and wondering if this was where he would spend his days until he either wasted away or was tortured to death by the metal wearing men. ‘Nites’, Max called them. He wondered if the half-Bikra man would come and take a turn beating him. Thori had made him ride behind him on the back of the horse while the man had led the beast along by its reins and Zizka had made certain to be as still and quiet as he could be to avoid attracting the man’s attention. He’d clung to Thori’s belt from behind and pressed his forehead firmly against the spot between Throi’s shoulder blades, feeling lightheaded and delirious thanks to Max’s wandering, sickly mind. 

But once they’d gotten to the large stone structure that the metal men lived in, Thori had gotten off of the horse and been led away by the half-Bikra man. Max had been near limp in the arms of his master and an older man, whisked away before Zizka could try to follow. Then, metal men with their hard hands and angry voices that demanded things that Zizka didn’t have a hope of understanding without Thori there to help him along were shoving him and leading him down into the darkness.

He’d managed to keep from bursting into tears as the heavy cell door slammed behind him, but only just barely. The cell had at least been clean. Uncle Nutesh’s dungeon was dirty and filled with large, mean rats that would scurry across his feet when he tried to sleep. Even now, knowing the cell was clean, he still kept his toes curled up so nothing would suddenly run across them.

Time passed, and Zizka was certain it wasn’t as long as he’d felt it was, but then the cell door was opening again. Zizka had peeked up, having long since cried himself into exhaustion, and found one of the metal men coming in, though he wasn’t wearing any metal just then. He’d spoken, but Zizka didn’t have a clue what he wanted until he was reaching down and pulling Zizka up by the arm and dragging him along out of the cell. For a heart-stopping moment, Zizka wondered if they had a dedicated room to torture people in that he was being taken to, but then the man brought him up instead. He’d blinked in the late afternoon sun as he pierced his eyes, wincing and stumbling after the man as he tripped over his chains. 

Up and up they went until finally, at the top of one of the tallest parts of the stone—what? House? Castle? No, Keep.— a door was opened and he was shoved in unceremoniously. He collapsed to his front, having lost the battle with the ankle chains, and the door was slammed behind him as the man left without a word. The room had been empty and after a few careful tugs on the door, Zizka realized this might be his only chance at escape. He found a sharp-looking thingy in one of the drawers of the meticulously clean desk and tried to force open the case that held a pretty dagger in it. 

That was when the silver-haired man had come in. 

He hadn’t thought it through when he attacked the man. He hadn’t even realized it was the man who had been helping to bring Max in until after the fact. That little fact had only kicked his heart into a stampede after he’d stabbed the man in the shoulder. He’d been so certain that the man was going to beat the hells out of him for daring to attack him. At the least give him a good kicking or call in one of the younger metal men to punish him. But he hadn’t. He’d just sat down behind his desk like it was the most normal thing in the world. His reaction had confused Zizka as much as it scared him. 

Clearly, this man was one of Max’s heartmates. Thori was his peer heartmate, Lee-Ahn was his parental heartmate, and this man was most definitely the head of the heartmates. He couldn’t be anything but, considering his age. No man became a wild drakkon’s heartmate and lived to such an age without being the most dominant, dangerous, and ruthless one. 

Zizka had curled up in the corner and had a proper breakdown then, because there was no way he was going to survive in this place now. He’d messed up, just like he always did. But the silver-haired man didn’t drag him into the center of the room by his hair and hurt him, or run him through with his pretty dagger, or even yell. He just… sat there and wrote things on his pieces of parchment. At first, Zizka was certain it was a trick to make him come out of the corner. But Zizka was too smart for such tricks. He’d once hidden in a barrel for over two days back in Uncle Nutesh’s castle. He could wait out this man. 

Then, his damned stomach had begun to growl. 

Oh, he was so hungry. He couldn’t remember when he'd last eaten. Thori had found them all some berries this morning, he recalled, but aside from them, there hadn’t been food for too long. The silver-haired man made it worse by fixing himself a nice little plate of food. Zizka had been hit with longing so hard he’d nearly whimpered. But the man was sneaky, and he knew Zizka was hungry. 

And Zizka was weak. So very weak. Because when the man began to put little bites of food onto his shoulder, he’d eaten it. He’d known it was likely drugged or poisoned, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been too hungry. But the usual wooziness that came with drugged food didn’t sweep over him and when the man offered him an apple, Zizka had taken the chance. He’d kissed the man’s hand in an attempt to appease him, though he didn’t seem particularly angry for a man who had just been stabbed. Zizka had come out of the corner when the man had offered him the plate of food, having learned from experience that he shouldn’t ever turn down perfectly good food. 

He never knew when he might get more again. 

He’d said thank you to the man, because the medicine keeper that had lived in Uncle Nutesh’s castle that used to let him hide in his room had taught him to say so if someone were kind to him. When he’d heard the kindly ‘you’re welcome’ returned in the Bikra language of Benash, he’d been so shocked his jaw had dropped open and he’d openly stared at the man for a moment. He sat there, a grape in one hand and a bit of dried meat in the other, and blinked.

“Y-You speak Benash,” he asked in the Bikra language. He was fluent, but it wasn’t his first language. But the fact that anyone in this place spoke it was a shock. 

The silver-haired man lifted his hand up and gave it a little waggle. “Eh. Little bit. I named Baptiste Videric. You named Zizka, yes?”

Zizka nodded, feeling silly. Of course any man who was the master of a drakkon’s heartmates was incredibly intelligent and knowledgeable. It shouldn’t have surprised him so much and he suddenly worried he might anger the man by seeming so shocked. He schooled his facial expression to a neutral one just in case. He squirmed nervously, clinging to the plate in his lap as the man looked him over carefully. 

“Yes, Master Baptiste. I am Zizka.”

The man nodded as if pleased to hear the confirmation. It was strange. Zizka wasn’t used to people approving of anything he did. 

“You help Max and Thori get lost from Bikra?”

Zizka nodded, feeling the fuzzy, floaty sensation of Max sleeping somewhere down below in the back of his mind. 

“You have my kindness,” Baptiste said, and Zizka figured he meant his thanks but didn’t dare correct the man.

“What I want know, why you help Max and Thori?”

Zizka was fairly certain that saying, ‘Well, I created a mental bond with your drakkon, who I am almost certain you don’t even know is a drakkon, by accident so I kind of had to’ wouldn’t go over well, so he sat there for a moment and panicked. 

“I… I wanted to escape from my uncle and I thought they might give me sanctuary if I helped them.”

There. A perfectly reasonable response for why he might save a wild drakkon and his devilishly handsome one-eyed friend. 

Baptiste seemed puzzled. 

“Sanctuary? What that word?”

“Um… I wanted their help. Safety. Protection.”

“Ah! You wanting freedom?”

Zizka nodded, even though he knew he’d never have freedom in this place. As far as these people were concerned, he was Bikra through and through. The man might think the word sanctuary and freedom were one and the same, and they were pronounced very similarly, but Zizka knew better. Baptiste chuckled.

“Freedom not easy to give when you attack me…”

Zizka bowed his head, sensing he was entering dangerous territory despite the man’s gentle tone. 

“Please have mercy on me, sir. I- I was not thinking. I was afraid.”

“What you thinking we do to you, boy?”

“I… Are you not going to interrogate me?”

Baptiste had a funny look that told Zizka he didn’t know what the word ‘interrogate’ meant. Zizka fought to find a way to word things in a manner the older man would understand. 

“You’re… going to ask me questions? About my uncle? My magic?”

Baptiste seemed to understand, then. He leaned back, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. 

“Ah. You think we hurt you. Cut you and hit you.”

Zizka felt his throat go dry, feeling for all the world like a man in a desert too long without water. He wished he was back home in his arid, desert-like lands instead of here in this wet, cold, scary place with its scary metal men and wild drakkons.

Well, he couldn’t go back home, so he might as well try to make the best of this new place. He nodded.

“We not hurt you. But no more attack.”

Zizka nodded again. But if they weren’t going to interrogate him, then what were they going to do to him. 

“There many people here. What you plan?” 

Zizka shrugged. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to escape from this place. I planned to find a window as high up as I could.”

“Window? For what?”

Zizka met the silver-haired man’s gaze steadily, all the misery and fear he’d felt in the past weeks making him feel exhausted and wrung out. He didn’t care if this man thought him weak or pathetic. He didn’t much care about anything anymore.

“To jump from, Master. I… I didn’t want to die during an interrogation.”

Or in that horrible, dark dungeon. But, he supposed that’s where he was destined to be. Perhaps the handsome Thori might occasionally visit him. One could hope. 

Baptiste went still, as if uncomfortable all of a sudden. 

“You… jump? No. No, boy. You not need do that. Come.”

Zizka shrank back as Baptiste rose and passed him. When he wasn’t hit, he rose slowly, his body stiff and aching from sitting curled up in the corner for so long, and followed the man. They went down and Zizka was reminded that the gods hated him, because about halfway down one of the winding staircases, the chains around his ankles tripped him. He cried out in surprise and threw his hands out instinctively, his hands closing around the first thing they found. 

Baptiste’s jerkin.  

A strong hand wrapped around elbow, steadying him, and Zizka threw himself away from the man as quickly as he could. 

“I’m sorry, Master Baptiste! It was an accident! I didn’t mean to touch you!”

Zizka turned and tucked himself against the wall, offering his back to Baptiste for punishment, but the man only gave his shoulder a gentle pat. 

“It well. Mistake. Come.”

Great, Zizka thought to himself as he painstakingly followed after, careful not to trip again. I went and touched Max’s head heartmate without his permission. He’s going to kill me for sure now.

When they stepped out into the open air field, Zizka swallowed heavily and turned towards the door that he knew led down to the dark dungeon. Baptiste’s hand on his shoulder had him tensing. He was gently steered… away from the dungeon? He wrung his hands nervously, following, until he was brought to the workstation of a blacksmith. The man was massive, sweaty and flushed, and looking decidedly unhappy to be looking down at Zizka. 

Baptiste spoke to the man in his language, gesturing to Zizka’s ankles, and the man gave a quick nod before he reached out and slipped an arm around Zizka’s waist. Zizka gasped, shocked by the sudden weightlessness of his feet leaving the ground. He was firmly seated on a barrel, and his leg was lifted slightly as the man looked over the chain. Zizka squirmed, hoping he wasn’t about to have the shackles tightened. They already rubbed terribly and the skin beneath the shackles was raw and blistered. 

The blacksmith hummed, fetched some tools, and began to work. Zizka watched him, but with the man bent over the way he was, Zizka couldn’t see much of what he was doing. He gasped when a loud clank sounded through the area and he felt cool air on his ankle for the first time in weeks. The second shackle soon joined the first as it was removed, and Zizka brought his leg up to gently rub at his ankle. 

Baptiste let him have a moment to gently massage his ankles before he gestured for Zizka to once again follow. Zizka hopped down from the barrel, skirted around the blacksmith carefully, and once he was out of arms’ reach turned back and offered the man a quick bow in thanks. The man seemed surprised, blinking down at Zizka as if he’d grown a second head, and snorted like a horse before turning back to his work and ignoring Zizka completely. 

Zizka followed Baptiste once more up into the inner part of the big stone house that the metal men all lived in, and once again turned away from the dungeon. Up they went, and for a moment Zizka wondered if they were going back to Baptiste’s desk room, but then he turned and led Zizka up a different winding staircase. Quickly, Zizka realized he was hopelessly lost in this labyrinth of a stone place. They came to a stop in the threshold of a room that Zizka immediately recognized from scent alone. 

A healer’s room. 

Chapter Text

Zizka peeked around as Baptiste called out for someone, taking comfort in the familiar smells of herbs and potions being brewed. Finally, an elderly man came out from some hidden back room and grunted in the direction of Baptiste. He wore his hair shortly cropped, though it was nearly white with age. Zizka tried not to stare, having never seen a white-haired man before. He walked with a heavy limp and bore most of his weight on a gnarled, hip-height staff made of dark wood. It seemed well worn from use. His tunic was neat and clean, and he quickly cleaned his hands in a nearby basin of water. 

Baptiste spoke with the man, who grew agitated after a while. Zizka heard his name a few times and knew the anger was because of him, but he couldn’t imagine why. He supposed the man was being ordered to treat Zizka’s wounds and he didn’t want to. Zizka, for his part, tried to stay quiet and still, not wanting to attract either man’s attention. 

He could try to run, he knew, but it was useless. From the sheer number of metal men running around, he knew he’d never find a window to throw himself out of in time. And if he tried, he’d just be caught and punished. He supposed he might as well hope to be treated first before being returned to the dark dungeon, so he waited to be addressed and stood still. 

Finally, after much protest from the healer man with the staff, Baptiste won the argument. Because of course he would. He was a drakkon’s head heartmate, after all. Zizka straightened as much as his aching back would allow as Baptiste turned back to him. 

“This Jomen. You do what he says.” 

Zizka’s eyes went to the stormy expression on the older man’s face and he swallowed nervously, but nodded. 

Then, Baptiste just… left. 

Zizka blinked as the door shut behind the heartmate and he was left alone with the cranky healer. He jumped and cringed as he heard his name be called, turning to peek over his shoulder. The man spoke and crooked his finger in the ‘to me’ motion, so Zizka did as Baptiste ordered and obeyed. He followed the man as he shuffled into a back room and was surprised to find a large bathing tub, already filled. The man—Jomen, Zizka reminded himself—gestured for Zizka to get in. 

Zizka stripped quickly, uncaring of showing nudity, and not at all looking forward to getting into what was no doubt frigid water. The man took his ragged clothes and pointed to the bath, so Zizka took a deep breath and stepped in. He nearly gasped in shock as he found himself enveloped in hot, soothing water. He bit back a groan of pure bliss, sinking down as Jomen left the room. He could hear the man puttering around in the next room, and only allowed himself a brief moment to luxuriate before he grabbed a wash cloth and began to scrub himself, unsure of how long he would be allowed such a privilege. 

Within ten minutes (undoubtedly some of the best minutes he’d had in months) Jomen returned to find Zizka sitting in murky water, freshly scrubbed and waiting with his arms around his knees for new orders. Jomen snapped his fingers, pointing to the room beyond and holding out a towel to Zizka. Zizka stepped out of the water, wrapped the towel around his waist, and went to the room beyond. A small, squat little stool was in the middle of the room and Jomen indicated it, but when Zizka stooped to pick it up for him, the man let out a sharp ‘Ah, ah!’. Zizka paused, turning with confusion, and the man flapped his hands at him until Zizka finally lowered himself down to sit on the stool. 

Jomen nodded with a pleased hum and gave the top of his head a pat. 

“Gud boye,” Jomen said. 

Zizka squirmed, watching the man move around for a moment, before he turned back to Zizka. In his hand was a pair of hair shears. Zizka recoiled, snatching his hair up and shaking his head furiously.

“No! Please, sir! Please don’t cut my hair! It’s the last bit of my culture I have!” he babbled frantically, making the old man pause with a look of confusion. 

In Zizka’s world, hair was everything. The longer it was, the higher status one boasted. It showed that one was available for courting, or that they were simply wanted. To have his hair cut, even to the length of the half-Bikra man that was Thori’s master, would be devastating to Zizka. The old man seemed to get the gist of what Zizka was saying and put his hands on his hips with a little ‘humph!’. He gestured to Zizka’s hair, speaking back, and mimed cutting it once more. Tears filled Zizka’s eyes at the thought, but he knew he really didn’t get a choice. If this man wanted to cut his hair, then cut it would be. Because he said so, and likely Baptiste did as well. 

Zizka lowered his head, sniffling and feeling so tiny and afraid, and let go of his hair. He couldn’t stop his lower lip from wobbling and the man sighed in a put out fashion. He shuffled closer and Zizka wrapped his arms around himself in a little self comfort hug, staying still for the man. He felt a bit of his hair be lifted and when he didn’t look up, the man brushed the ends of his hair against his nose. The motion startled Zizka into looking up and he found the man holding the very ends of his hair, perhaps a fingertip length from the end, and pointing at it. For a moment, Zizka didn’t understand. The man mimed snipping the shears again and understanding dawned. The man wasn’t going to chop it all off, but simply trim the edges, though based on his look of distaste at the length, he very much wanted to cut it all. 

Not knowing what else to do, Zizka nodded. He could use a trim. The man grunted and began to carefully trim the edges of Zizka’s hair, leaving it long, and Zizka nearly burst into tears from sheer relief as he sat and let the man work. Once he was finished, the man shuffled over to a table and collected two items. One was a comb, which Zizka knew well, but the other was something he wasn’t familiar with. It had a handle and a flat side, and the other side had a big bunch of bristles on it. 

The man returned to his spot behind Zizka and Zizka tensed, waiting for the comb to begin yanking out the tangles he’d accumulated over the weeks. But the pain didn’t come. The man took the bottom half of his hair and began to pull the strange thing through it, and Zizka was shocked by the lack of aggression or even discomfort. For a long few moments, the man simply tended to Zizka’s hair, and soon Zizka was leaning back a bit into the feeling, enjoying the feel of the thing sweeping through his now smooth hair. The man swept the comb through it once it was tangle free, and then coated his hands in a delicious smelling oil that he worked into Zizka’s hair. Once finished, Zizka was shocked to find it more smooth and shiny than he could ever remember it being. 

The man shuffled away and Zizka collected his hair to one side and quickly braided it, the motion nothing more than habit. The man raised his eyebrow at Zizka, but then offered Zizka a leather tie for the end of his braid. The next thing he offered was a set of clothes that Zizka didn’t really like, but didn’t dare refuse. 

Zizka stood, shucking off the towel unashamedly, and took the clothes. 

“Bye th godss, boye!” the man said, holding his hand up to block his vision. “Sthap gitten nekkid and shewin’ mee yur caack!”

Zizka arched an eyebrow, but began to dress. There was a shirt, a pair of pants that looked terribly restricting, and a strange pair of tiny pants that would no doubt do nothing but cover Zizka’s intimate areas. But, the man insisted on him putting them on, so he did. For a moment, Zizka felt terribly exposed. He didn’t like the tiny pants. How was he supposed to work or do anything in them? He’d figured out by now that if Baptiste wasn’t putting him back in the dungeon, then he’d be expecting Zizka to work for his meals. For a terrifying second, Zizka wondered if he would be meant to ‘work’ in a bed servicing the metal men. Or perhaps just this old man. 

But no, the old man flapped the bigger pants at him and made Zizka put them on over the tiny pants. The feeling of multiple layers on his lower half was foreign and Zizka immediately hated it, but he decided it was better than just the tiny pants. He went to put on the loose shirt next, but the man stopped him once more and made him sit again. Zizka was still as the old man tended to his back and shoulders, cleaning the cuts that Uncle Nutesh’s whippy cane had left and applying a stinging ointment that Zizka recognized by smell but had no name for. His upper body was wrapped firmly in a layer of bandages to help keep his back clean before he was finally permitted to dress fully. 

Zizka stood as soon as the man stopped touching him, feeling as though his skin was crawling. He didn’t like to be touched. Touch usually meant pain and thus, it was bad. The man didn’t seem overly bothered by Zizka’s inching away from him as far as he could in the small room. In fact, he seemed pleased not to have Zizka in his space. Zizka watched him warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the man just puttered about before shuffling away and gesturing for Zizka to follow. 

For a single, wild moment, Zizka was alone in the man’s main room. The door was right there. The old man would never be able to catch him if he bolted. 

But the metal men no doubt crawling all over this wretched place would. 

Max most certainly would now that they were bonded, and wasn’t that a terrifying thought in and of itself. So, like the meek, pathetic creature he was, Zizka folded his hands together in front of himself and did as he was told. It was easy, to fall into the mindset of the stupid, silent servant. Comforting, even. He could obey. He would. That’s how he stayed safe. Baptiste had said to do as this Jomen man told him to, so Zizka would be the most well-behaved slave he could be. And he knew that’s exactly what he was in this place now. A slave, only kept alive and fed at the pleasure of his new masters. 

In this role, Zizka was well-accustomed. Uncle Nutesh had beaten it into him early on and with great enthusiasm. 

He followed Jomen to a small back room that was thick with the smell of brewing potions. The man’s personal workspace, clearly. A few bubbling cauldrons over low fires, a worktable that held scattered tools and ingredients (some that Zizka immediately recognized, like the sage that they’d been using for Max’s back, and others that he had no clue of what they might be), a bookshelf crammed with scrolls and books, a chair, and another squat stool that seemed too small to sit on. 

Jomen passed through the room and entered through a door tucked near the back and Zizka followed, not touching anything, and was shocked to find himself in yet another room that seemed to be Jomen’s personal living space. How this strange structure had so many tucked away or hidden rooms was beyond Zizka, and he struggled to keep his face blank as he peeked around. There was a larger table for eating, a comfortable looking chair that was worn with age, another tiny stool (really, how many tiny stools did Jomen need?), a large fireplace, and more bookshelves filled and overflowing with mess. The entire place really did need a good cleaning and organizing, but Zizka didn’t dare let his eyes linger too long on any particular area. He was surprised to find Jomen shuffle over to the fireplace and tug out a pot filled with fresh stew that had been left to simmer over the fire. Zizka’s mouth watered as a bowl was filled up and set on the eating table, and he blinked in shock as Jomen indicated he sit down and eat it. 

“I was already given food by the drakkon’s hea- uh, by Baptiste. I’ve not worked to earn anymore yet, sir,” Zizka said softly, not wanting to be caught being greedy, but Jomen grew agitated and snapped his fingers at Zizka before pointing to the chair and the bowl. Zizka obeyed, because he didn’t want to be hit by the man’s thick wooden thing he walked with, but he still didn’t dare touch the bowl as he took a seat. The smell was heavenly, and he desperately wanted it, but he hadn’t worked yet…

“I’ve not worked yet, sir,” he tried again. Jomen huffed, picked up the spoon, and forced it into Zizka’s hand, snapping at him in an obvious order to eat. Zizka flinched away at the tone and quickly tucked into the meal, deciding not to press his luck. Besides, the food was delicious and it wasn’t hard to stomach at all. Soon, he was scraping the bottom of the bowl and once he was at that point, he lifted it and licked it clean. The man didn’t seem pleased with Zizka for doing so, but he didn’t give Zizka a slap, so Zizka decided it was all right this time. Once finished, Jomen tutted over his messy face irritably (though Zizka was beginning to wonder if the man’s general mood was always one of irritation) and Zizka watched as he wet a cloth. He squawked as his face was caught by the man and efficiently wiped clean as if he were some little child, but once he was finished Jomen held his chin firmly and looked into Zizka’s eyes, tugging at one of his lower eyelids to better see the whites of them. 

“Yew needsleeep,” Jomen said, letting Zizka’s face go and gesturing once more to be followed. Zizka sighed silently and stood to obey. He didn’t know what this ‘needsleeep’ was, but he was tired and only wanted to curl up in a cozy spot for some rest. He wondered briefly what Thori was doing right now. Likely resting in his metal man bed. Zizka knew that’s what Max was doing because he could just barely pick up the background ‘murmuring’ of the drakkon’s mind as he dreamt in his own head. Jomen passed one door that was slightly ajar, and Zizka saw a bed in it. So that was where Jomen rested. He followed past that room to a smaller, more clean one, and was surprised to find this was also a resting room. It didn’t seem lived in, and Jomen smacked at the bed for a moment before he snapped the top blanket in their air to clear it of the thin layer of dust on it. 

When Jomen fixed the blanket, drew it back, and pointed at the bed with the clear expectation that Zizka get into it, Zizka froze and his breath caught in his throat. He took a tiny step back, wringing his hands together with nervousness, wary. He didn’t want to lie down. If he did that, then that meant that Jomen might… 

“Aye woont hert yew,” Jomen said, his old eyes seeming to look both sad and angry at the same time. Zizka fought to keep a whimper down, squeezing his eyes shut and wringing his hands harder. He wanted Thori here to stand in front of him and protect him. Hells, Zizka would even take Max. At least he knew Max wouldn’t make him lie down in a bed and let himself be…

He heard Jomen begin to shuffle his way towards him and this time, Zizka did whimper. He backed away, keeping his eyes shut and felt his aching back bump against the wall, trapping him. He bowed his head, keeping his hands clasped in front of him. He wouldn’t fight it. He couldn’t. If he tried, all that was waiting for him was pain and that terrible, pitch black dungeon. Jomen’s hand was gentle as it settled on the nape of his neck and gave him a gentle tug in the direction of the bed. 

Zizka allowed himself to be brought to the bed and he climbed in without a fight. He was too tired to fight. 

He waited, his body wound as tight as the bark on a tree, for Jomen’s hands to begin wandering. To begin making him earn his meals. To begin making his already battered body hurt all the worse. 

The blanket was tugged up over his shoulders and gently tucked beneath his chin. 

Jomen shuffled out and shut the door behind himself quietly. 

Silence, save for Zizka’s ragged, terrified breathing descended upon the room. Zizka’s eyes snapped open and he peeked over his shoulder. The candles had been blown out and the room was nearly dark. Zizka huddled beneath the blanket, clinging to it like a child as he waited for Jomen to return. He moved once, to turn on his side so that he was facing the door and would be able to at least brace for whatever came through it next, but no one entered. The sun was fully set and the room was dark, lit by the moonlight, when Jomen returned. He only opened the door a crack and peeked in, but Zizka didn’t think Jomen saw his eyes still open. He poked his head in just enough to see that Zizka was still in the bed and then nodded, as if satisfied, before shutting the door again. 

Zizka listened as Jomen shuffled around a bit more before retiring to his own room for rest. It was only then that his body began to loosen up and relax. 

So, he wasn’t to be Jomen’s little bedwarmer. But if not that, then what? Why did Baptiste leave him here with an old man who clearly didn’t want him here. Whose bed was this? Why hadn’t he been sent back to the dungeons to rot? Why was he given extra food and a hot bath without having to work for it? Where was the torture and the evil men laughing at his screams and the horror like Uncle Nutesh always said there would be?

He fell asleep with his tumbling thoughts, curled up tightly on his side beneath the warm blankets covering his head to hide him from the dark.

*****

Jomen didn’t need a damned apprentice. He didn’t need extra help ‘getting around’. He didn’t need some nosy minder who would watch him like he was going to break at the first stiff winter breeze he took to the back. He’d had one damned fall down some stairs and Baptiste was suddenly treating him like an invalid and not the head healer he’d been for over twenty years. He certainly wasn’t being treated like the fully capable knight he’d been for well over sixty years. 

So what if it took him an extra ten minutes to rise from his bed in the morning? He couldn’t help that the damned cold air was making his bad knee stiffen up worse. And so what if he occasionally took a little nap at his desk while writing up his reports? Or forgot those reports on his desk? Or what day they were due to Baptiste by? Or what day it was in general…?

It didn’t matter! Baptiste was just being a prick. At least, that’s what Jomen told himself about his old friend. Baptiste had always been good to him and he knew he owed the man greatly. When His Lordship had suggested replacing Jomen two years back, Baptiste had fought for him vehemently. And Jomen knew that Baptiste had never reported his fall a few months back, nor the three weeks he’d had to take off to recover…

Which meant he owed Baptiste, and Baptiste knew it, the sneaky bastard. So, Jomen had agreed to mind the boy that had come in with Baptiste and ruined his perfectly morning off.

“The boy needs careful minding and he’s… in a delicate state,” Baptiste had said. 

‘Delicate’ Jomen’s arse. He knew what Baptiste was up to. The little Bikra brat, who Baptiste insisted wasn’t actually Bikra but some other horseshit, was clearly just there to watch him for more slip-ups. In Baptiste’s pocket, so to speak.

At least, he’d thought that until he’d seen the boy naked. He was skinny as a reed, with his ribs being heavily visible through thin, sickly toned skin. A few days without food didn’t do that to a boy’s body. No, Jomen knew what a few years of neglect and regular starvation looked like. Then, there were the scars, fresh welts and cuts that Jomen knew hadn’t come from their newest junior knights. Thori was capable of violence when the situation called for it, but he was reserved and there wasn’t a mean-spirited bone in that boy’s entire body. Max was near devout in his hatred for the Bikra, but Jomen personally didn’t think Max had it in him to beat a boy younger than himself. And besides, his own back had been so fucked up, Jomen knew he wouldn’t have been able to do much of anything. It was a miracle the boy had managed to walk unassisted, let alone traipse through the forest at the onset of the winter months. 

Then, there was the way the little Bikra/Not Bikra boy had behaved. Skittish, always watching everything around him while somehow managing to be as still as a corpse, tense as if he were waiting for an attack from some invisible monster. The most emotion he’d shown had been over his ridiculous hair, which Jomen was still surprised with himself for allowing it to stay so long. Long hair was not something he permitted in his tower, for many reasons. It could catch fire over a cauldron, get tangled in tools or plants, and was just plain irritating to deal with. Malachi was bad enough, but at least he tied his back. 

Jomen had expected the boy to try to fight against him, or even just shout, but no. This little Zizka had been as meek as a lamb and had sat like a little angel while Jomen had trimmed his hair and tended to his shoulders. Even when Jomen was certain the salve was stinging, the boy had been perfectly still and not made a sound of protest. An uncomfortable feeling had begun to form deep in Jomen’s belly as the boy had drifted behind him like a ghost. He’d eaten like the starved thing he was, using his hands and tongue more than the damned spoon Jomen had given him, clearly uncaring that the stew was hot. 

Jomen had planned to work the boy a bit, since that’s what Baptiste had said he was there to do, but one look at the dark circles under each eye, the slumped posture, the red eyes that were supposed to be white, Jomen had decided the boy might benefit from and early bedtime. He’d brought the boy to the unused apprentice’s room that was next door to his own and wondered if it was all an act to lull him into a false sense of security so Zizka might murder him in his sleep. 

Then, the boy had finally cracked a bit at the sight of the bed. At first, Jomen had thought the brat was being uppity about the rough sheets and thin mattress. Then, he’d seen the naked, raw terror in those dark eyes and the uncomfortable feeling in Jomen’s stomach had roared into a blazing inferno as he’d realized the boy expected him to…

It had taken every bit of his self-control to not blow up and start screaming. It wasn’t the boy’s fault he was scared. He was in a completely unfamiliar place, with strangers who had put him in a cell for his first few hours here, and the only two people who had bothered to argue for his release were both so exhausted that they were currently dead to the world in their own beds. 

The kid was on his own.

Jomen stayed only long enough to get the kid to lie down before he’d torn through his workroom and back to the bathing rooms in search of the boy’s raggedy, threadbare clothes. He’d checked the seat of the little flowy pants, almost afraid of what he might find, but there was no spotting of blood to indicate that the boy had already been through what he so clearly feared happening to him here. But the fact that one so young even knew to fear such a thing was… disquieting. Just because there was no recent evidence didn’t mean it couldn’t have happened, and Jomen would have to be blind to not notice how incredibly pretty the boy was. He had clear skin (save for those swirling tattoos running up his arm), full lips, eyes that boasted long, fluttery eyelashes, and a trim little waist that was near feminine in nature. If he hadn’t seen the boy naked, he’d have thought he was a girl pretending to be a boy. And badly at that.

Baptiste checked in with him an hour after he’d put the boy to bed, and Jomen had been further shocked to discover that the kid had stabbed him in the shoulder. He had pluck, Jomen would give him that. They talked for a long time, well into the night, and when Baptiste left, Jomen was surprised to realize he felt bad for the little boy who was all alone in the big, scary keep.

When he checked on the kid a little later, he was still and silent, so Jomen assumed he was sleeping hard. After a few weeks in the woods, Jomen was willing to bet that the boy was utterly exhausted. He’d wake him in the morning and give him chores to do to keep him busy. 

He didn’t sleep well that night, lost in worried thought, his mind continually wandering to the silent little visitor next door to him.

When Jomen woke the next morning, it was later than he usually rose, but he figured an extra hour’s rest wouldn’t kill anyone. He groaned his way out of bed, massaged his aching knee, drank a cup of tea to warm his bones, and then shuffled into his front room to prepare breakfast. When that was done and the boy still wasn’t up, he made his way to the healer apprentice’s room and walked in. 

At first, he couldn’t see the boy properly. He was curled up so tightly beneath the blankets that all that was visible was a little lump. Jomen found him by his long braid, which snaked out from beneath the blanket and was the only thing that was visible of him. Jomen followed the braid and when he tugged the blanket away, he found Zizka hugging the pillow tightly, his eyes squeezed shut as he slept. He looked down at the kid for a long moment, thinking of how innocent he seemed. He certainly didn’t look like someone who might stab a man in the shoulder. 

He reached out and gently shook Zizka. 

“Hey. Boy. It’s time for you to wake up. You’ve slept enough.”

Zizka’s lips and nose twitched, but his eyes stayed firmly shut. Jomen sighed, his thoughts shifting briefly to Max as he remembered hearing Leon complain of the boy’s inability to ever get out of bed on time. He gave the brat’s shoulder a bit of a harder shove.

“Boy! Zizka! Get up!” he called. 

Zizka’s eyes snapped open so wide it seemed his eyeballs might just roll straight out of his eyesockets. It was all the warning he got.

“Oof!” Jomen said, jerking back in surprise as the pillow that Zizka had been hugging suddenly turned into a very well-aimed weapon. The pillow caught him clean across the face as Zizka lurched up onto his knees and swung it with every ounce of strength he had. Jomen nearly had another fall, stumbling back and catching himself on the edge of the bookshelf, staring in wide-eyed shock at the boy who was looking back with an almost comical look of surprise. 

Zizka seemed as if he was still half-dreaming, blinking like an owl as he took in the shocked, rumpled form of Galbury Keep’s head healer. Then, his mind seemed to catch up with his body and he dropped the pillow, slipping out of the bed and chattering away a hundred leagues a minute in his language. Jomen watched the boy begin to melt down entirely, startled by the strong reaction. It had only been a damned pillow for the gods’ sake, not a sword. But the way Zizka was looking at him, you’d have thought he’d tried to kill him. 

He chuckled at the strangeness of the moment, making Zizka freeze and stare in confusion. 

“Good aim,” Jomen said before he wandered towards the door. “Come, boy. You’ve work to do.”

He gestured for Zizka to follow and after a moment of silence, he heard the soft footsteps trailing after him cautiously. 

*****

Over the next three days, a… curious pattern developed. And Jomen learned a lot about little Zizka without the boy ever telling him a damned thing. He learned that Zizka hated boiled cabbage, but he’d sit there and force himself to eat every bite while practically gagging the entire time. He learned that Zizka would work until he dropped without a single sound of protest. He learned that Zizka liked to find little holes or tucked away corners to hide in when he wasn’t actively working on a task that Jomen set him to. He learned that Zizka didn’t like to wear boots, and preferred the little strappy sandals he’d come to the keep in. 

He learned that Zizka was a thoughtful, sweet, tender-hearted boy who had absolutely no hope left in the world anymore. And that broke Jomen’s heart in a way he didn’t think he’d ever imagined it could be.

Zizka seemed to expect to be treated badly. Horrifically, in fact. It was as if Zizka had come to the conclusion that he was meant to always suffer and that was just the way of the world. He seemed shocked to be given food regularly, allowed to bathe, or even just be permitted a five minute break. He would scamper away whenever Jomen came his way, like some feral cat that had been kicked too regularly. 

On the first day, Jomen had set Zizka to grinding up ingredients for his potions. He’d expected the boy to come find him when he was finished with his task, but after a few hours had passed, Jomen realized he hadn’t seen or heard from the boy. He’d searched each room of his tower before thinking that the boy had somehow managed to get past him in the main room and made a run for it before he saw the black braid snaking its way beneath the work table he’d left Zizka at. 

Sure enough, he’d found Zizka curled up on his side on the floor beneath the table, sound asleep. After waking the boy and giving him a sound telling off that left Zizka cringing nervously and twisting his braid in his hands, he’d sent the boy back to his bed for a nap that was clearly needed, giving him a firm pop on the bottom with his hand to get him moving.   

That was another thing. Zizka slept like every second was precious and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to sleep again. Jomen would find him curled up under tables, in his bed, beneath his bed, behind the bookshelf, by the fireplace, wherever he could find a spot, Zizka would take a little cat nap right there. But only when he wasn’t working. The boy slaved away harder than actual slaves did if he was given a task. 

Jomen sat in the war room, fidgeting with a quill and glaring at the tabletop as he waited for Baptiste to join him. The door opened a few minutes later, admitting Baptiste, as well as Leon and Malachi. The men exchanged pleasantries as they took their seat. 

“Malachi,” Jomen said. “How’s your leg?”

“Well enough. The swelling went down that first night.”

Jomen nodded, turning to Leon. 

“And Max? He’s still resting?”

Leon seemed exhausted and Jomen had no doubt he spent most of his nights up beside the boy’s bed. 

“He’s still sleeping. He hadn’t woken yet.”

“Aye. Unsurprising. Any man would be exhausted after their ordeal even without being injured.” 

Baptiste cleared his throat. 

“I take it Zizka is settling?” he asked. He shrank back a bit at his oldest friend’s glare. 

“Oh, don’t you start with me, Baptiste.” 

Baptiste’s eyes went wide and he suddenly looked sheepish. Jomen nearly smirked, pleased that he could still shake Baptiste like he did when their esteemed overseer had been nothing more than a junior squire fresh off the boat from his parent’s homeland. 

“I thought you gave me that boy to keep tabs on me, Baptiste,” Jomen said. 

Baptiste sighed. “I’ve told you time and again, Headhealer. I’ve no interest in keeping tabs on you and it won’t kill you to slow down a bit—”

“Ah, ah! Don’t interrupt your elders, Baptiste.”

Malachi snickered from where he sat.

“I said I thought you were keeping tabs on me. I hadn’t realized you’d dropped a damned half wild, mangy, starved cat in my lap! Do you have any idea the sort of hell that boy has put me through in the last three days!?”

“He’s been violent towards you?” Leon demanded, looking thoroughly disgruntled at the thought alone. 

“Of course he hasn’t! That boy is so damned scared of me that he can barely take a shit! It breaks my heart to see one so young act the way he does. What the hells kind of place is he from!? Why is he like he is? Malachi, has Thorimastrus given any insight?”

Malachi seemed uncomfortable and Jomen was certain the man had heard plenty about Zizka from his squire. 

“The captain of the Bikra battalion that we’ve been up against was the boy’s relative. Either his father or his uncle. At least, that’s what Thori thinks he understands. And from what we’ve seen so far, he was pretty fucked up with the way he treated the kid. Thori counted back to him hitting the kid a little over twenty times the entire time they were trapped with the fucker.”

Jomen sighed heavily. 

“And he’s still out there?” 

Malachi shrugged. “We don’t know. The kid helped them escape in the night. Thori said they didn’t see much.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with the boy?”

“You’ve been needing—” Baptiste started, but Jomen cut him a sharp look.

“I don’t need to retire.”

“I was going to say an assistant. He could do the odd jobs in your tower for you. Get on his knees and do the floor washing, tend to your gardens, that sort of thing. He’s got magic in him. Has he used it?”

Jomen thought back to a few hours ago, when he’d peeked into the workroom and found the boy crooning in his language to the half-dead plant that had been sitting on his windowsill for ages, stroking its wilted leaves gently with his fingertips. He was sentimental about it. It had been his late master’s favorite flower, and he’d overwatered it one too many times by mistake. He just couldn’t bear to throw it out. When he’d passed the room a few minutes ago to come to the meeting, Jomen had been shocked to see it standing tall and in perfect health. 

“No. Not that I’ve seen.”

He suspected the boy might be sensitive about others knowing about his magic. Like he was sensitive about everything. 

“Well, I’m certain you can find things to keep him busy. You could perhaps teach him some of your craft?”

“How? The boy barely understands ‘yes’ and ‘no’.”

Malachi hummed thoughtfully, stroking his mustache. 

“A real shame,” the half-Bikra man said conversationally. “The boy can’t be understood and likely isn’t understanding much in return.”

Baptiste narrowed his eyes at Malachi, sensing mischief. Jomen had to give it to the overseer, he could smell horseshit from a mile off. Malachi continued without pause.

“If only we had someone who was good at things like language. Who could remember things without any sort of issue. Who could recall with perfect clarity literally anything he’s ever seen or heard in his entire life…”

As he spoke, he slowly leaned over the arm of his chair towards Baptiste, craning his body to the side until he all but hung off and fell out of the chair entirely. Baptiste glared down at him in silence. Malachi blinked up at him innocently, puckering his lips. 

“But I guess we don’t know any knights, junior or otherwise, that the boy might trust enough that would be able to teach him. Shame…”

Baptiste sighed deeply.

“Would Thori even be willing to do such a thing?”

“Oh, I’m sure he would be if he were asked. He’s taken an interest in the kid. And you know how he is when he gets a new ‘project’. You remember when he tried to create an entire encyclopedia of all the information he could find on dragons? He even got Max pretty interested in that little game.”

“Max won’t want anything to do with that boy, Mal,” Leon cut in. “Bikra or not, the boy’s relative beat him with a- with a whip. He’s lucky Max didn’t leave him behind in the woods.”

“Eh, where Thori goes, Max will follow.”

“Not if it means being near a Bikra. He hates the Bikra.”

“But Zizka isn’t Bikra. He’s Sukha,” Baptiste pointed out.

“I don’t think he’ll much care, Master.”

They bickered for a few more minutes, but eventually (as Jomen suspected), they agreed to ask Thori to spend two hours each morning teaching Zizka their language as well as learn his in return to be able to read any intercepted Bikra letters. 

Of course, Thori agreed, pleased to be of help. Jomen watched the next morning as Zizka entered the main room, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. His hair was a mess, having not yet been braided back, and he was slumped a bit as he walked in. Jomen had learned that he didn’t come into the main room to fill his hungry belly, but to get his work assignment for the day. He never asked for food no matter how loud his stomach growled. He waited to be fed. And then, usually, he took his plate and hid beneath the table while he ate. 

But this time, Thori was there waiting and chatting in his pleasant manner with Jomen. Zizka froze, eyes wide as he looked at Thori, his face going beet red. 

“Zizka!” Thori said kindly. He said something in the Bikra language, his voice halting as he searched for the few words he’d learned while they’d walked back to the keep together. 

Zizka blushed all the harder, nodding and speaking back so softly that Jomen almost didn’t hear him, twisting his long hair with both hands. Thori, somehow, explained that he was there to teach Zizka their language, and after peeking up at Jomen with a tentative sort of ‘May I please?’ expression and gaining Jomen’s ‘permission’, Zizka eagerly sat down with Thori who began to write out the alphabet. 

Jomen huffed and went to find one of the little footstools he preferred to rest his leg on while he wrote his reports, leaving the boys to it. After all, if anyone could teach someone an entirely new language without any sort of translator, it would be Thori. And if it helped his little Zizka understand Jomen better, that was okay by Jomen. 

Jomen then was struck with a strange thought. He wasn’t sure when he’d started thinking of the boy as ‘his’, but it fit too well to deny it. He glared at his parchment. Damn Baptiste and his meddling. He knew Jomen’s soft spot was for those at their lowest. And looking at Zizka, stuttering his way through a basic greeting and blushing all the way down his throat as he tried to look anywhere but Thori’s face, he knew that there weren’t any people lower in this keep than Zizka was now…

Chapter Text

***Two Days Prior***

When Thori woke up in his old squire’s bed, with Malachi a few paces away tucked up close to the wall like he always did when he slept, he nearly wept with relief. He’d gone to sleep the night before afraid that he’d been dreaming and that when he woke he’d still be in that awful forest with Zizka curled against his back and Max’s groaning with pain against his chest. 

It was all his fault. 

The thought had been swirling around in his mind for days. Weeks. Ever since he’d woken up in a cage surrounded by sneering Bikra and realized he’d been duped by nothing more than an armor change. 

His fault that Max was flogged. His fault that the Bikra knew that Max was a dragon. His fault that Zizka didn’t have anywhere to go home to now. His fault his fault hisfault hisfault hisfault!

“Stop it,” Malachi said in the stillness of the morning, making Thori jump. “I can hear you thinking from all the way over here.”

Thori buried his face in his pillow miserably. 

“Sorry, Malachi…”

Malachi rolled over to face him. “How are you feeling, squirt?” 

“Like horseshit,” Thori muttered. 

“I imagine so. But I meant physically. How’s the shoulder?”

Thori rolled his arm, but even with his shirt rubbing against the welt, it wasn’t so bad. Nowhere near as bad as Max’s back must be feeling…

“I said stop it, Thori.”

Thori winced, peeking up miserably as Malachi got up out of his bed and began to dress for the day. For once, Thori was the slugabed, not wanting to rise, get dressed, or bother with facing the day. 

“It’s all my fault that Max got hurt,” Thori whispered the damning confession that he hadn’t been able to force himself to admit to aloud until now. 

Malachi sighed softly and took a seat on the edge of his bed, his hand coming to rest on Thori’s neck. He began to rub gently, and Thori nearly whimpered at the soothing touch.

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true! If it hadn’t been for me being such a damned fool, then Max and I wouldn't have been captured and he wouldn’t have been…”

Tears welled behind his eye, and that awful pressure behind his missing eye that always came when he cried reared its ugly head. Soon, he lost the battle with his own emotions, and he turned his face fully into the pillow to sob his misery and shame out. Malachi, the gods bless him, didn’t mock Thori for his tears. He just sat there, rubbing Thori’s neck and shushing him softly. 

A few minutes had passed before Thori finally got control of himself once more, and when he finally fell silent Malachi tugged him to a seated position on the bed, wrapping a warm arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. A chaste kiss was pressed to his temple and a handkerchief was offered, which Thori took with a sniffle. As he wiped his face clean, Malachi began to speak.

“When I was about nineteen, maybe twenty I don’t exactly remember, I went into battle for the first time. It was a bad one. I nearly didn’t survive. Got hit by two arrows. One in the thigh and one in the hip. I couldn’t walk right for nearly half a year. But you know what the worst part was?”

Thori peeked up at him questioningly. 

“The worst part was that I didn’t listen to the overseer I was under at the time. He told me to stay with my group, but I went ahead and two knights died when they followed after me to help me get away. Two men lost their lives because of me. I was so ashamed of myself that I threw up nearly every night for a week. No one but me and them knew what happened, and they were dead so it wasn’t like they were telling on me.”

“What did you do?” Thori asked softly.

“I didn’t tell anyone. If the overseer found out, he’d see me stripped of my title and flogged. All I had in the world was my knighthood, so I hid it and never told a soul. And you know what? There’s some days I still feel guilty. Some days I still see their faces in my dreams.”

“How… How do you deal with the guilt?” 

“There’s something you need to understand, kiddo. You’re going to fuck up. It’s bound to happen occasionally. This time, you got lucky. No one died. It took me a long time to understand something really important. No matter what my choices were, those two men made the choice to follow me. Yes, they got killed, but it wasn’t all my fault. They didn’t have to follow. They made that choice and that was that. Max didn’t have to follow you when you stopped. He could have continued on. Yes, your actions influenced events, but Max’s choices were not your sole responsibility. Your job now is to learn from your mistakes and do better in the future. Face up to what happened, understand the role that you played in them, and then let go of your guilt. You were not the one who hurt Max. That Bikra bastard was. You didn’t singlehandedly get yourselves captured. You were set up and they would have caught you whether you two stopped or not. Yes, you made a mistake, but you can learn and grow from it. Do you understand me?”

Thori listened in silence, his head bowed, but after a moment he nodded slowly. 

“I just… I just feel so horrid. I know Max didn’t have to follow me, but…”

“But you knew he would. And that’s a choice that both you and he made. And for as bad as it was, I bet you both learned a lesson. You learned it the hard way, but I doubt you’ll be ignoring orders again, will you?”

Immediately, Thori shook his head no. 

“Good boy. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give me a proper report about what happened to you and Max. You’re going to explain it all to me about how this Zizka kid got tangled up with you and—”

Thori gasped, jumping up from his bed so fast he nearly headbutted Malachi in the chin.

“By the gods, Zizka! Oh, that poor thing! I left him alone! Where is he!? I have to go find Baptiste and—”

Malachi caught him by the arm. “Sit down. Relax. The kid is fine. Baptiste took care of it.”

Thori’s lower lip wobbled dangerously as he looked down at Malachi. “Is he being kept in the dungeon? I think he’s afraid of the dark. Every time night fell he’d stay right beside the fire. Oh, Malachi, I can’t just leave him—” 

“He’s with Jomen. He’s fine. Now sit down. I’m not asking you again.”

Thori sank back down onto the bed, picking at the hem of his undershorts. 

“As I was saying, you’re going to tell me everything and then I’m going to write up a report to old Baps. And we’re— look at me, boy— we’re not going to say a single thing about you going against orders. We’re going to say that you and Max were ambushed on the way back to the keep and that’s that. I won’t have you being noted for disobeying a direct order so early into your knighthood. That kind of record will follow you all your days. Understand me?”

“But… but I can’t just lie to Overseer Baptiste, Malachi. I… I don’t deserve to just be let off the hook!”

“Who said anything about that?” 

Thori peeked up and found Malachi’s face full of grim resolve. He swallowed nervously. 

“We’re going to write up a report and I’m going to walk it up to his office. While I do that, you’re going to plant your nose in that corner by the window and you’re going to work on letting go of this guilt you’re trying to hang on to.”

Thori blinked in surprise as Malachi took a deep breath, seeming to steel himself.

“And when I get back, I’m going to paddle your butt so badly that you aren’t going to sit easily for the next week.”

Thori was thankful he was sitting, because his knees suddenly felt weak. Unfortunately, Malachi wasn’t finished. 

“And because I know how hard this guilt is for you right now, I’m also going to be taking you over my knee every night before bed until Max wakes up.”

Thori’s eye went wide. 

“Malachi! No! You- you can’t—”

“Oh, I most certainly can. I know you. You’re going to stew in your head for weeks over this if I don’t help you get it out of your system. So yes, young man, you’re getting spanked every night until Max wakes up. And when he does wake up, because he will, you’re going to let go of your guilt and consider it a lesson learned. Is that clear?”

Thori whimpered, thinking about going to bed with an aching arse every night for however long it took Max to wake, and then slowly nodded. 

Because damn him but Malachi knew Thori too well. He knew Thori wouldn’t feel properly punished with just a single arse tanning. Not with Max laid up in bed unconscious as he recovered. Because of his choices. 

“Yes, sir,” he whispered softly. 

“Good. Now, let’s go over your report. Tell me what happened after you and Max left Leon and I behind.”

Thori sucked in a deep breath and began to speak, telling Malachi the version of events that he and Max had come up with while walking back to the keep over the last few days. They were captured, forced to walk (not placed in a cage, because they’d agreed that the presence of the cage would raise too many uncomfortable questions) towards the sea, Max was flogged for mouthing off, Zizka helped them escape (true, but they left out the part about him poisoning their guard), and together they returned home thanks to Max’s advanced abilities in tracking and outdoor survival skills. 

No mention of dragons or flash-frying Captain Nutesh. Malachi questioned him more in depth about Zizka, but Thori honestly didn’t have much to give his master. He barely understood Zizka’s language, and the boy was so nervous and withdrawn thanks to Max’s aggression towards him, what Thori had managed to squeeze out of him was basic and unhelpful overall. 

Thori asked Malachi what had happened in their absence and Malachi confessed that he and Leon had been searching for them in the forest for days. As he said this, he seemed to grimace and squirm where he sat uncomfortably, but otherwise, he was fairly tight-lipped about the entire thing. Thori was told the knights of the keep were all eager to welcome their youngest knights back and all gave their best wishes and love while they recovered. 

Thori ate a simple meal as Malachi sat at his desk with a groan and wrote out the report, minus the direct disobedience on Thori’s part. When he was finished, Thori quietly set his empty plate to the side and placed himself in the corner without a word, knowing it was expected. He heard Malachi’s grunt of approval at his behavior, and soon the room was empty as he left to deliver the report. 

Thori rubbed his nose miserably, hating that he’d found himself in such a position once more. Not days before his capture he’d been spanked for disobeying an order, and now he was really going to get it. The familiar flipping feeling deep in his stomach made him regret eating, but he knew Malachi would be angry if he refused to eat after being without proper meals for so long. He let his forehead thunk lightly against the wall, thinking about how all of this trouble might be avoided had he just obeyed. Max was the one who went off the handle and didn’t listen to his superiors, not Thori! And yet, here he was…

He huffed softly, thinking about what was to come, not just in the next half hour, but every night for the foreseeable future until Max woke…

He jumped when Malachi came back into the room. Sweat trailed down the small of his back beneath his night shirt and he felt utterly ridiculous standing in the corner like a naughty child in nothing but his undershorts. Malachi, as always when it came to discipline, didn’t leave him waiting for long now that he’d given Thori time to stew in his misery properly. 

“Thori. To me.”

Thori winced, then took a deep breath and came out of the corner. It was a spanking, not a flogging (which he knew he deserved no matter what anyone said), and he was a junior knight. He would take what he had coming and learn from it as Malachi suggested. 

He was startled, however, when Malachi indicated he stop before coming across the room to him. 

“I want you to go bring me your hairbrush, Thori,” Malachi said, and Thori felt as if his stomach had bottomed out. 

He froze, instantly feeling like a little boy once more. Certainly not like the junior knight who was taller than his master by nearly half a hand’s width. 

“I- I- You want—”

“Your hairbrush, Thori. I told you I was going to paddle your arse and I meant it.”

“But… But you’ve never used… a thing before!”

“I know. But I promised you a paddled arse that I won’t be able to give you with the flat of my hand alone. Now go.”

“But—”

Malachi stood so fast that Thori could barely track him, and in a second he was thrust forward and pushed off balance. He caught himself from collapsing onto his face into the bed— barely— and held himself up on shaking arms. Then, high-pitched, not at all manly yelps were bursting from his mouth against his will as Malachi caught him by the hip and began a rapid-fire assault against the seat of his undershorts. His right foot popped up and he squirmed, trying to wriggle away from Malachi, but Malachi wrapped his arm fully around Thori’s thin waist and Thori realized Malachi was properly angry. 

“I’m well aware, Thorimastrus, that I’ve never used a ‘thing’ on you before,” Malachi snapped over his shouting squire. His hand was a blur, catching Thori all over his backside, though his hand mostly fell on the fleshiest part of Thori’s rear end with terrible accuracy. “Don’t tell me things I already know! I know you are a junior knight! I know that you are upset! But when I tell you to do something, you. Are. To. Obey. Me!”

“Ow! Oh- Okay, Malachi! I’m sorry! I’ll obey!” Thori wailed. 

“The entire reason I’m having to do this is because you wouldn’t obey me the first time and you still think it’s a good idea to not do as you’re told the first time around?” Malachi demanded, his hand dropped lower, swatting at Thori’s thighs with terrible force. Thori twisted in his grip, but Malachi held him firmly and didn’t let up for a second. 

“Ah! Malachi- Puh- Please!” 

He got three almighty wallops right in the center of his butt before Malachi finally let him go. Thori all but leapt up, clutching his stinging backside and hissing through his teeth, feeling tears sting his eyes. When he turned, Malachi’s gaze was hard in a way Thori hadn’t ever seen it be before. He pointed towards their bathing room. 

“Go get your brush. Don’t talk, don’t dally, don’t even think. You do as you’re told right this instant, Thorimastrus, or so help me I’ll go ask Baptiste for his paddle. Move!”

Thori hopped to it, still clutching his bottom and biting his lower lip to keep it from wobbling. In the privacy of the bathing room, he gave his bottom a quick, thorough rub, knowing this would be his last chance, then picked up his hairbrush and slipped back into the room where Malachi was waiting. 

He held it out stiffly, and jumped as Malachi snatched it from his hand. 

“Bend over,” was all Malachi said, pointing firmly at his left knee. Thori swallowed nervously and all but dove over Malachi’s knee, not missing the fact that Malachi wasn’t giving him his choice in which knee he went over. Usually, Malachi took him over his right knee, so that Thori could turn and meet his eye. But with Thori going over his left knee, not only was Thori unable to turn and see Malachi due to his blind side being closest to Malachi, but Malachi was also right handed…

As soon as he was bent over, Malachi took him by the waistband of his undershorts and swept them down to his knees. A warning tap with the brush was all he got before Malachi lifted it and cracked it down hard against Thori’s right sit spot. Thori jumped in surprise at the bright blossom of pain, yelping loudly. He didn’t even have a chance to catch his breath before the next blow came, this time on his other cheek, before Malachi wrapped an arm around his waist and set to work stoking a fire in Thori’s backside like he never had before in his life. 

From there, Malachi didn’t say a word. He didn’t usually when he spanked, but this time was different. Immediately, Thori was squirming and kicking desperately, fighting hard to wiggle his rear end out of firing range. 

Thori wasn’t any stranger to being spanked with an implement. Sir Garrett had been quite fond of the brush for dealing with general naughtiness when Thori had been younger, and considering how often Max had dragged him into trouble in their youth, he’d been well accustomed to feeling the sting of a brush. Even his last time of meeting an implement, the spoon that Ben had used when he’d been younger that was hidden in the bottom of his clothes chest, hadn’t been anything like this. 

For once, Malachi didn’t stick to one spot, which Thori was both thankful for and hated. Malachi didn’t spare a single inch of his bottom, and after he’d lit into Thori for about a minute, he paused only long enough to throw his leg over Thori’s before going right back to work once more. He spanked from the top of Thori’s backside all the way down to the middle of Thori’s thighs, and Thori gave up any and all pretenses of dignity in favor of throwing his head back and letting out a long, loud howl towards the ceiling. 

“Ahhh! Mala- Malachi! Ow! Owowowowwww! Please, no! Not- Not there! Mala-ha-chiiii!” Thori cried, throwing his hand back to try and block Malachi’s aim, but his master knew him well and caught his wrist without missing a beat. 

“This could have been avoided, Thori. How you were listening to me just now? That’s how I expect you to behave when you’re in a combat situation.”

Thori bellowed, kicking his feet desperately, but Malachi had too good of a hold on him for him to do much more than stamp his toes against the floor. 

“In any situation, really. But especially in a combat situation.” 

“Yes! Yes, sir! Ow, oh, Malachi! Ple-hee-easeee!” Thori cried, giving up the fight and burying his face in his blankets to sob his heart out. He scrubbed his face back and forth, trying to cool his face down, and his eyepatch slipped off of his face and fell to the bed. 

Malachi gave his backside, which by now throbbed so horribly that he was certain it had to be scarlet in color, another pass with the brush. 

“Tell me you’re never going to disobey an order like that again, Thori,” Malachi ordered. 

Thori nodded, whimpering. “Yes, sir! I’ll never disobey again!”

“You said that the last time I spanked you and yet…”

Thori shook his head. “No, sir! I’ll obey! I promise!”

He was begging, and he knew it was shameful, but he couldn’t help himself. Malachi wasn’t holding back one bit and no matter how hard he thrashed and squirmed, he couldn’t escape his master’s wrath. 

“You’d better obey me, Thorimastrus, or so help me I’m getting Baptiste’s paddle. You hear me, boy!?” 

“Yes, sir! Yes, sir!” 

Malachi gave him ten final resounding smacks to the very center of his bottom before he finally stopped. Throi went limp over his knee, sobbing hard into the blankets, and let go entirely. Malachi moved beneath him, and then he felt his master’s hand gently stroke up and down the length of his spine. Thori babbled apologies, feeling his back jump up and down with each ragged breath he took, but as the minutes began to drift by, he began to calm. His backside was a positive inferno, and he was certain he wouldn’t sit easily for at least a few days. Soon, Malachi tugged his undershort back up, and Thori whimpered as they scraped against his bottom. 

“Sit up, squirt. Come here and let me hold you.”

Thori coughed, rubbing his nose against his blanket. He reached a trembling hand out, searching for his eyepatch. Malachi was tugging at his shoulders, trying to help him up. 

“I- My eyepatch, sir,” Thori whimpered, still blindly feeling for it. 

“Hush. Stop worrying about it. I’ve seen you without your eyepatch before. Come here and let me hold you, squirt. I need a hug just as much as you do.”

Malachi maneuvered him up, and Thori was surprised when he was not settled to sit beside Malachi like usual, but plopped right into the older man’s lap. Thori didn’t complain, because the natural space that Thori’s bottom dipped into between Malachi’s legs meant his blazing hot behind wasn’t touching anything, so he settled in to finish his cry and have a nice cuddle. He pressed his missing eye socket against Malachi’s chest, hiding it away, and clung onto his master.

Malachi smelled like soap, road travel, and mint. Just like he always did. The familiar scent soothed Thori more than anything, and he snuggled in hard, having missed being near his master. For all of his rough and tumble nature, Malachi felt like home and Thori felt like no matter the problem, so long as Malachi was there, everything would be all right in the end. 

“I’m sorry, Malachi,” Thori whispered.

He got a kiss on the side of his head.

“I know you are, squirt. Just… please don’t make me do this again. It breaks my heart to make you cry.”

Thori burrowed his face down into Malachi’s chest. 

“Yes, sir,” he whispered. 

They sat together, Malachi rocking Thori back and forth slowly and Thori curled up in his undershorts in Malachi’s lap, for a long while. When Thori was finally calm, he was released and told to go wash up. He did so, and from there he was released to go tend to his daily duties. After he’d left and Malachi was certain he was well away from their hall, he went to Leon’s room. Leon opened quickly at his knock, looking haggard and exhausted. Malachi could see Max sleeping peacefully on his front, bandaged up. 

Leon took one look at him, cast a nervous glance over his shoulder at his sleeping squire, and then slid out of the room and shut the door behind himself. He led Malachi by the arm back to his own room, shut the door behind them, and then pinned Malachi with a knowing look. Malachi broke in an instant. 

Leon wrapped his arms around his best friend as Malachi sobbed so hard he threw himself into a coughing fit. He rubbed his hand up and down Malachi’s back, holding him tight so he could break down fully without fear of falling. 

“I- I didn’t wanna do that, Lee!” Malachi wailed into his friend’s shoulder. 

“Shh, I know, buddy. I know.”

“He was crying so hard! I- I thought he- I don’t know!”

“Hush, Mal. He deserved it and he knows you love him.”

“But I- What if I’m like—”

Leon squeezed him hard. “No. You are not like your master was. You disciplined your squire after he repeatedly disobeyed you. It’s okay.”

Malachi cried even harder, letting Leon’s words wash over him, and let his friend hold him until he felt like he wasn’t going to fly apart at the seams over the smallest gust of wind. 

Chapter Text

Baptiste watched as Leon picked at his meal, his eyes darting repeatedly towards the doors of the dining hall entrance. He leaned over and murmured in Leon’s ear.

“He’s fine, lad. You need to eat and then you can go back to him.”

Leon blushed a bit, looking startled that he’d been noticed picking at his food like a squire. 

“I know, sir. I’m just… He’s still not woken up. It’s been nearly three days.”

Baptiste glanced out across the room, noting Thori squirming nervously in his seat as he ate, casting Malachi pitiful little glances that were completely ignored. 

Baptiste nearly snorted. 

Well, that explained which of the boys it had been that had disobeyed orders. Baptiste was surprised to see Malachi so calm. He knew how much the fellow hated to punish his squire, but Baptiste would swear that young Thorimastrus had winced when he took his seat every morning at breakfast since he’d returned. 

Baptiste wanted to speak to Malachi about it, but having plausible deniability was probably better for Thori at the moment, he supposed. 

He suffered through watching Leon pick at his meal for another ten minutes before he finally told the man to return to his room to watch over Max as he slept. Leon was up and out of his seat almost before Baptiste had finished speaking to him, sweeping out of the dining hall to return to Max’s bedside. Baptiste sighed, feeling exhausted, and left not even two minutes after Leon had. 

He went to his room and as soon as the door shut behind him. He collapsed down onto his bed, groaning. He was so tired. He was worried for poor Max, trying to figure out how to ease Malachi’s upset without letting them know he knew about Thori’s disobedience, deal with Jomen and this new boy that was so clearly traumatized… 

Sometimes, Baptiste really hated being the overseer. 

He shut his eyes, thinking he’d just rest for a moment. 

Banging at his door had him jerking upright, gasping. The banging continued, and Baptiste could hear Leon’s frantic voice through the door calling for him. He got up and opened the door and Leon grabbed him by the shoulders, face stricken.

“Master! It’s Max!”

Baptiste felt dread churn in his bowels and he sprinted down the stairs with Leon. He threw the door open to Leon’s room and went in. The room was spick and span, like it always was, with the window open to cool the area while the fire roared in the little potbelly stove in the corner. The problem was obvious immediately. The blankets and sheets on Max’s bed were a mess. 

And Max… Max was gone.

Chapter Text

Max’s eyes snapped open before narrowing in a pained squint as bright, happy morning sunlight attacked his poor pupils. He groaned, rolling to his side on the straw-filled mattress he was lying on, and lifted a shaking hand to his face to rub. Once he felt somewhat human again, he forced himself to open his eyes back up fully, trying to remember, well, anything about what had happened to him. 

Grunting, he sat up, wincing as his tight muscles protested. 

What in the hells happened to me? he wondered.

He stood, his legs shaky, and stumbled towards the small mirror that was over the wash basin. He looked at his reflection and nearly shouted in surprise. 

The face looking back at him was his face, but it was… wrong. He lifted his hands up and ran them through his hair. It was still brown, but with bits of lighter brown, nearly blond, streaks running through it. It was long, too. Much longer than he preferred to let it get. Thori kept his hair down to nearly his shoulders and then swept it back, but Max hated for his hair to stick to the back of his neck or get in his eyes. Leon always helped him keep it short and it was constantly sticking up in weird angles. His hair right now, though, was tousled and long, falling into his eyes and framing his face. 

His skin was darker, too, as if he’d spent every day in the sun, all day, since he’d been a boy. His hands were still calloused, but in the wrong places. A small scar was on his upper lip that hadn’t been there before and his teeth ached as if he’d been gnawing at something all night. Grinding his teeth, he supposed. Leon said he sometimes did that in his sleep.

He was thinner, as well. Almost sickly seeming. Max knew he was a decent enough looking lad. He wasn’t vain, but he knew the ladies in town talked about his strong jawline and big muscles. He’d give them a smirk and a little wink to set them into giggles, but he’d never thought about it too much before. Now, his chin was sharp and angular, and when he stepped back to better see his bare torso, he could see that while he did have some muscle definition, it wasn’t anything like he had spent years developing with swordwork and exercise. 

His ribs were clearly visible beneath his skin. Just like Zizka’s were. 

He turned, checked his back, and was shocked to see that the marks from the lashing Nutesh had given him were gone! His brow furrowed, and he wondered if he’d managed to shift sometime recently. And if so, how did he not remember it? 

He turned, looking around the room. It felt… familiar to him. But not, at the same time. A shirt was draped over the back of a chair and he picked it up, giving it a sniff. Only his scent was on it, so he slipped it on. 

A clatter sounded outside of the door made Max jump and he crept towards the door carefully. He didn’t see his sword or anything nearby, but, well, he could overpower anyone he needed to with his talons alone.

He crept out of the room, easing the door open carefully, and it opened into a once again familiar room. It was a simple peasant’s house, that much was clear. A woman was at the wash tub, her back to him, scrubbing a dish. He slipped into the room, preparing to call out to the woman and ask her where in the hells he was and where Thori, Leon, and Malachi were. 

Then, she turned his way. 

The breath escaped him in a quick woosh, and he felt tears spring to his eyes as he met green, kind eyes.

“Oh! Good morning, Max darling. I didn’t hear you get up. Did you want some breakfast?” she asked.

Max took a step back, shaking. 

“Ma…”

She was beautiful. Max had never seen a woman so beautiful in his life. Her hair was a few shades darker than his own, pulled up into a bun with a few strands escaping. Her eyes were soft, just like Max remembered them always being, and her full lips pulled up into a soft smile as Max stumbled his way towards her. 

“Max? What’s wrong, darl- Oh!”

Max wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her against his chest, burying his face in her neck, breathing in her scent. Her arms wrapped around his waist with practiced ease, and her soft, gentle hand stroked up and down the length of his back.

“Max? What’s the matter, dear? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Ma…” Max whispered into his mother’s neck. “Ma… How are you… here?”

“How am I… here? I don’t understand, Maxxy. I’ve been here since I got up out of bed. What’s going on with you?”

Max squeezed her even harder, feeling her warmth, her soft skin, smelling her freshly washed hair and the scent of boiled oats wafting throughout the main room of the little house.

His house. 

It hit Max like a galloping horse. The room he’d woken up in had been his when he’d still been a boy. This house was the house he’d grown up in with his ma and pa. Before the Bikra had come and… Before he’d wandered in the woods for days. Before he’d met Leon and been taken to Galbury. 

Before… everything.

Max pulled away, meeting his mother’s eyes. 

“Ma, I don’t know what to say. I- I don’t know how you’re here. Or how I’m here. I- I- Oh, Ma, I’ve missed you so much. I never thought I’d get a chance to see you again.”

“What are you talking about, Maxxy? We saw one another last night.”

Tears slipped down Max’s face, hot and heavy, and he buried his face in his mother’s shoulder. 

“Mama…”

“Max? You’re frightening me, darling. What’s—”

The door swung open and early morning sunlight filled the room. “About time you got up out of that bed, boy! What are you— Max? Sarra? What’s wrong?”

Max turned and let out a broken sob at the sight of the man in the doorway. Broad shouldered and tall, Kit Gallagher was just as sturdy and stern as Max remembered him being. His beard and mustache was thick, and he squinted at the sight before him, the bucket of water he’d likely been fetching from the well a few paces away from their woodshed still in his hand. 

Max ran to him, nearly knocking him down as he flung himself into his pa’s arms.

“Pa! You- You’re here! You’re both here! Oh, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you both!” 

Max’s father wrapped his arms around him as he made a confused noise, but he didn’t hesitate to give Max a tight squeeze, asking him questions. Max couldn’t answer them, though. He was too busy crying into his pa’s shirtfront. 

He couldn’t stop, and his parents fell silent after a while, holding him and letting him cry. Max was afraid to open his eyes.

He was afraid it was all just a dream. 

Max worked the field in silence beside his pa. His parents hadn’t disappeared as soon as he’d opened his eyes, and then there had been a very awkward moment where he had stood there between them, both of them looking at him worriedly, and him unable to explain himself. Because who would believe him if he said they died when he’d been seven years old and he’d been raised by a knight and somehow he was now back with them after collapsing into said knight’s arms while suffering from a whipped back and what was likely a high fever?

So, he’d had to stutter his way through a lie about a nightmare and then he’d all but sprinted out of the house to escape their questions. 

Kit had joined him after a few minutes of staying in the house with his wife, and after a raised eyebrow and a quick check that Max was well, he shrugged and tossed Max a heavy hoe. 

“Can you finish up with that field while I get started on this next one, son?” he asked, and Max nodded despite having never worked a field like this in his life. 

The work was good, though. Max needed something mindless and physical to help himself focus. Normally, he’d spar with Thori or Leon, or even run the training course around the lower bailey, but this worked well enough. He’d tried to causally scope out the little ridges and holes his pa had dug already without looking like someone who’d never done this sort of thing before. He’d gotten a few strange looks, so he suspected he wasn’t very good at hiding his inexperience, but Kit didn’t say anything or stop him, so it couldn’t have been too bad. 

Max slammed the end of the hoe into the ground, trying to sort out his thoughts. What did he know? That was the first thing Leon had taught him if he’d ever found himself lost or separated. Take stock of the situation. 

One, he had no idea where any of the other knights were. At this point in time, he had to consider himself to be on his own. 

Two, he was no longer injured. So, either he’d somehow managed to shift and heal fully like he was supposed to do but had been unable to do thanks to Nutesh’s stupid, evil potion coated whip, or he’d healed in some new way that he had no idea how it worked. But there were no wounds and he didn’t really hurt anymore, so that was nice. 

Three… He glanced towards Kit, who was grunting as he worked the field to Max’s right, sweat dripping down his brow. Max swallowed nervously, trying not to stare but unable to help himself. 

Three, his ma and pa were somehow, miraculously, alive again. 

They worked late into the evening, and despite the callouses on Max’s palms and fingers (in the wrong spots), his hands ached fiercely by the time Sarra called them in for supper and Max was no closer to figuring out what was going on.

He’d come to a single conclusion while he’d worked beside what he’d thought for the last eight years to be a dead man. He had to find Leon. Baptiste, as well, because Baptiste knew how to fix everything, but especially Leon. Which meant he needed to get to Galbury. 

He followed Kit as they returned their tools to the little woodshed behind their house, and his pa gave his shoulder a friendly clap as they walked.

“Feeling a bit better, son?” he asked, looking Max over carefully. His big, bushy eyebrows were perpetually furrowed. Max had used to think the man so stern and unmoving, but having spent so long as a squire with militaristic men, he’d had his perception adjusted a bit. 

“Aye, sir,” he said softly, still lost in thought and trying to not freak out over the hand on his shoulder. (Dead hand, right?)

Kit gave him a funny look, but dropped the matter as they entered their house. Max felt an odd, disconcerting feeling sweep over him as he thought of the place as his parent’s house and not his home. But his home wasn’t here and hadn’t been here for a very long time. His home was nestled against the mountainside just north of Krasna, in the second tallest tower, on the top floor. It had two beds, a potbelly stove, a writing desk, and two chests for clothes and personal belongings. It had a drawing of Max in his other form pinned to the wall. A window with a broken latch. 

A fair-haired knight who polished his sword every night and told Max stories about adventures of his youth with the brave and loyal Malachi Talbot…

“There my two knights are!” Sarra called, filling three bowls to the brim with a delicious stew. Max froze, eyes wide. Knights? Did she know? 

Kit sidestepped to avoid running into Max’s back, giving him a gentle push out of the way, and went to his wife. 

“Aye. Such a pair of ‘knights’ we are, all filthy with dirt and sweat,” he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her neck. She giggled as his mustache tickled her. 

“My men are as strong as any knight is. Now wash up for supper,” she said, flapping a towel at Max’s pa. Kit smirked and gave Sarra a quick swat to the backside, which had her gasping and smacking at his shoulder, casting Max a funny look as though she expected him to protest the sight of them teasing one another. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, as Max felt his heart swell at the scene. It was rare, to find love so strong. Max hoped that one day he might find something similar. 

He washed his hands and forearms at the little washtub beside his pa in silence, thoughts racing, and before he knew it he was seated at the table.They supped, and while it was delicious, Max found the pot empty and his stomach still grumbling.

“That was delicious, Ma,” he said, trying to remember the manners that Leon had spent years beating into his thick skull (and his backside, from time to time). “Thank you for making it for us.”

She turned, as if surprised by his saying so, and beamed at him with such joy Max couldn’t help but smile back. 

He helped her to wash up the bowls after they’d finished, and again she seemed pleasantly surprised. He wanted to scoff. Leon would have Max over his knee in a second if he’d been anything less than perfectly behaved in the presence of a lady, especially one who had made him a meal. He’d had his fair share of meals in the homes of the Krasna citizens, or even the peasants that lived on the outskirts. Baptiste believed in serving their community, and he often sent knights who had been in the keep for too long out to assist the locals with projects or general guard work in the city. 

Soon enough, his parents (his parents his parents hisparentsparentsparents) each bid him good night. His ma came over and kissed him sweetly on the temple, giving his cheek a stroke.

“Good night, darling. Rest well. No nightmares tonight, aye?”

“Aye, Ma. I’ll try my best.”

Then, his pa swept him up into a tight embrace and gave his a quick kiss as well. 

“Don’t stay up all night, boy. We’ve chores in the morning.”

“Aye, Pa. I won’t.”

He stayed in the little common room, listening to his parents lie down in the loft above, before slipping off into his room as quietly as he could. Once his pa’s snoring was rattling through the house and Max was certain they were both asleep, he got up and eased the window open. 

He had to go find Leon and Baptiste.

It wasn’t a nice, leisurely flight to Galbury Keep. Max had to push himself hard to get there as quickly as he could. It had been a six and a half day ride on Lacey with Leon when they’d traveled for the first time from Dalhurst to Galbury. It took Max a few hours, but he’d need time to find Leon and Baptiste and explain things to them as well as fly back to his parent’s house. He came down close to the keep and dropped out of his shift, stretching and groaning.

He was on the top of the hill just a ways away from the keep, where he’d been knighted, in the presence of his brothers in shield and those past and at rest. He’d almost gone straight to the keep, preoccupied with the thought of just how he was going to get in. Would the others recognize him? Or was this entire world just as crazy as Max now seemed to be?

He stumbled over one of the headstones, nearly falling on his face, and he cast an annoyed look around the area. 

That was when he realized just how many headstones there were. 

He paused, twisting his head as he took in the headstones. There hadn’t been this many when he’d been knighted mere weeks ago. Surely not. He’d have noticed a thing like that, no matter how nervous he was about the knighting ceremony. He stooped down, reading the name writing on the headstone he’d tripped over, then jerked back with a gasp. 

Sir Arthur. The master of little Geffori, who was new to the keep and a bright young nine-year-old. 

Sir Arthur had been alive the last time Max had been in the keep. What… what had happened?

He began to scan the headstones more carefully, his stomach twisting horribly as he began to recognize more and more names.

Sir Roderick. Sir George. Sir Tristan. Sir Tiffany. Sir Emery. 

Max felt his breathing pace quicken, stumbling through the area, surrounded by the headstones of the men he’d grown up with. Men whose squires he’d trained beside, been raised, beside, helped to guide as he’d grown older. He stumbled away from the newer headstones, feeling a whooping gasp beginning to bubble up in his throat in a way it hadn’t done since he’d been a child.

What had happened here?

He pressed his back against a headstone, cradling his head in his hands, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

Leon and Baptiste. He had to find them. Ask them what had happened. 

He turned, grabbing at the top of the headstone behind himself, trying to drag himself up so that he could go to the front gate and demand to see—

Baptiste Videric. Beloved Overseer, Knight, and Master.

Max’s knees gave out as he read the headstone’s inscription. He clung to the cold stone, a sob ripping free from his throat as tears poured down his face. 

No. Nonononono. Not Baptiste. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. 

He pressed his forehead to the headstone, crying into the dark night. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but the pain he was feeling wouldn’t let him rise. 

He never heard the footsteps coming up the worn path until it was too late.

“Hey! Who are you!?”

Max turned, his eyes stinging and red, his face a teary, snotty mess, and looked up into the tired, worn eyes of his master. In one of Leon’s hands was a single flower. His other hand, all the way up to his elbow, was missing.