Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Fishmonger’s Son
Dawn leaks through the cracks of the shutters in Neil’s room. It makes everything smell damp and musty as the water seeps into the already rotting wood.
Seriphos wakes slowly above him, sighing beneath its own weight. It used to be prosperous and beautiful, but the outskirts of the island have become overpopulated poverty stricken due to overfishing.
They lived in one of the nicer houses on the outskirts of Seriphos. Their house also had a shop attached. His father was renowned as The Fishmonger of Seriphos, which operated from the first floor.
The gulls cried in the distance with empty bellies, their thin voices scraping the air, followed by the bells from the harbour.
Neil knows the three rings toll for the morning tide.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, the golden light of the rising sun catching the small wooden ship in his hands.
It’s no more than a toy really, one he carved for himself from driftwood and scraps stolen from his father’s workshop, but he treats it as something sacred. Running his thumb along the hull, feeling where the grain still catches. He imagines sails instead of cloth rags, the creak of ropes, the endless dark swell of the open sea.
The city hums below. The sound of nets unfurling and buckets slapping against stone can be heard now. From his close to the harbour, Neil can smell the tar and fish and the sour smoke of coal—Seriphos’ perfume as the fish is cooked.
Once, the old men by the dock used to say how the air had smelled of citrus and honey, the docks lined with painted boats from every island of the Cyclades. Now most lie broken, eaten by salt. Riko’s rule has turned the sea from partner to prisoner; taxes doubled, sailors conscripted, trade choked to serve his wars.
Neil grips his wooden ship tightly. He whispers a wish under his breath. Not to be heard by anyone but himself. To sail away, anywhere but here. The words taste of dust.
A crash downstairs makes him flinch. His father’s voice follows, rough as the docks themselves.
“Neil! You planning to sleep through the catch?”
He sets the small wooden ship on the windowsill where the morning light can find it, then descends the narrow ladder into the shop below. Nathan’s stall is known across all of Seriphos as the Fishmonger’s Table — it’s half house, half smoke shed, thick with the smell of brine, salt, and drying scales. Nets hang from the rafters, each one swaying faintly in the sea breeze that squeezes through the gaps in the walls.
Nathan stands by the gutting table, sleeves rolled, knife already at work. He is a large man, his belly pressing against a salt-stained apron, his hands glistening with oil and silver slivers of skin. A purse of coins hangs heavy at his belt; he touches it more often than he touches his son.
“You’re late,” he says without looking up. “Again.”
“The nets came in slow.”
“The nets don’t pay rent.” The knife falls—thud, scrape, thud—a rhythm older than their arguments. “Clean the scraps, and don’t waste the heads this time. They’re for the stew.”
Neil obeys. The fish is as cold as always, the table slick and roughened with scales. He works quickly, efficiently, the way he was taught: slice through the spine, twist the joint, separate and stack. His father watches from the corner of his eye, the way a gull watches smaller birds—ready to strike at the first mistake.
“You still carving those toy boats?” Nathan asks after a while. His tone is casual, but the edge beneath it is not.
“Sometimes.”
“Waste of wood.” Another strike of the cleaver. “You’d rather chase fantasies than learn a trade. There’s no future in dreams.”
“There’s no future here,” Neil murmurs before he can stop himself.
Nathan’s hand flashes out, grabbing Neil by the jaw and tugging him closer toward him. His grip is hard enough to bruise. “Mind your tongue. You think you’re better than the rest of us? The king feeds this city, and we feed the King. Without him, we starve.” He shoves Neil back.
Neil bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood. In some ways, he knows his father isn’t wrong—if the palace didn’t buy their fish, they would starve. But the truth cuts both ways. The harvests fail because the farmers are gone to war; the fishermen sell their catch for copper; the streets reek of spoiled fruit and brine. Two truths can exist at once, but his father would never acknowledge the second. It doesn’t serve him.
Nathan wipes his hands on a rag and strides out to the storefront. Neil keeps working, knife steady, wanting to finish before his father returns.
He can hear the voices through the open doorway — the deep timbre of a palace guard, the careful civility in his father’s reply. “The King wants red mullet. Delivered to the palace—fresh and tastefully presented.”
A pause. Then Nathan’s voice, smooth and deferential. “Of course. We’ll prepare it at once.”
The door closes, the guard’s boots fade down the street, and Neil hears the slow, heavy rhythm of his father’s return. He doesn’t need to ask.
“The palace wants red mullet today,” Nathan says, as though it’s good fortune rather than another demand. “We’ll bring it fresh. Whole. And we’ll deliver it ourselves. Save on the cost of having anyone else bring it for us.” He pats his purse filled with coins.
He gestures to the back room where the prized fish lies on crushed ice, their scales a shimmer of gold and rose. The scent is sharp and metallic, sea-sweet and rich enough to make Neil’s stomach twist. He wonders if Riko even eats what he demands, or if it’s all ceremony—a display of plenty in a city hollowed by hunger.
While Nathan wraps the fish in linen and sprigs of thyme, Neil glances through the open doorway. The street slopes toward the harbour, sunlight flashing on puddles of fish oil. Across the water, he can just make out the ruined temple on the cliffs—a white tooth against the sky. They say it belonged to Poseidon, patron of sailors. Now its columns are cracked, its altars stripped for marble to line the king’s baths. Even the gods, it seems, pay tribute to Riko.
Nathan shoves the parcel into his arms. “Carry it carefully. It’s worth more than you.” As his father goes to pick up crates of other fish and seafood to take along with them.
They set out through the city. Seriphos is a maze of narrow streets and stacked houses, the walls so close that voices echo like waves in a cave.
Children dart between stalls, and beggars call out for bread. The smell shifts from fish to sweat to the sweet rot of overripe fruits and rotten vegetables.
Everywhere Neil looks, he sees the signs of decline. The markets that used to be bustling are half empty, shutters nailed over shops, soldiers lounging where merchants once stood. There’s some graffiti scrawled on a wall that reads The sea remembers. Someone has tried to scrape it off.
Neil walks behind his father, balancing the weight of the fish on his shoulder. He can hear the coins clinking in Nathan’s purse with every step.
“You ever think of leaving?” he asks his father quietly.
Nathan glares back at him, incredulous. “Leave Seriphos? For what? Starvation somewhere else?”
“There are other islands. Trade routes—”
“Fairy tales.” Nathan snorts. “The king keeps us safe. You’d rather risk pirates and storms?”
Neil doesn’t answer. He’s seen pirates’ sails before from the cliffs at night, black against the stars. He wondered what kind of freedom hides behind those flags.
They reach the upper quarter where the streets widen. Perfume replaces sweat. There are fountains adorning courtyards guarded by bronze lions. The people here wear silk and silver; they step aside not out of deference but distaste. Nathan straightens his back, proud to be seen carrying royal goods. Neil feels only the weight of the fish and the heat of the sun on his neck.
At the gates of the palace, marble gleams like bone. Soldiers in gilded armour inspect the load, then wave them through with bored familiarity. Nathan grins at the recognition the guards have bestowed upon him. “See? Respect. That’s what loyalty buys.” Nathan says.
Neil looks up at the carved architecture above the entrance. It’s scenes of conquest, gods kneeling before mortals. The stonework is flawless, but the faces of the gods are worn smooth, being weathered by the same salt wind that eats everything here.
They enter the cool shadows of the palace. The air smells richly of spices, foods, wine and flowers not native to this island. Servants hurry past in linen robes, their eyes downcast. Somewhere deeper in the halls, laughter drifts like smoke.
Nathan’s voice drops to a whisper. “Keep your head down, Neil. Don’t speak unless asked.”
Neil only nods as they approach the audience chamber. Looking down, he notices how the marble underfoot is veined with gold; his sandals make no sound. The doors ahead are open, spilling light and music, and the faint, sickly sweetness of wine intensifies.
***
Inside, Neil keeps his head down as he follows his father’s boots through the long hall, the weight of the fish heavy in his arms.
Riko’s laughter carries first. Neil hates the sound of it.
When they step into the audience chamber, Riko, the King of Seriphos, lounges on the throne, draped in black and crimson. Gold bracelets ring his wrists; his fingers toy lazily with the stem of a goblet as his court feasts around him.
His eyes move languidly from Nathan to Neil as they approach and linger too long on Neil. Appraising him. “Your boy is as pretty as they say, Fishmonger of Seriphos,” he remarks.
Nathan’s laugh cracks, sharp and hollow. “Beauty doesn’t feed a family, Your Majesty.”
Riko’s gaze sharpens, feline in its curiosity. “He’s wasted on the docks. What would you take for him?”
The words hang in the air like heat before a storm. Neil’s heart stutters once, then steadies. He turns slightly toward his father, waiting for him to scoff to dismiss the suggestion for the insult it is.
But Nathan hesitates long enough for Neil to understand that his father is actually considering this.
Then, in that easy, businesslike tone that always comes before something ugly, Nathan says, “Whatever you think he’s worth, my king. He helps me at the shop, so that would need to be considered in his value.”
Neil feels blood rush into his ears. It all happens so fast. The clink of coins exchanging hands. The sound of a decision as hands clasp and shake one another.
Riko’s smile is thin and sharp. “Good. Then he belongs to me.”
He descends the dais slowly. “I hope you're as entertaining as you are pretty after what I just spent on you,” he says. Nathan, his father, doesn’t even look at Neil once as he goes to leave.
Neil says nothing. He can hear the faint rustle of silk as Riko circles him, assessing, hunting for reaction.
“You’ve got a pretty mouth,” Riko murmurs. “Tell me, Neil, was it? Neil, have you ever lain with a woman?”
Neil stiffens. “No.”
A pause — brief, amused. “A man, then?”
“No.”
Riko hums thoughtfully, moving closer until Neil can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of wine and myrrh.
“Strange,” he says softly. “That something so lovely has gone untouched. The gods do waste their finer work on the undeserving.”
“Maybe the gods know what they’re doing.” Neil’s jaw tightens.
Riko’s smile sharpens. “We’ll see.” He turns to the guards. “Clean him and then take him to my chambers.”
The grip that seizes Neil’s arm is iron-clad, his pulse crushed beneath the gauntlet. The world narrows to footsteps and the slow drag of fear.
The corridors twist, each turn darker and quieter. Neil can hear how unsteady his breathing has become when they arrive at a door. The guard pushes it open, revealing a basin near a hearth, steam curling like ghosts above it. The guard takes out a cloth from a drawer before uncorking a flask of oil that smells faintly of lemon.
Neil jerks back as the guard places his hand on Neil’s shoulder in an attempt to get him towards the basin.
“Orders,” the guard mutters. “Don’t make this worse.”
Rough hands push him forward again. Followed by an efficient, impersonal stripping of his clothes, covered in salt and grime. Neil’s body is cleaned for him in a much similar way as if one of the fish Neil had cleaned only the other day before market. He stares out the window, like he’s no longer in his body. He can’t bear to look at himself or the guard.
When the guard is done, he rubs oils into Neil’s skin and presses loose clothing into his hands before stepping back in silence, leaving Neil damp and raw under the weight of his own breath.
Once Neil is dressed, the guard brings him to another set of doors, pushing them open and leading Neil further into the room towards a bed. A bed that has Riko lying atop.
“Neil,” Riko says, “Come here. Join me, I would love to get to know you better.” His voice is syrupy in a way that makes Neil’s hackles rise as Riko reaches for his hand.
“I would rather not,” Neil replies, pulling back from the hand that reaches for him.
“I don’t particularly care what you would rather.” Riko’s tone never rises, but it hardens. “I paid for you. You will come here. Now.”
“No,” Neil says again. The word cuts through the air, small but absolute.
Riko’s face lights up with interest. “Fine,” he murmurs, almost delighted. “How delightful you’re going to make your King work for it.”
He stands directly in front of Neil and clicks his fingers as the guard from earlier approaches with another who had already been in the chambers.
The guards pushed down on Neil’s shoulders, making him fall to his knees. They buckled underneath him as he knelt on the ground with a slight wince of pain from the hard floor. “It seems you’ve picked the hard way, Neil, I’m afraid. As your King, I’m going to have to punish you for this indiscretion.”
Riko laughs, “A punishment for disobeying”, he says as he reaches down to grab a handful of Neil's hair. "You won't forget this moment, call me your King, Neil.”
Neil feels like he would rather die, but his self-preservation kicks in. They rarely do, but Neil feels his skin crawl all the same as he whispers, “Please, my King, don’t punish me.”
The words felt like ash in Neil’s mouth. “Perhaps, you can listen to instructions, hm?” Riko smiled at him before tugging at Neil’s hair harder. His grip was much tighter as he used his other hand to pry open Neil’s mouth.
“Now.” Riko tugged at his robe to start removing it. “Be good and I’ll make it quick”, with everything Riko was implying, Neil couldn’t stop himself as he bit down on Riko’s fingers that were in his mouth. He would refuse this; every bone and morsel of Neil ached at the knowledge of what was to come if he didn’t fight back.
Riko screamed in pain, “ENOUGH! Guard, give me you’re sword now.” The guard handed it over. “I warned you, Neil, and now I will cut away at your defiance.”
Neil lifts his chin, refusing to look away as Riko grips it tightly.
Riko smiles down at him with no warmth. “You don’t need to be awake for me to punish you, Neil.”
The guard’s grip closes around his shoulders again, forcing Neil to stay down as he bucks against them. He can’t get out of the guard's grip. It's like the moment imprints itself in his mind, memorising the pattern of light across the marble floor, the red of Riko’s robe, the faint reflection of himself in polished steel.
He doesn’t beg but continues fighting all the same.
“Let this be a lesson for disobeying your King.”
There’s a flurry of sound, the scrape of metal, the sound of clothes hitting the floor and muttered orders to the guard who obeys without question. Neil catches the glint of a blade in the torchlight before his world folds inward, enveloped in noise, heat, and the thud of his own heartbeat.
The last thing he hears before everything changes is Riko’s voice, serene again. “Let him learn what darkness really means.”
The last thing he remembers is searing pain across his eyes, rough hands pulling at his limbs, and the pain is unlike anything he has ever felt before. It feels like death, and he passes out.
***
The pain comes in waves.
Neil is lying on rough sheets that smell of blood and crushed herbs. The air is thick and sour. He can taste blood on his mouth.
He lifts his hand, touches his face. Cloth bandages. Layers of them. The fabric is stiff, crusted in places. His fingers tremble as they trace the line where sight should begin. He feels the edges of the bandage, the knot at the back of his head.
He tugs.
The cloth peels away slowly, tearing where it’s stuck to dried blood. The cool air burns the moment it touches skin. He blinks — out of habit, reflex, desperation. Nothing changes.
He blinks again.
Still nothing.
There’s no light. No shape. Just the pulse in his skull and the darkness pressing in, thick and absolute.
For a long time, he lies still. It’s easier to pretend that maybe the world is simply slow to return. That the light is coming. It’s always been there, so why would now be any different?
That it’s just behind his eyelids, waiting.
But it doesn’t come.
When he finally breathes again, it’s a sound more than a breath, it’s a scream so primal, ragged, shaky, too loud in the silence that came before it.
He screams and screams until he remembers what it’s like to speak without screaming. But his throat is raw when he hears the door open, but he still cannot see it. “Hello?” The word scrapes out like a wound as he sits himself up. Folding his body protectively inwards.
Nothing answers at first. Then, a voice — low, careful, and edged with hesitation.
“You shouldn’t move.”
“Who’s there?” Neil’s muscles tense at the intruder's voice.
A pause. “I’m Kevin. I’m here to tend your injuries.”
Neil hears the faint clink of metal on a tray, the sound of water poured from a jug as this person, Kevin, lets himself into the room.
Neil exhales through his teeth, a sound caught between anger and exhaustion. He thinks about Nathan walking down the palace steps, gold heavy in his pockets, the sea breeze on his face. He imagines him smiling, maybe, satisfied with what he’s earned and what it’s cost Neil.
There’s an ache in Neil’s chest that isn’t entirely from his injuries. That pain now lives alongside the numbing recognition of the pain and betrayal he has had to feel because of his father's greed. The greed of man.
“Lie still,” Kevin says quietly.
“Why?”
“You tore the stitches.”
Neil laughs once, hollow. “Not intentionally.”
He feels Kevin’s presence near him, the air shifting as he kneels. “Don’t move,” Kevin says again. His tone is clinical. “I need to put my hands on your face to redo the bandages. I will be gentle.”
Neil goes still.
He hears the faint rustle of bandages, the smell of fresh linen and something bitter — ointment, maybe. Fingers brush his cheek, steady but careful.
“You’re shaking,” Kevin murmurs.
“I’m breathing.”
“Badly.”
Neil exhales slowly, forcing the tremor out of his lungs.
“I didn’t even fight, not really,” Neil says flatly, more to himself than Kevin.
“You’re still breathing,” Kevin counters. “That counts for something.”
He ties the bandages again, precise movements that Neil can hear — fabric twisting, the knot tightened neatly. When he finishes, he sets something cool against Neil’s temple. The touch stings, then dulls into a soothing ache.
“What is that?” Neil asks.
“Poultice. Keeps infection out. The king wants you to heal.”
“I don’t want to heal”, Neil whimpers.
“I can’t let the infection take root; it would be painful.” Kevin says sadly, “It’s Neil, isn’t it? That’s your name?”
Neil almost smiles. “Pain and I are acquaintances at this point. Neil and Pain, Pain and Neil.”
Kevin doesn’t reply. He moves around the bed, collecting the scattered tools. The soft scrape of ceramic and metal fills the silence.
Neil counts the seconds by sound — five between the pouring of water, two between the setting of jars. It’s grounding, in a way. He can start to map the world in noise.
When Kevin speaks again, it’s quieter. “Can you feel your hands?”
“Yes.”
“Your legs?”
Neil flexes his toes under the blanket. “Somewhat.”
“Are you experiencing pain anywhere else?”
“Everywhere.”
Kevin huffs, “I won’t say I know how you feel, Neil, but I know what it's like to have things taken from you.” Kevin pauses, rubbing at his injured hand.” If you’ll give it time, I know we can find something to make life worth living again.” Mistaking his silence for wanting to be alone, Kevin goes to leave.
Neil catches the faint scent from Kevin as he goes to stand. It smells of citrus and sweat, clean, unperfumed, real.
“I would like that,” Neil says quietly.
“Good, I’ve got others to tend to, but I’ll be back tomorrow”, is all Kevin says as he leaves.
For the first time since the darkness, and despite Kevin leaving for the day, Neil doesn’t feel entirely alone.
The days bleed together as Neil’s body tries to patch itself together. His own body is stubborn and not allowing any infection to take him.
He knows it’s morning when he feels the warmth across his skin from the eastern window of the infirmary; the scrape of the door hinges when Kevin enters; the slow pour of water, the measured steps, the habit of silence.
Kevin isn’t a huge talker, but that doesn’t really bother Neil. The last few days have consisted of the same questions from Kevin as he helps mend Neil as best he can.
“Can you sit?” or “Try to stretch your fingers.” Kevin says, or Neil’s personal favourite, “Tell me if it hurts more than usual?”
It always does.
Neil tries not to let the frustration show, but sometimes it cracks through anyway.
He takes stock of his body slowly, in pieces. His hands are covered in small cuts, the skin tight from healing. His ribs ache when he breathes too deeply. His back burns in patches, and he doesn’t know if he should be grateful he wasn’t awake for it. His shoulders feel stiff, the muscles bruised and swollen.
Violence is etched into his skin and sewn into all the scars inflicted upon him by Riko.
He knows there are internal injuries, but doesn’t know what that means for him. His face is starting to become less swollen.
When Kevin changes the bandages, Neil can feel the difference from days earlier. The unevenness where the blade had caught, the tenderness around his eyes, the faint raised lines.
He doesn’t ask what it looks like. He never cared before and refuses to care for it now. He misses walking; he misses the ease of how, when he had the time, he could wander the docks and be further away from the house he lived in with his father.
“Kevin, I think I know what will help me start figuring out what I want to do with myself.”
“Is that so?”
Neil explains the plan to have Kevin help him around the room. To assist him until Neil feels like he wants to do it for himself. Until he figures out his new normal.
It’s a slow process.
Standing is its own kind of agony. The world tilts without light. The floor is cold, uneven. Every step sends pain crawling up his spine. Kevin helps him for a while before stepping away, using his voice to guide Neil.
“Left. Good. Another step.”
Neil reaches out, hands groping until they find the edge of a table. The wood is smooth under his fingers, carved with intricate detail he can feel but not see.
“You’re doing fine,” Kevin says.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t mean it.”
“You’d prefer silence, then.”
“I’d prefer honesty.”
“Fine. You’re moving like a drunk sailor.” A pause. Then, quieter, “Take this, at least.” Kevin presses something into Neil’s hand. It’s a stick, long and solid. The grain is smooth beneath Neil’s fingertips, the handle rounded to fit his palm perfectly. Someone’s knife has been to it, the edges carefully shaped and sanded down.
“You made this,” Neil says, more observation than question.
Kevin shrugs, “The wood was rough. You’d have splinters by now.” Neil can’t help the small smile tugging at his face at Kevin being considerate.
They find a rhythm in this, irritation as language, stubbornness as trust. Neil learns the room by sound and the stick’s patient tapping, Kevin’s voice marking distances and edges.
By the end of the week, Neil can cross the room without falling. He doesn’t ask for help anymore, and Kevin doesn’t offer unless needed.
There are moments, though, that are fleeting, small when the edge dulls. When Kevin forgets to sound detached, and Neil forgets to guard his words. When Neil knocks over a cup, Kevin says nothing, only cleans it up quietly. When the pain wakes Neil in the night, Kevin is already there, checking his pulse without asking permission.
Neil doesn’t thank him. Kevin doesn’t expect it. That, somehow, makes it easier.
Kevin is bustling about the room when he stops moving. Neil isn’t sure why until he hears Kevin’s small gasp at the sound of the door opening. “Your Majesty,” he says, voice barely audible.
“Ah, my healer’s pet project.” Riko’s tone drips amusement. “How fares the experiment?”
Neil’s jaw tightens.
“Good, I take it.” Riko moves further into the room. The soft sweep of silk brushes against the floor. “I’m surprised you managed to survive it. Perhaps the gods wish to see you longer at my side.”
“The gods would sooner strike me blind—oh, wait.” Neil’s voice is flat, almost bored, but the tension in his hands betrays him as they curl against the blanket.
Riko laughs, low and delighted. “And here I thought you’d be broken.”
He leans close enough that Neil can smell the wine on his breath. “I’ll be away for a time — the northern isles demand my attention. But I expect you’ll be mostly recovered when I return and ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“You know what.” Riko’s fingers dance up Neil’s thighs.
The words slide through the air like poison.
Riko straightens. “Rest well, Neil. You’ll need your strength.”
When he leaves, Kevin doesn’t move until the sound of boots fades completely. Only then does he exhale, a sharp, quiet sound of disgust.
“Why would you bait him, Neil?” Kevin says angrily.
“Kevin, he’s taken enough from me. You told me about what happened to your hand. Do you not hate him as much as I do?” Neil tilts his head towards Kevin’s voice.
Kevin’s answer is immediate. “Yes.”
“Then why stay?”
“Because leaving isn’t the same as surviving.”
Neil turns that over in his mind, then says, “You’re wrong.”
Kevin raises an eyebrow at that. “About what?”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
Kevin doesn’t reply. But when he gathers the medical tools, his movements are slower, more deliberate, as though weighing the truth in Neil’s words.
That night, Neil lies awake long after Kevin has gone. The bandages itch; his ribs throb with every breath. But he doesn’t cry.
He listens. To the wind against the shutters. To the faint hum of insects outside. To the heartbeat in his ears that means he’s still alive. He counts backwards from a hundred again and again.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea shifts. He can hear its endless roar. It sounds different now that he can’t see it. Larger. Hungrier.
He imagines it swallowing Seriphos whole.
And for a fleeting second, he wishes it would.
Then he exhales, steady, and reaches for the cup of water beside him. His fingers find it easily this time.
Progress, he thinks.
Small, but real.
And when morning comes, he’s already sitting up, waiting for Kevin’s footsteps.
The days slide past like water through cupped hands as Neil is moved from the infirmary to chambers near Kevin’s.
“You’re beginning to heal, Neil. Of course, we would move you from the infirmary,” Kevin tells him happily.
Heal. Neil turns the word over like a stone in his mind. Too smooth. Too clean. His body doesn’t feel like it’s healing as much as it’s learning to deal with the pain differently.
His world is built of touch now: linen against skin, air stirring through open shutters, the warmth of sunlight he can feel but not see. Sometimes, when Kevin reads aloud from a list of medicines or something that happened in the palace, Neil counts the spaces between his words instead of the words themselves.
“Hold still,” Kevin says as he checks the bandages. “You’re improving.”
Neil snorts softly. “Define improving.”
Kevin huffs. “You’re alive. That’ll do.”
That earns the smallest smile Neil can manage. It fades when the door hinges creak open one morning and a familiar scent wafts through with it.
Riko.
“My King,” Kevin says.
“Leave us,” Riko replies, silk-smooth.
Neil’s stomach knots. He hears Kevin hesitate for a moment before turning his face away from the sound of the closing door.
“Still alive,” Riko murmurs. “It’s refreshing to see Kevin earn his keep for once.”
Neil says nothing. His hands curl beneath the blanket, nails biting into his palms.
“Look at me,” Riko says, amused. “Oh—right.” A small laugh. “You can’t.”
“You know, I get it,” Neil said. “It must’ve been hard, being groomed to rule. All that praise rots your brain until you believe it. But I don’t want you, your Majesty. I never did. Leave.”
Riko moves closer. His voice drops. “You should be grateful. Not everyone gets a second chance to serve their king.”
“I will never ser-“ Neil had the breath punched, before he was held down and flipped over, lying face-first into his pillow. He struggled against him, but Riko elbowed his temple hard enough that Neil couldn’t stop the yelp of pain that left his mouth as Riko used one hand to muffle Neil’s mouth and another to lift his robes over his hips. Neil shut down. The weight of Riko was brief, brutal. He doesn’t hear the words spoken to him; everything is muffled noises. It was a living nightmare.
When the door finally opens again and Riko leaves, Neil lies very still, pulling the blanket back and up around himself, but not quite finding the energy to turn his body. His pulse is a dull drum in his ears. The world still feels muffled, unmade. Again.
He hears Kevin’s quiet intake of breath before the words reach him. “What did he—” Kevin stops himself. “Neil.”
“I’m fine,” Neil whispers. The lie tastes like ash.
Kevin moves closer; the sound of water being poured, a cloth wrung out. He sets the damp linen against Neil’s wrist first, a silent question before touching his face. Neil doesn’t flinch. The cool pressure steadies his breathing.
“Don’t lie to me, I knew he hurt people, Neil. I didn’t know to this extent.” Kevin says, finally, his voice low but steady.
Neil doesn’t answer. Kevin helps him from the bed with careful hands and draws a bath, saying nothing more. He strips the sheets, replacing them with fresh ones in neat, efficient motions. The grind of his teeth is the only sound before he mutters that he’ll be right back and turns off the taps.
Neil lowers himself into the bath still clothed in his chiton, the fabric clinging to his skin as the water rises around him.
He feels the warmth seeping in, but it feels distant, like he’s untethered, adrift, as if the warmth is meant for someone else. It smooths the tremor in his hands without easing it, a hollow comfort that doesn’t quite reach the places that hurt.
Kevin returns only a few minutes later, pouring some of his own healing tonic into the bath. Explaining to Neil how he uses it for his injured hand and that it should offer some reprieve.
“I overheard one of the guards earlier today that the King leaves tonight. The court travels north for the tithes. Weeks, maybe months.” Kevin bustles about the room again, collecting a towel and clothes for Neil whilst telling him what he’s heard about Riko’s plans.
“Then we should leave,” Neil says.
Kevin makes his way over to Neil, passing him the towel and new clothes. “Leave and go where?”
“Anywhere,” Neil said. The word came out rough, but sure. “Anywhere else but here.”
Kevin hesitated, his frown deepening. “You know I want to… but it isn’t that simple. We would need protection from Riko, and that doesn’t come for free. Not the kind we’d need.”
“Then we use the time we have,” Neil said. “You said that the court here thinks he will be gone for weeks—maybe longer. We plan for it. For how to get out, how to stay safe, how to make sure he never finds us again.”
Kevin studied him for a moment, then nodded once. “Then let’s plan.”
Riko’s absence stretches through most of the spring. The palace grows quieter; even the servants speak more softly, as if afraid their voices will summon him back too soon.
Neil uses the time wisely, growing more confident with the stick Kevin carved for him. The two of them wander the gardens at dusk, the ground still warm beneath his feet, the air thick with jasmine and sea salt.
Neil taps his stick lightly along the path, the soft scrape steadying him.“The stick really does help,” he says. “It gives the world shape again.”
Kevin hums in agreement. “You’re getting better at it.”
They walk in silence for a time, the steady tap of Neil’s stick filling the space between them. Then Neil asks, “How did you end up here, Kevin? I never thought to ask.”
Kevin is quiet for a while. Neil hears the slow, quiet inhale that always rattles a little bit before he speaks honestly.
“I was meant to be a soldier once,” Kevin says. “Top of my class. The King, well, he likes to prove himself the best at duelling. Called me out for a ‘friendly’ match. I nearly beat him, but I held back.” He lets out a low, humourless laugh. “He broke my hand for the insult.”
Neil traces the edge of his stick along the gravel. “And so he made you a physician’s assistant.”
“Said if I couldn’t fight for him, I could patch up the ones who still could.” Kevin’s tone sharpens, then softens. “Then you came here. And when I saw what he did to you… It was the first time I asked to tend to someone who wasn’t one of his soldiers.”
Neil stops walking. He’s not sure why it matters why he needs to understand, but he asks anyway. “Why?”
Kevin hesitates. The night air seems to press closer. “Because I know what it’s like to be owned by him.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It is,” Kevin says quietly. “He’s my cousin.”
For a heartbeat, everything from the sea, the wind, the hum of cicadas, seems to go still at Kevin’s quiet confession.
Kevin continues before Neil can speak. “I didn’t tell you sooner because I didn’t want you to hate me for it or think I’m anything like him.”
Neil exhales slowly, the air shaking on its way out. “After everything he’s done, you think I could hate you?” He shakes his head. “No, Kevin. You’re nothing like him, and the only reason I’m still breathing.”
Kevin doesn’t know what to say to that as they start walking again, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.
“How much longer until the court returns?” Neil asks.
“Two weeks, maybe three,” Kevin replies. “They’ll expect him back for the summer summons.”
“Then we leave before that.” Neil’s tone is steady, resolved. “There are ships that stop in the lower ports, small ones bound for the isles. If we catch one from Seriphos, we can disappear off one of the isles not far from here.”
Kevin considers it. “You’re suggesting we move without a destination? No plan beyond the first shore?”
“Exactly.” Neil’s mouth curves faintly. “If we don’t know where we’re going, Riko won’t either.”
Kevin lets out a short, humourless breath. “Spontaneity isn’t my strength.”
“Then it’s time you learned,” Neil says. “We’ll need to move quickly, before anyone realises we’re gone.”
“I’ve already started setting things aside,” Kevin admits. “Supplies. Clothing. Money. Enough to pass for a merchant’s aide. It’s not much, but it might get us aboard unnoticed.”
Neil nods. “Then when the tide turns, we take it.”
“You’re certain? The ocean around the port can be unforgiving” Kevin stops beside him.
Neil turns his face toward the sea, the salt wind catching his hair. “I’d rather drown free than live waiting for him to come back.”
The illusion ends when the horns sound one grey morning. Well, before the two weeks, it’s only been a week since they had made plans to leave at the end of the two weeks. Kevin stops mid-sentence as the call echoes from the harbour walls. The palace stirs like a hive struck with a stick. Boots on stone, orders barked, the clatter of armour.
“He’s back,” Kevin says grimly.
Neil doesn’t ask which he. There’s only one.
They’ve run out of time.
The air thickens before Riko even reaches Neil’s chambers. He can feel it down to his bones that Riko is coming for him. Neil straightens on the bed, expression blank. Kevin moves to stand behind him, silent.
The door opens as if the very thought of him summoned him here. The same perfume. The same silence that feels like a threat.
“My favourite survivor,” Riko purrs. “Still intact, I see.”
Neil’s throat tightens. “For now.”
Riko chuckles, low and amused. “For now indeed. You’ve been recovering—good. I have use for you yet.” He steps closer, voice softening in that way that makes it worse as he tugs at Neil’s curls.
“Some of my soldiers went east weeks ago. They were sent to hunt a creature for me, a monster said to haunt an island near Cisthene.” He smiles faintly, like he’s sharing a secret. “They haven’t returned. Not even bones to bury.”
“And you want me to find them?
“Not necessarily,” Riko continues lightly, “I’ve come to learn that I require a new champion to get the job done. Someone less attached to his eyes.”
The meaning lands slowly and cold.
“The creature kills with a gaze, or so the priests say. You, dear Neil, are immune to such inconveniences.” Riko sneers.
Kevin’s breath hitches behind him; the sound is small but sharp.
Neil keeps his voice even. “I’ll need a guide.”
Riko’s interest flickers. “Oh?”
“Someone who can read the maps. The currents. Who can make sure I find your monster instead of wandering into the sea?”
Riko circles slowly, silk whispering across the floor. “Let me hazard a guess, you intend to take my physician’s assistant.”
“Kevin,” Neil corrects.
“You really have grown bold, haven’t you? Making demands now.” Riko’s laugh is quiet and delighted
“It’s not a demand. It’s practicality.”
Riko stops beside the bed. “And what,” he says softly, “will you give me for this practicality?”
Neil swallows hard. “Anything.”
“Leave us, Kevin,” Riko says, almost gently. But Neil hears the threat coiled beneath the calm
Kevin hesitates just long enough for Neil to hear the scrape of his boots shift against the floor. Then his footsteps retreat down the hall.
“I’m quite tired, Neil, but I’m sure I can still make use of your pretty mouth.” Riko leans forward and forces his tongue into Neil’s mouth. His hands grip Neil’s arms, punishingly holding him down with his fingernails digging into the flesh of his arms. He bites down on his neck hard.
Neil makes no move against him; he won’t let Riko back out on his word of taking Kevin with him. He won’t leave him here.
When Riko grows tired of him all he says is “Tomorrow, you leave tomorrow. You can take Kevin with you, but make no mistake Neil. You still belong to me and you are to bring me back the head of that monster.” and leaves, the room is silent except for the faint lap of ocean waves against the palace walls outside.
Kevin enters minutes later, face pale, hands trembling despite the control he tries to keep. He doesn’t ask what happened; he doesn’t need to.
“Don’t,” Neil says hoarsely. “Don’t pity me.”
“I don’t.” Kevin’s voice cracks once, then steadies. “But I won’t pretend it didn’t happen. That he hurt you again.”
“He’s sending me away.” Neil exhales, a brittle sound.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. At dawn.”
Kevin cleans Neil’s arms and dabs ointment on his neck. “Then I’ll pack you some supplies.”
“You’re coming,” Neil says—not a question
“He agreed?” What was the cost, Neil?”
Neil’s mouth twists. “I already paid it. We’re to hunt his monster. I’ll bring back the head, and in return, we’re free.”
Silence stretches between them. Kevin’s hands still, his breath uneven. Then, quietly: “Then I’ll honour the price you’ve paid. We’ll go together, like we planned.”
He sits beside Neil’s bed, and for a while they say nothing, the thought of tomorrow heavy between them. Tomorrow, they leave. Together.
At last, Kevin says, “We’ll need rations. Rope. Maps. Somewhere to land once we’re across the sea.”
Neil nods slowly. “We’ll find it. A place for you to call home when this is done. Somewhere, Riko’s name won’t follow us.”
Kevin huffs out a faint laugh, the sound edged but real. “You’ve thought this through.”
“I think about everything,” Neil says.
Kevin glances over, and there’s something like a smile in his voice. “Then maybe we’ll survive.”
“Unlikely,” Neil murmurs, but the warmth beneath the word makes it sound almost like hope.
That night, Neil doesn’t sleep. He sits by the window instead, feeling the wind drag over his skin, smelling the salt and smoke that mark the edge of the world. His body aches from the wounds Riko inflicted on him earlier that day.
But beneath it all is a pulse that feels almost like freedom. It screams at him. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. tomorrow.
***
By dawn, they’re ready to leave. Neither Neil nor Kevin wants to risk any last encounters with Riko, so they agree to meet at the lower gate and leave. Neil grabs his few personal items into a satchel before leaving.
Kevin waits at the lower gate, a shadow against the pale wash of morning. His pack hangs from one shoulder, his eyes flick briefly toward Neil as he arrives.
“Ready?” he asks.
Neil nods once. “Yes.”
They move together through the last of the courtyards, their footsteps soft against the stone. The sky above them shifts from bruised purple to the pale grey of morning, light pooling over the palace walls like water breaking free of a dam.
The air grows colder as they near the cliffs on their way towards the docks. It feels less stifling and cleaner too, despite the salt biting sharper on the tongue; the world feels like it’s widening with each breath.
The cries of gulls rise overhead, cutting through the last echoes of the life they’re leaving behind.
When they finally pass through the outer gate, Neil doesn’t look back. He doesn’t dare. The weight of the palace, the secrets, the promises, the scars press between his shoulders like something physical.
Riko’s command still lingers in his ears: Bring me the monster’s head.
He had agreed, of course, to Riko’s demand. The words had left his mouth easily enough. But as the sea air catches his hair and the sunlight spills across the horizon, he isn’t sure whether he ever meant to keep that promise.
Maybe he’ll return with the head, as ordered.
Maybe he’ll vanish into the tides instead.
For now, it’s enough to keep walking and feel the ground solid beneath his feet, the unsteady pulse of freedom building with every step.
Kevin falls into stride beside him. They don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say. The palace recedes behind them, swallowed by distance and morning mist, until it is nothing but shadow.
And still, Neil doesn’t look back or slow down.
***
Kevin leads the way through the narrow alleys in town that spill into the harbour. They’ve picked a port that is further away from where the Butcher of Seriphos is located, at Neil’s request. He doesn’t dare tempt fate by using the same port.
The water shimmers with morning light, fractured and gold. Ships rock gently at anchor. There is such a vast array of ships, from merchant vessels, fishing boats, and the faint outlines of something faster moored farther out.
“There,” Kevin murmurs to himself, he leads them towards a smaller ship with weathered sails and a captain already shouting orders to his crew. Kevin tells Neil to wait nearby as he approaches the captain of the vessel. He comes back a short time later “They’re bound for the southern trade route, it’ll be close enough to Cisthene to get us where we need to go.”
Neil studies the sound of the waves breaking against the hull, the creak of ropes and wood. “You trust them?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” Kevin replies, dry as salt. “But they’ll take coin.”
They approach the captain, and Kevin slips him a folded pouch from beneath his cloak. Neil stands a little apart, the stick steady in his hand, listening to the low murmur of negotiation. The exchange is brisk with Kevin’s clipped tone, the captain’s rough laughter and the jingle of silver.
“We have passage,” he says. “They’ll drop us near the southern chain—two days’ sail from Cisthene. After that, we find our own way.”
Neil notices how the ship’s deck groans beneath their weight as they step aboard, the sails snapping above like wings catching the dawn.
For a long moment, Neil stands at the railing alongside Kevin, and he can imagine how the palace is a faint silhouette swallowed by distance and mist.
His fingers tighten around the edge of the wood, the salt wind cutting against his face.
He had promised to return.
But as the tide pulls them from shore, he isn’t sure whether that promise was ever meant to be kept.
The horizon yawns wide, endless. And for the first time in years, the world feels so much bigger than it ever did before.
Not long into their journey, the sea begins to unsettle Neil in ways land never could.
On land, sound obeys. It bounces back, steady and sure, shaping the world for him in edges and echoes.
But out here, sound is faithless. It scatters into wind and salt and vanishes into the void, breathing dark. He can’t measure the world anymore. He can only feel it shifting beneath him, alive and indifferent. He feels himself add another mark against Riko’s name for what he’s stolen from him because Neil knows he will never sail for himself beyond this venture if he can help it.
The wind is cool and salt-heavy as they get further away from Seriphos.
It whips his auburn curls across his face, and it stings the places where the scars still feel raw. Neil grips the railing, muscles drawn tight, caught between fear and wonder despite it all.
The ship creaks and rolls beneath his feet, wood moaning like an old beast. Somewhere below, the ocean hums.
Kevin joins him again sometime later, “It moves differently than land,” Neil tells him quietly.
“Because it wants to kill you.” Kevin’s voice answers beside him, low and tense as he stares out at the vast ocean in front of them.
Neil huffs a laugh. “Everything does.”
“Then stop giving it reasons and step back from the railing.”
That earns a faint smile. Kevin hasn’t changed much since Seriphos. He stands just close enough for Neil to sense his warmth. Not guiding, not holding, just there.
The sailors move around them in a rhythm of work and laughter. They smell of tar, sweat, and cheap wine, their banter a rough symphony against the crash of waves.
One of the sailors presses a cup into Neil’s hand, calling it medicine for the sea legs. Neil takes a sip and coughs hard enough to draw cheers. Kevin tries it too, then asks for more, which earns a roar of approval.
For the first time in months, Neil laughs properly. The sound feels strange in his own throat, a sound too human to have survived Seriphos.
Nights are the hardest. Neither of them sleeps much. Kevin sits awake with a lantern guttering at his side, the light stuttering across his face as he mutters through the pages of a book, counting the seconds between lightning flashes. Neil lies listening—listening to Kevin breathe, to the rain’s slow build against the hull, to the storm gathering its strength.
When it comes, it comes all at once.
Wind howls through the rigging, and the ship bucks like a living thing. For days, they’re confined to the cabin, riding out the waves as best they can. “Best not to tempt fate,” Kevin says, though his tone sounds more like a plea than advice. So they wait, in silence mostly, the walls shuddering around them and the sea roaring beyond.
When the storm finally begins to break, the air inside feels too small to breathe. Restless, they climb to the deck. The rain still falls in needling sheets, and the waves rise and dip like dark hills, but they don’t turn back. Kevin reaches for Neil’s hand without thinking, and Neil takes it—fingers slick, grip strong.
For a moment, they stand there, heads tilted toward the rain. Then, unexpectedly, Kevin laughs. It’s a rough, startled sound, cracking through the wind like something breaking loose. Neil can’t help it—he laughs too, hoarse and breathless, the sound bubbling up until it’s something bright and wild between them. It feels impossible and alive, like lightning caught in their throats.
By dawn, the waves have gentled and the clouds hang torn across the pale horizon. Neil leans against the mast, drenched, trembling, but alive. His palms are raw, blistered from holding the rails through the night. Kevin presses a strip of cloth into his hand.
“You should rest.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Still fine.”
Kevin sighs, the sound half frustration, half relief. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Neil lets out a small, quiet laugh, nothing wild this time, just the soft echo of it.