Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Brother is unwell?" Joshua attempted to look around his mother's skirts as she exited the room. There was a tray in her hands, empty save for a pitcher of water resting on it.

"Yes. I personally made sure he took his medicine," Anabella told him, handing the tray over to the awaiting servant at the door. "Send for a Bearer to warm the bath and have him cleaned." Her nose crinkled in dismay. "We must send for another doctor at once. His condition refuses to improve."

Joshua frowned as his mother grabbed his hand and led him away. "But just last week he was fine."

Anabella stroked his hair, sighing tiredly as she led them toward the sitting room. His uncle was due to arrive any moment this morning. "Yes, but you fell ill as well, did you not? A summer cold must be going around."

It was hard to imagine. Clive wasn't the kind to fall sick often, and when he did catch a cold, he was usually the first one to get better between them. Joshua envied that about his brother. He was tired of bed-rest and coddling nannies that thought him fragile. The Phoenix was meant to be a strong flame to kindle the rest, but that suited Clive more. He didn't understand why the Eikon had chosen the way it had. What about his brother didn't the Phoenix approve of?

Anabella tugged on his hand as she opened the door for him, directing him to sit near the sunlit window where a faint breeze drifted in from outside. It brought the scent of roses and gardenias, tickling his nose. He fought back a sneeze, but his mother noticed and shut the window, taking the pleasant promises of open air with it. He wondered when Clive would be well again. It was easier to sneak off when he had his brother to help him.

Down the hall, he heard the faint sound of yelling that grew louder with every heavy footfall that approached. His uncle burst in, unkempt hair half-falling in his face as he marched up to Anabella. "You witch," Byron seethed. Joshua gasped at the new scar over his eye. It was red and puffy, and it looked painful despite what must have been an attempt to heal it.

Without thinking, he stood to help, reaching out. He was shocked when Byron turned wild eyes on him, scruffy beard and maddened gleam making him into a stranger he barely knew. "Where is Clive?" demanded Byron, his stare remaining on Joshua as his lips thinned. But his question was for Anabella, a bitterness seeping into the words. "He will come with me. As regent -"

"Regent?" scoffed his mother. "What ever are you talking about? The boy is naught but twelve summers. If that is to be the case, why must we wait to allow the Phoenix to take the throne? He will be ten summers soon, will he not?"

Byron remained quiet for a long moment, regarding them with a peculiar look that Joshua couldn't place. "I asked: where is Clive?"

"Brother is resting," Joshua answered, not understanding his uncle's urgency. "Is something wrong?"

Worry lines etched themselves across an already tense face, Byron spinning on his heel and about to leave. Anabella stopped him with an imperious, "Going so soon?"

"I see you've kept the news from the boy," Byron bit out, refusing to turn. "You must think yourself clever."

"I am perfectly sure I don't know what you mean." Anabella paused, a brief lapse before she folded her hands in front of her and stated, "When the time comes, all will be in its rightful place."

Uneasy, Joshua watched his uncle leave the room to find his brother and wished he could join him. Something was wrong; the Phoenix had grown restless beneath his skin. It wanted to spread its wings and fly, anything to be free.

"Did something happen to Father?" he asked, tentative and unable to raise his voice higher than a trembling whisper. He didn't want to consider it, but Elwin should have returned home by now. The North had surrendered, negotiations well under way. It should have been a cut and dry affair.

"Your Lord Uncle is overreacting, Joshua," Anabella dismissed the idea as well. "He was reported missing after a disturbance at the peace table. Lord Byron saw it unfold and is on edge. That is all." Joshua sucked in a breath, startled. "But we will find him," his mother was quick to assure him, "long before your brother takes the throne. Sir Murdoch is out there now, searching high and low for your father. He will be home soon."

Joshua clenched his hands into fists at his side and decided he needed to see his brother now. Immediately. The wrongness had reached a level that he couldn't stand. "I need to tell Clive," he began.

His mother dug her nails into his shoulder, halting his departure. "You have tutors awaiting your presence, Joshua. Now is not the time."

I don't care, he wanted to say, but he knew better than to argue with his mother. He never won. "After?" he tried.

"I am sure Clive looks forward to that as well." There was a smile curling at the edges of her lips, but Joshua couldn't discern its meaning.

Everything hurts, Clive thought as soon as he came to. It felt like his blood was boiling, and yet there was a strange warmth washing over him. Not at all like the Phoenix's fire that Joshua shared when he was exhausted from training, but something hotter. More molten and honey rich as it flowed through his veins. He gritted his teeth against the peculiar sensation, his head like cotton and his eyes clouded from sleep.

Someone grabbed him by the chin and redirected his gaze to them, an older woman with gray already in her hair, meeting him face to face. She had a fake gold tooth in the front row of her teeth and Clive focused on that, unable to comprehend his current situation. His hands must have been bound behind him because he could barely feel them, let alone move them.

He was laying on a bed that was a lot less comfortable than his own, a sheepskin blanket weighty on his bare torso. It was enough to cover him, to protect his modesty. Yet it didn't bode well that he was tied up and undressed.

His father once told him: In situations like this, it was best to wait. Let a fire simmer to a burning inferno, Elwin told when he first took up the sword, and never doubt that fire spreads. His father wanted to keep them safe, promising to come for them if they were ever caught. Clive never told his father, but he knew the truth: an abductor was more likely to keep Joshua alive than him.

As his mother often reminded him, what worth did he have?

"Well, you're a pretty one," his captor commented, dropping his chin. He struggled to keep his eyes open, to access the room. "She certainly had you cleaned up well. A pity you're too much of a risk to keep." That didn't instill confidence in his continued survival. But do I need to struggle? His father would have screamed yes, I will come for you, but he had heard the whispers of the maidservants attending him in his sickbed. The ones who thought him delirious from fever. From the parts he remembered, his father had disappeared after an attack on the Northern capital. Now wasn't a time to save a child with no value, not when they had an Archduke to find.

"Dorys," snapped the woman, "bring the guest in. Have Chadwick rid us of these." She handed the girl a bundle of clothes that Clive recognized as his own and he made a noise, wanting them back. "You won't be needing those. Not a little lordling anymore, are you?"

The girl, quiet as a mouse, ducked out of the room and followed her directions without argument. Clive turned his head aside, not wanting to see what sort guest would be brought back with her. The woman wasn't having that, forcing his head back to her as she applied something to his lips.

"Amazing to see you survived," she mumbled, "I thought we'd be disposing of a corpse for sure. But look at you, paler and bluer than a ghost on All Saints Eve, and yet. Stay still," she ordered, when Clive tried to squirm away, "have to make sure you look nice for the good lady set to buy."

She let go when she was satisfied he looked presentable, just in time for the knock at the door. She called for their guest to enter and a hooded figure slipped through the door with a sort of nimble grace that implied practice, at ease with their own body. The hood was tossed back, revealing a beauty with her hair braided up in a fashion that was popular amidst the court ladies these days. He would have suspected her to be from nobility, if it wasn't for the cut of her dress beneath the robe. That spoke of a different line of work altogether.

Her eyes, smoky and accented with color, glanced from him to the woman attempting to sell him and asked, "Could you step outside for a moment? I would like to ensure our privacy for a few questions, nothing more."

The other woman gave a snort and waved her hand. "Oh, don't be shy. He's a looker and you want to train them young for these kinds of things."

Clive twisted against his bonds, sluggish and angry in equal measure. He hated the feeling of powerlessness, his own thoughts weighing heavy on his mind: was this to be his life now? Sold to the highest bidder? He would rather -

"Oh no you don't!" The woman selling him must have been familiar with the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the determination to see it through, because she leaned forward and tied off his mouth before he could sink his teeth into his tongue. The rope was gritty and tasted of ash in his mouth.

"That's quite enough," the guest said with a hint of more emotion than he would have expected from that impassive face. "Leave us."

The older woman obeyed with a bow and toothsome grin. "Careful. He's a feisty one."

"I can see that," the guest bit out with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I will be fine."

The door shut behind the other woman with a snap and the courtesan faced him with a stony, appraising gaze. Then, tugging off her embroidered cloak entirely, she tucked it on her arm and approached. Steps deliberate, filled with purpose. She plucked at the rope binding his mouth shut and sighed. "Not much to live for, boy?"

He wouldn't have answered even if his mouth had been freed, resolute as he turned his head away. She hummed in consideration and pressed a cool hand to his forehead, murmuring, "Ah, she's really out done herself with the patchwork make-up." Clive could see her out of the corner of his eyes, wiping off her hand on a white handkerchief. "Are you unwell, child?"

When he failed to respond again, she clicked her tongue and told him, "That was a yes or no question and I expect an answer." Tentatively, he nodded his head for yes. Perhaps that would spare him the indecency of being bought. "I see," she replied, "and she thinks to sell without caring for her product." With a huff, the woman pressed her hand back against his forehead, the cold easing off the worst of the pulsing heat that had been thrumming under his skin since awakening here in this room. "I tell you what, boy, we could always use more hands for the Veil. Will you join me?"

At once, he shook his head. "You don't even know what I could offer you," she softened her voice as she continued, "as there is more to our line of work than you could ever suspect, child. There is plenty to keep you busy. The Veil does not only sell bodies; my blossoms are meant to enthrall, to entertain, to soothe. You, sweetling, have the beginnings of - dare I say it, the finest rose. Fitting, to find one such as you in Rosaria."

With a jolt, Clive realized they were still in his land - his home. He wasn't sure if he was thankful for that revelation or not. If he escaped, did he have anything left for him in the capital? Aside from Joshua. Aside from Rodney. Was there anyone who would look for him? His mother had orchestrated the whole thing. He needed to stay gone. "Why isn't he dead yet?" he had heard his mother say to the handmaiden that delivered his medicine. "Give it here. I will do it myself." A failure even at dying, in her eyes.

The courtesan must have sensed his change in mood as she trailed her hand down to his chin and turned it to meet her gaze, gentle as could be. "Boy, you have a future. Do not squander it. Truly, if it is so easy to throw it away, why not give it to me? Who knows, I may even give it back."

For a long moment, Clive searched her face for deceit. And she allowed it, holding his gaze and never dropping her hold on his chin. Those eyes were honest, harkening to a past that haunted her. She knew what it was to suffer and that had him tilting his head down in acknowledgement - a nod, a sentence, a declaration that he would go with her. He had nothing else left to lose. Joshua will be better off without me. And so will Rosaria.

In the carriage ride to Sanbreque, her newest addition was quiet. Isabelle introduced herself as the current Dame's attendant and then began to tell him what he needed to know before they made it to The Veil. "I am in charge of training the new additions to our establishment," she explained, "and that means I will be in charge of you for a good few years before the Dame proclaims you ready to serve. Starting with your ability to engage a client on other levels first. Tell me, boy, if you will not share your name - will you share what you know of high society?"

The dark haired lad turned his head aside, looking out the lone window that was permitted in their dimly lit carriage. It was a means of transportation provided by the same high society she spoke of, the ones they served. It was a give and take relationship; she had learned that long ago. She had it better these days, at the Veil. And one day she hoped to become a woman as capable as the Dame herself. Maybe even inherit the title and make her mentor proud.

The boy's lips parted as he deigned to speak, voice raspy from disuse and the sickness that he must have been recovering from. "I know enough," was his clipped reply, and she pursed her lips in response. Difficult, that was what he was, but she had seen others like him before. Hell, eons ago, she had been one of them. Sold into a life she wouldn't have chosen for herself. Yet she had made the most of it, making a name that others could no longer take and carving out a place amidst those at the Veil to start anew.

"Well then," she allowed his disobedience for now, he would learn she wasn't the enemy soon enough, "let us start with coming up with a name for you. If you do not pick one, I will decide for you."

Hesitation flickered across the boy's face, nose crinkling with a sense of disbelief. "I … why does that matter?"

"Oh, sweetling," she cooed, "you will be surprised how many intimate encounters require a name. Partners love to be able to call you something, and if you are to make a name of your own choosing - well, we all have to start somewhere."

"Fine," relented the boy, "you decide."

"Ha! You are sure?" Eyes twinkling with mischief, she asked, "And what if I would like to call you … Rosen? Our little rose, beautiful and accompanied by an underlying bite. Fitting, for you."

"Hardly." He turned his gaze back to the window, only having humored her for this long. "What else must I know?"

"There is but one other under my tutelage at the moment," she told him as she crossed her legs and leaned forward, closing the distance between them and tugging the cloak she had given him tighter. They hadn't been given much time to find him clothes. The old crone had been adamant they needed to seal the deal and be gone. Curious as that was, Isabelle had done as asked and swaddled the boy in her own cloak, ushering him to board their awaiting carriage.

Continuing as she smoothed out the wrinkles in the fabric, she explained, "She is younger than you and I expect you to treat her with care. In a way, she will be a measure of your character - as well as a reflection of when the Dame deems her ready, you will follow. As we are often without knowing the ages of our blossoms, this is the best method for those without a first blood."

"I … see." The boy shrunk into himself, eyes flickering nervously to her hands and back to the window, watching the last of Rosaria fade in the distance. "And what does … being ready entail?"

"Full penetration," she didn't bat an eye as she answered, leaning back to give him space as he let that sink in, "and I am sure you will learn soon enough what that means. For now, you will focus on the companionship side of things and report to me if anyone lays a hand where it does not belong. There are rules we have in place, and we expect our clients to uphold those. Well, if they wish to continue using our establishment. They know not to touch what hasn't bloomed."

"Bloomed?" The boy blinked and she watched the way his head tilted in confusion. Between those pretty blue eyes and cute mannerisms, he was going to draw in pests, she was sure.

"Bloomed," she repeated and tapped at an exposed knee before spreading his legs with a foot. He flushed from top to bottom, jolting from the unexpected contact and giving her a reproachful look. She gestured downwards with her eyes. "You haven't anything someone would want to play with yet, child, and be thankful. In time, when you are more comfortable with your own body, people will fall at your feet to receive even a glance at it."

"You mean …?"

"I mean," she sighed and closed his legs with a clap of flesh, dismissing the conversation with a wave of her hand, "you will be clothed - fully clothed - until the Dame gives her approval of your blooming. As I said, Tatienne will be the measure of it. As is our way."

"All right," said the boy on a stuttered breath, observing her from beneath fluttering eyelashes. A natural, she thought, and mused on how best to mold him into the image she was already picturing he would become. Lean, nimble, deft. She would make an irresistible force out of this one. "You may call me Rosen. I … yes. I will … I will listen to you."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow at the sudden compliance and uncrossed her legs, folding both her hands in her lap as she considered this shift in attitude. A quiet acceptance of his circumstances. But there was a fire in his eyes, slow and sparking; she knew better than to allow an untrained suckling too much freedom. Her days in the Dominion had been spent testing the boundaries of her cage, and then running away from everything when she had been pushed too far. If not for the Dame taking her in at her lowest, helping to give her lover a proper burial, she may have followed her love in death. No, she would not allow Rosen or any of their blossoms fall prey to such fates if she could help it. To spare as many as she could, to rein them in, that was her duty and she would see it through.

"We will see," she said, allowing him at least that much.

Over the course of their journey, Clive learned many things. His duties, his future responsibilities, and most importantly, what he needed to do to stay alive. He had chosen this path, trusted Isabelle to show him a new way to continue forward, but he doubted sometimes. When the thoughts consumed him, he would look down at his hands, barren of sword or armor, and consider: wouldn't it be so much easier to cut his wrists and put them out of this misery? Surely, his self-proclaimed mentor did not need another headache.

Each time, Isabelle would reach across the small space that separated them and take his hand in hers, give a gentle squeeze. A reprimand in her eyes. "Not much longer now," she would say, "hold on for me, Rosen."

Rosen, the new name sounded foreign to his own ears. He would have to grow used to it. Clive Rosfield had died the day he was sold. It was the only way he could keep going. To pretend that person was dead, and now he had a new life to learn and shape. These decisions would be purely his own.

As the carriage came to a stop, Isabelle stood first, holding out a hand to keep him seated as she lifted her dress in the other to prevent snagging as she exited. The coachman helped her down, eyes straying to Clive with a vague question in them. She redirected his gaze with silken fingers that slid across a rugged cheek, a gentle suggestion to be obeyed. "Ah, ah, Bastien," she said with a particular drawl to her voice, coy smile in place, "you know I told you not to look. Be a dear and guard the entrance while I retrieve some clothes for Rosen."

Bastien followed her orders as if they were law, gaze never straying to the entrance that Clive pushed shut with a snap. He clenched the cloak about his body, reminded once more that he was ill-fitted. There was a layer of travel-worn grime on him too, as they had stopped very little. The sense of urgency to be back in Sanbreque must have meant that Isabelle suspected something, but he had to wonder how much she knew.

It didn't take long for her to return and help him into a coarse hemp tunic and braies that covered him up, a heavy contrast to the leathers he was accustomed to having. "It will have to do," she told him, "now follow me so that I might introduce you to your chambermate. You will meet Tatienne later this evening."

Isabelle led him through the halls that opened up into a common area and gestured for him to follow her up the staircase at the back. "The first two floors are for clients," she explained as they kept climbing to third floor, "and the rest are for our use alone. You are not permitted to have customers in your room."

That wasn't going to be a problem. If anything, it loosened something in his chest to know he would have a reprieve that couldn't be intruded on. She opened the last door of the right wing and Clive slowed to a halt as he saw the other boy there, a bit older than him. Dirty blond hair with a roguish smirk in place as he asked, "So this is the one you bought for Tatienne? She's going to have a fit, trying to compete with a face like that."

"Damien," sighed Isabelle, "watch your mouth. There will be no competing. Rosen will be her guard, and Tatienne will be his fetters. You know how this works."

"And who guards him?" Damien countered, crossing his arms over the worn tunic that stretched taut over his chest. It was a size too small, perhaps a recent growth spurt. He towered over Clive, looking down his nose at him with a hardened gleam in his dark eyes. "No one, that's who. Just admit it, you favor your girls."

"Is this about Maud and Jules?" To her credit, Isabelle did not appear offended by the older boy's quick, cutting tongue. But there was a shrewd crinkle around her eyes, sizing up Damien. "Jules disobeyed the rules. He made it a competition with Maud after their blooming. Refrain from bringing it up again or I will have your chores doubled and your free time restricted. Do you hear me?"

Damien snapped his mouth shut and turned his head away. "I hear you," he grumbled in answer, "will you have me show him around?"

"Yes," agreed Isabelle, "I must see the Dame about our newest addition. Have him ready by tonight. I will come collect him with Tatienne." Her hand settled in the middle of Clive's back and gave him a gentle nudge into the room. "Find some trousers for the boy. See if any of your old things will work. Something suitable for his first appearance."

"Aye, Commander," responded Damien with a mocking, two-fingered salute. "I'll have him all dolled up for you, leave it to me."

"Those garrison lads are rubbing off on you." Isabelle pinched the bridge of her nose and huffed. "You keep it up and the Dame will have you serving etiquette lessons again. You want that?"

The older boy mimed sewing up his mouth and held up his hands in surrender. With one last glance at Clive, Isabelle nodded and gathered up her skirts, hurrying off to see the Dame. He wondered what she was like. As mild as Isabelle with an underlying steel? Or was she more oppressive? Not that it mattered, he knew how to toe the line. She couldn't be any worse than a mother who had tried to kill him.

Shaking off the cloying thoughts that threatened to unravel the well of emotions tangled up in his chest, he sought out the other boy's gaze and asked, "Which bed is to be mine?"

Damien moved over to the bed by the window and sat down, crossing his legs as he studied Clive intently. "The one over there," he informed him, pointing to the bed by the other wall. It was neatly made, and aside from the fabric being coarser than even the sheepskin the seller woman had thrown over him, he didn't see any problems with it. More than he deserved, really. Dead men were usually buried by now. "You look peaky, mate. Eaten anything today?"

Clive shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor as his stomach agreed, rumbling for food. With a laugh, the other boy reached under his bed and pulled out a trinket box. Aside from noticeable jewelry and assorted gifts that Clive could tell cost a pretty gil, there were a few biscuits squirreled away with the finery. Damien held up a finger to his lips, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Our secret, all right? The Dame and her madame commander would be up in arms if they knew I was hiding food."

"Why?" Clive couldn't help asking, brow furrowed in thought. He didn't see anything wrong with saving something for later.

"They don't want to risk us getting sick from spoiled food," Damien explained as he bit into one of the treats and held out the other to Clive. "Or intentionally doing so to get out of a hellish night."

Accepting the biscuit, he bit into it and relished the sweet taste. After days of bland food on the road, he had forgotten what a balm just a pinch of sugar could be after a long day. Joshua always loved sharing his dessert when mother wasn't looking. And thinking of his brother, the tears began to prickle at his eyes once more. A stifled sob attempting to break free. But he forced it down, throat tearing with the ache.

"You don't have to hold back," Damien told him, palms folded over his lap as his eyes softened in sympathy. "Everyone cries at least three times here: once when they arrive, twice when they bloom, and thrice when they leave - if they ever do, through death or other means."

It wasn't a comforting thing to say, but Clive let his walls crack anyway, splintering them right down the middle. Lowering his defenses for the tears to dampen his face. Filled to the brim with shame, betrayal, and anger. Piece by piece washing away the old to make way for the new.

His ears rung with his brother's laughter, the tenor of his father reciting their oaths, his mother scolding him for another failure. Rodney's sharp bite as he ordered Clive to stand and straighten, mellowing into whisper-thin questions of concern. His uncle with his hearty guffaws and happy calls as they recited poetry together.

He didn't hear Damien stand nor his padded footsteps as he walked over to shut the door, but he did notice the darkening of the room as the hallway lights were shut out, the curtains still drawn over by Damien's bed to block the midday sun. The older boy hovered nearby and Clive tracked his quiet movements to distract from the pain. He had to admire the nimble fingers that plucked through a bundle of clothes thrown haphazardly in the corner, the sway of hips as Damien bent down to retrieve a few smaller pairs of trousers. An ease to his own body that Clive envied. He didn't have that, not unless there was a sword in his hand and a foe in his sights.

"Quit staring and get dressed," Damien said as he tossed the trousers at him. "We don't have much time to turn you from waif to poppet. Hop to it."

Elwin grabbed his head with a groan as soon as he awoke, slowly blinking his eyes open and squinting at the candle glowing beside his bed. He couldn't recall much through the haze of his mind, only two thoughts had surfaced: his name and the pressing urgency that he wasn't somewhere familiar. Scanning the room for exits, he noted two. The window to the left, slightly open, curtains fluttering in the wind. And the door directly across from where he was laying.

Pushing off the covers, he sat up and cradled his aching skull in both hands as he tried to force back the fragmented whispers of mind. Not right, run, enemy, kept repeating through the mist and he tangled his hands in his hair, willing it to stop. It grew worse until he heard the door creak to admit another presence, the strangeness of another person cutting through the majority of it.

He raised his head and caught the stranger's eyes. A girl, no older than - He hissed and tightened his hold on his hair. With a heavy breath, he loosened his grip and asked, "Who are you?"

"You're awake!" she cried, dropping into a dainty curtsy before resting her hands in front of her. Bright gray eyes flecked with blue sparkled in the candlelight. Familiar, but not quite. The color was wrong. "You had us worried, my lord. I will inform the physicker that you have wakened. I was helping tend to you." She curtsied once more before retreating to the door, calling over her shoulder as if she had forgotten, "Forgive my late introduction, my name is Jill."

Jill? Why did that name ring a bell in the hollows of his mind?

Cursing, he dropped his head back into his hands. Flashes of memory bursting like cannons behind his closed eyes. Screams, someone pushing him, the clash of blades in front of him. The agony of his head hitting something solid. The crash. Shattering glass. A girl's hitched sob, fisting at his doublet and ripping it. He had discarded it, limping as he carried her. They had collapsed on the nearest beach, he remembered that much, sand hitting an exposed knee. Grating and gritty in the many cuts that he observed with hooded eyes now, not quite believing the truth that his mind was supplying.

There must have been some sort of conflict, but he couldn't recall the details. The whos, the whys, the hows. The girl was important though. He needed to find out more about her. The missing link to what was going on.

A knock at the door had him lifting his weary head, but he wasn't greeted to the sight of a demure young girl. Instead, a dark, brooding man stood in the doorframe, leaning on it as he canted his head to size up Elwin from top to bottom. "I see the sleeping prince has deemed to grace us with his presence. Pray tell, what took you so long?"

The man strode into the room, capturing one of Elwin's wrists and prying it from his head with a tsk. It stung as the man scraped his nails over recently healed cuts. "Look at you. Why must it take this long for a mortal man to heal?"

Startled at the proximity and the man's audacity, Elwin snatched his arm back. "Do I know you?"

That gave the man pause, a darkened gleam in ocean deep blue. Again, it was the eyes that reminded him of someone. Dark hair too, but it overlapped with a younger face, rounded with baby-fat that was beginning to thin with age. Joy slowly seeping from a once shining face. "I am sure you know of me," the man seemed certain, bending at the waist to look Elwin in the eyes, "surely you jest."

"I -" Did he tell the man he couldn't remember anything aside from his name? That seemed a dangerous gamble in uncharted territory. "Yes. How silly of me. Dearest."

The man straightened with a slowly spreading smile, humor curling at the edges as he asked, "What did you say?"

"Dearest," he repeated, taking a risk. The domineering demeanor made him think: married, angry spouse, appease. The safest best was the man was his partner for a political arrangement. For what reason or purpose, and for what family, he was not aware. Still, it must have succeeded in tempering the worst of the man's ill disposition as he took Elwin's hand, fascinated, and raised it to his mouth, fluttering a kiss across the back of it.

"A charmer, are you," teased the man before pulling him to his feet and wrapping an arm around Elwin's waist to keep him steady. "Well, two can play at that game." He gripped Elwin by the chin, leaning in with his gaze locked on his lips.

A gasp stopped the man halfway and they both turned to face the door, the little girl from before peeking through her fingers and hiding behind the skirts of the madame physicker who had come to attend him. Reluctantly, the man dropped his hold on Elwin and stepped back, folding his hands behind his back. "Have him looked over quickly." To Elwin, he turned a smoldering stare, quirking a haughty, devious smirk at him as he promised, "We will finish what we started later, dearest." And to Jill, the man instructed, "Look after your father, girl. I have many questions for the both of you."

Daughter? That didn't sound right. Besides, how did they - no, that wasn't important. He studied the girl as she tucked short gray hair behind her ear, still red in the cheeks, and wondered what daughter called her father 'my lord'. If anything, that part didn't surprise him and he felt his heart clench for some unknown reason.

"Sit down," ordered the physicker as she busied herself with putting on a pair of sterile gloves, "His Majesty doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Elwin sat, but it was more out of shock than anything. He was married to a king? Well, I know a thing or two about ruling. Wait, ruling? How did he know that? He grimaced and massaged at his temples until the physicker batted his hands away, pressing something cold to the indent at his forehead. A mark of some sort, a wound. She commented that it was healing nicely, but it would leave a scar. Vaguely, he wondered if that strange king would have him anyway. Scars and all.

"Finished," the physicker dismissed. She slipped off her gloves and wrote down a list of instructions to be followed, handing it to Jill. "Have him recite those back to you. When he's able to retain the list, he may be in charge of his own care. Until then, keep me apprised of the situation. Good day to you both."

"Is it true?" asked the girl faintly. "That you can't … you don't know who I am or where you are?" She sounded disappointed, almost frightened.

"Yes," he admitted now that the cat was out of the bag. There would be no hiding it, not when the physicker had taken one look at him and realized his memory was faulty. "Did we … adopt you?"

She paled and bit at her lip, looking away. "I should speak with His Majesty, King Tharmr. He … no, never mind." With one last parting curtsy, she fled to go speak with the king, leaving Elwin to his own thoughts that continued to swirl.

Fed up with thinking, he laid back down, tugging the top buttons loose on his nightgown to better breathe as he closed his eyes and pulled the covers back over his body. Perhaps this was all just a bad dream. Tomorrow, he would wake up and everything would make sense again.

Barnabas was expecting the girl to bring her self-proclaimed father to the study when she returned, but she was the only one that flitted through the door, greeting him with a polite curtsy. With a grunt and dismissive wave of his hand, he asked, "How is he?"

"He is … unwell," Jill told him, not raising her gaze from the floor. "We will have to trouble Your Majesty a while longer."

Setting down his pen, Barnabas leaned back in his desk chair, the creak of leather giving away his lackadaisical care. "Girl, why do you refuse to tell me who he is? You reveal your own name, but not his?" Not quite true, for the girl had been a spitfire on the beach that he had found the two on, snarling at him as she protected the unresponsive man beside her. The man who had been slowly bleeding out at the temple. An odd place to find two people in the dead of night when he had been scoping out the Northern shoreline by ship, and so he had gone to investigate.

It was curiosity that led him to help the two, taken by the way the girl guarded the unconscious figure that should have been the one shielding her. Well, that wasn't the sole reason, to be fair. For in her wary distrust of Barnabas, she had called on a last resort - the power of ice, wings of pure snow sprouting from her back to cover the two and encasing them in frost. Power that wasn't to be reckoned with, but he shattered it easily with Odin's blade, holding out a hand as he invited, "I will help you. Both of you. Come with me."

To her credit, the girl had hesitated. And even now, she had given nothing away but her first name. Jill, a common enough denomination. By any means, it was hard to imagine she was the man's daughter. They had not a speck of similarity in their faces. "Well?" he prompted, awaiting her response.

At last, she raised her head and met him with that searing look from nights ago. No more of playing the demure princess. "Until he remembers his name, it is not my place to give it."

Yes, the shadows had reported that as well. The mysterious man had no recollection of who he was. And wasn't that perfect? Barnabas could do with some entertainment. Days in Stonhyrr had grown dull since his Lord Commander had insisted they needed to bide their time before attacking Sanbreque again. A difficult feat for his boiling blood. It was those damned people spreading their religion far and wide that had driven his mother to her death, and then they had the gall to say it was the plan of their beloved Goddess.

If fate was to be believed, then this man was the key. A means to breaching Storm, the missing piece he had been waiting for all along. He could be patient. Time would tell what would become of them. "As you say," he allowed the girl her ardent words, but there was a cost. "Then you are to refrain from telling him anything as well. He must remember on his own." It would humor him to see how far the man would go in his delusions that they were married. He hadn't laughed that much in years.

For a moment, Jill looked as if she would argue, but she bowed her head and allowed it. Quietly, she asked, "You will not hurt him?"

"That is not my intention," he dismissed. "Now, to bed with you. It is getting late. Sleipnir, see her to her rooms."

From the gloom behind him, his advisor stepped out into the light and swept into a bow. "Yes, my liege." He waved the man off, paying no mind to the mischievous wink the silver-haired vagrant sent his way as if he could read Barnabas's every thought.

After the girl had been herded out into the hall, Barnabas stood and marched over to the cabinet he kept his liquor locked behind. He had learned to keep it locked after his unruly Lord Commander had gotten into it, drinking through the most expensive of the lot before he had returned to catch him in the act. Leave it to Cidolfus to say that the crime was worth the punishment, smirking like the devil himself from the pillory. To be quite honest, it had been more to Barnabas's demerit when the man had resumed his duties smelling like rotten eggs.

Lips curling in distaste, he reached for a bottle and took a swig. The newest addition to the castle wasn't anything like his Lord Commander, but he had a feeling his mystery man was going to be a different sort of headache. And from the warming of his belly alone, he wasn't opposed to the idea.

If anything, he found his steps retracing the path to the man's room. Stopping only when he reached the candle and blew out the light, sinking the room into darkness. He stared down at the man, wondering what to call him. In the morning, he would have to ask.

For now, he settled on rubbing a knuckle over the days old beard that hadn't been trimmed, taking in the planes of his guest's face. Sharp edges with thin brows, lips drawn tight as sweat beaded at the man's forehead. He thumbed below the wound, smoothing the wrinkles pinching that expression.

"Sleep well," he entreated, leaning down for a moment as the man parted his lips on a heavy breath, gaze straying from the mole that had caught his attention to the exposed chest skirting propriety. Devious, Barnabas thought with a huff, dragging the blankets to cover up everything. Then he left before he could cross the lines of his own limits.

Isabelle knocked on the chamber door, beckoning for Tatienne to come stand at her side instead of hiding behind her. The girl tugged blond hair into her eyes, nervous at meeting the boy she would be matched with. She couldn't fault her for it; the arrival of Rosen all but sealed the reality that Tatienne would be having clients of her own soon enough. An orphan girl who had nowhere else to go had but one choice, to face forward and meet her fate head on. It didn't stop the fidgeting though, even as Tatienne stood at her side.

The door inched open to reveal Damien first, a flighty smile on his painted lips. "He's as good as he's going to get for tonight," the boy told her, turning to Rosen somewhere in the room and calling him over. The door was pulled to reveal the sight of him.

To his credit, Damien had accented his looks to complement Tatienne. The dark side of the moon to Tatienne's light, dressed in a black tunic that laced up at the arms and sides. The trousers were a little loose, held up on a narrow waist as tight as the cloth used as a belt could draw it. She frowned at that, sweeping a critical gaze over Tatienne and her neatly put together white dress that ruffled at her knees.

"Find a pair of black braies," Isabelle ordered, "and give him the old hose you never wear anymore. He must look elegant for the first showing, I will not have those fools pushing him around under my watch." From the reddened lips to the dusting of pale pink on high cheeks, the makeup was nicely done and she complimented, "Otherwise, you did well, Damien." The boy ducked his head, going to retrieve the requested items while Isabelle studied Rosen closer.

She crooked a finger, gesturing the boy to come to her. He obeyed, light on his feet and tension in every coiled muscle. "Relax, child. You will not be expected to serve tonight," she reminded, "the purpose is to show your face and have you grow accustomed to the Veil's operations." Fixing a stray strand of black hair that was curling oddly, she tucked it behind his ear and then patted him on the cheek. "You look lovely. Tatienne, what do you think? Do you approve?"

The little girl twisted her hands into her dress and Isabelle reproached her with a quick slap to the hands. With a yip, Tatienne nodded. "He - he seems nice."

Bemused, Rosen wrinkled his brows, but he did not respond. Isabelle noticed he kept glancing at Tatienne despite the silence. Sideways looks that spoke of yearning as he traced the framing of her short hair, feathered around her rounded face. He could have been seeing someone else, but she placed a reprimanding hand on his shoulder nonetheless and squeezed. Discouraged, the boy dropped his gaze to the floor, consternation in the set of his jaw.

"Here." Damien shoved the braies and hose at Rosen and then raised an eyebrow at the two in the doorway. "You going to pay to watch?"

Isabelle bit back a laugh and allowed Rosen to dart back into the chamber as she ushered Tatienne to wait in the hall with her. The end result was worth it: a dark prince and his shining princess. They would draw many eyes tonight; of that, she had no doubt.

The common area on the first floor was filled with a hazy incense that tickled Clive's nose and nearly made him sneeze, the overpowering scent of wood and lavender a pointed contrast to the upper floors that alternated between good and bad smells. There were tables set up around the room, men sitting in circles around them as courtesans dealt cards or filled empty tankards of ale. A place to mingle, he thought as Isabelle led them over to a corner of laughing men without anyone attending them just yet.

"Gentlemen," she started when she was in front of the table, Clive and Tatienne on either side of her, "allow me to introduce our newest additions to the Veil. Will you allow us to entertain you this evening?"

One of the soldiers, words slurred already, gave a hearty cheer. "What a pretty pair. Where did you find angels like that? Great Greagor send them to you?"

Isabelle placed her hands atop their heads, stroking both Clive's and Tatienne's hair, the motion protective more than anything. Tugging at his heartstrings with a longing for times when his uncle or father held him - and once upon a time, his mother. The woman's smile took on a wolfish edge as she answered, "She guided them to me, yes, but you will be careful not to clip their wings, won't you?"

Chuckles sounded around the table of soldiers, the lot of them in agreement that they knew the rules. Half of them pretended to be outraged at the idea, showing off their tickets for well-known courtesans to impress the others. They had bought the time of others, surely there was no threat - or that was the implied meaning. Killing time, it seemed, until their requested person was free.

"May I interest you in a game of dice?" enticed Isabelle, holding up the cup that rattled with the intended dice. "My friends here will, of course, help."

Eager, excited murmurs answered her and she shook the cup with her hand closed over the top. As she slapped it down on the table, she called for odds or evens and the soldiers placed their bets. Tatienne collected the gil on the table, dutiful and accustomed to the task, while Clive looked to Isabelle for instructions. In response, she told him, "Rosen, if you would, reveal their luck." Swapping places with him, she guided his hand to the cup and paused it there, letting the men hang in suspense before freeing Clive's hand.

Following through with the ploy, Clive removed the cup slowly and then counted the dice, calling, "Even."

The table fell silent, Isabelle and Tatienne gaping at him as well. He had forgotten it was a nobleman's game they were playing. Commonfolk learned it much later than a youth of barely twelve summers.

"A smart one," praised the drunken soldier from before, "teach him well, Isabelle. He has nice hands too. He learning the lute?"

Clive stared down at the callouses that he had earned from holding a sword for the past two years and wondered if that was what it looked like. A joke of a soldier, plucking at strings rather the hilt of a sword. He flushed, embarrassed, and another soldier cooed at him, leaning forward to tilt his chin back, eyes darting across Clive's face almost hungrily.

"Now, now, Edgar, you mustn't touch what you haven't bought," Isabelle said, placing a hand on the man's wrist and flirting her fingers up his arm. "You have to show me a good time later, don't you?"

Reluctantly, the man let go. "When is his blooming?" asked the man at once. "I want to put in a bid."

Isabelle kept her expression schooled in a winsome smile, but there was a crinkle to her eyes that spoke of it being forced. "A bit early, but I will keep that in mind. Too soon to tell when these two will be ready. Well, regardless," she took Edgar's hand and twined their palms together, "you will be first on the list for consideration. How does that sound?"

"Delightful," the man replied, eyes straying back to Clive. "Roll the dice again, lad, and blow on it for good luck."

Isabelle swatted at the man's shoulder, a coy bristle to her voice as she said, "Behave yourself."

Clive didn't have a problem with doing as asked, shaking the dice as Isabelle had done and tucking his hair behind his ear as he leaned forward and blew across the lip of the cup. The man made a choked off sound, eyes gleaming, and a whistle came from the drunken solider. Tatienne collected the bets again as Clive put the cup back on the table, unsure what exactly had set the soldiers off.

After a year of living at the Veil, Clive came to understand a few things about the patrons of their establishment: they did not care about age, and it was the Dame's rules that kept them in line. Too afraid of being banned from the Veil to consider testing the limits when warned. Nights were not without incidents though, as new faces attracted customers by the droves. Those nights were also louder, reeking of musk and thinly concealed barbs for them to join.

On one of those restless nights, Damien told him that Isabelle would be gone for the evening. Running an errand for the Dame. Tatienne was his responsibility for the night, his chambermate had informed him, but the older boy took pity on them and allowed them to help with his customers. Damien had been requested alongside two other courtiers, a private room on the second floor.

It was Clive's first glimpse of the clandestine arrangements made for a group. Aside from the large four-poster and daybed by the fireplace, there was a sectioned off area for bathing. A man was already naked in the tub, leg hiked up on the edge as a courtier reached beneath the water, through the suds, and pleasured him. Another courtier was scrubbing the man's back.

Damien ordered them to the daybed, to sit and watch, as he strided over to the man panting in the tub. "An honor, my lord. Will your guests be arriving soon?"

The man waved him off, arching into the other courtier's touch. "Curse you, lad. One moment!" Once he had finished, knocking his head back to look at Damien still bowed and waiting, the man smirked and said, "They'll be here in a moment or two. But I assure you: I will have you first among them. You do beg so sweetly when you need a cock up your ass."

"Of course," allowed Damien without any argument. "Are you all right with my protégé watching? He has a thing or two to master before his blooming."

The nobleman cut his eyes to Clive and Tatienne. He huffed and turned away from them. "Let them, if you must, but do not let them be a distraction." He stood, fully nude, and gestured for a towel, wiping down as he moved to the bed. "Dress me quickly, Damien. I wouldn't want to keep our guests waiting."

Damien was a lot more docile like this, Clive noted, a frown pulling at his lips as he watched. Was that what clients preferred, or just this one? He cast the thought aside as the other nobles started arriving. There was a familiar face among them, the soldier from the garrison - Edgar. Gleaming dark eyes found Clive and the blond made for the daybed, taking a seat beside Clive. A little too close for comfort. The soldier had the nerve to toss his arm around him, drawing him in, the smell of alcohol already on his breath. "What are you doing here, little angel?"

"I am to watch my betters tonight."

Edgar lit up at the prospect, murmuring near Clive's ear, "Then watch closely, so that you might please me."

In the end, there were five noblemen altogether and he was worried that Damien had tricked him. Baiting them to add numbers to assist the nobles, but that anxious thought disappeared when Damien divided up the clients, claiming the first nobleman for himself while the other two courtiers entertained the rest. Edgar had directed the courtier with dark hair to kneel between his legs as he leaned back on the daybed, eyes flitting to Clive with a smirk.

Another noble came up behind the courtier, unlacing the vest that was tied at the back. Clive didn't know where to look, searching out Tatienne's gaze instead as she caught his hand in a painful grip. At least they were safe here, the men too distracted to do more than look at them. Edgar's gaze in particular left him feeling as if a morbol had swallowed him whole. Hot and slimy on his skin, raking over him, making him feel out of sorts and sick to his stomach.

From near his ear, Edgar moaned and ordered, "Look at me, Rosen." Clive looked up from under lowered eyelashes, aghast at how blatantly close Edgar was. "Good, now down. You wanted to watch, look at it."

The man's cock was half swallowed by the courtier, tears prickling on a flushed face as the courtier struggled to take in its size. But Edgar wasn't easing up, a hand fisted in the courtier's hair as he held him there to be used, thrusting in as soon as Clive was looking. Edgar's cock swelled as it pounded into the back of the other man's throat, balls slapping against a puddle of drool as the courtier was prevented from doing more than taking it. It didn't seem right, that level of discourtesy, and he couldn't keep his eyes there, dropping them to the floor as Tatienne squeezed his hand.

Edgar made a frustrated noise and pulled his cock out, asking the other noble, "Are you done playing with his ass yet? I want to put it in."

Amused, his friend said, "Impatient? That's not like you. But fine. I can suck him off while he sits on you, you know that's what I prefer anyway." He spun the courtier around and Clive tried not to stare at his colleague's naked body, wet dripping down his thighs. "Up you get," the noble said, lifting him up by the hips and giving him a chance to brace on the daybed before lowering him on Edgar's pulsing, eager cock. It sunk in with a twitch of interest, the courtier easing down until Edgar was sheathed to the base.

Clive swallowed and scolded himself for looking at the courtier's face, head thrown back in an expression Clive had never seen. An expression that twisted into a gaping, panting mess as the other noble licked at the tip of his cock and Edgar started thrusting again. It didn't look like it should have felt good, but Clive squirmed in place, mind buzzing with a want to find out. Shame filled him as he adjusted his braies.

Edgar must have noticed, pace wild as he reached over and placed a hand on Clive's thigh, skirting just shy of crossing the line. Fingers dug into the tender meat there and Clive gasped. The sensation of someone touching him, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the smell of spend hitting his nose - it was all too much. Warmth flooded his chest, igniting that eternal flame from before, and Edgar withdrew his hand as if burned. Staring at it as he finished inside the other man and pulled out. He shook off the odd sensation and turned Clive's face to meet his, ghosting his lips across one of Clive's ears as he promised, "One day that will be you."

"As lovely a meal as this is," Elwin said as he put down his cutlery, "I am growing tired of you coddling me like this, King Tharmr."

"Please, call me Barnabas. I have told you, have I not? I spoil you as I always have. Do you not believe me?"

Elwin did not. Nowhere in the echoes of his memories did he recall a spouse who doted on him. At least, not one that did so for any reason other than a means to an end. "What do you want?"

"Pardon?" Barnabas set down his own cutlery now, giving Elwin his undivided attention. "You are mistaken. The only thing I want is to see your cheeks full of food and the plumpening of your belly. Is that so wrong?"

Scoffing, Elwin pushed the meal away. He wouldn't have acted this displeased with the service if Jill had been present, but she was in the library with Sleipnir for the morning. Studying the history of her Eikon: Shiva. His daughter was a Dominant - why did that feel right and wrong at the same time?

"These meals should be given to the commonfolk. I have seen the state of your kingdom, Barnabas. How could you - how could we allow it to get this bad?"

The king indulged him, as he always did, body fully turned in Elwin's direction like a flower seeking the sun. "You have suggestions, dear?"

"War should be the last thing on your mind. It has ravaged this land," he didn't bite his tongue these days, knowing Barnabas would listen. "We must give the people a means of fending for themselves. If you will not offer aid in the form of food, then have them rebuild their own homes. Pay them for their work. They gain the chance for skill and coin. Is that not a better means of their time than wasting away in the streets?"

Barnabas concealed a smile behind his hand, asking, "And you know all of this from one foray into the streets? An expedition, mind you, that I did not allow you to have."

Elwin slammed his hands down on the table and stood, a kindled fire renewed in his breast as he told him, "I know enough to know that this kingdom will be doomed if something doesn't change. You rely too much on your mines. What if they fail?"

"All right," agreed Barnabas easily, "but under one condition."

"Ask it." Elwin braced himself for the worst. The king had grown increasingly bold these days.

"Haha, not that, my dear. No," assured the king, "we will scout the lands ourselves and you can tell me where we should start with these ideas of yours."

Without meaning to, Elwin let slip a smile - one that he quickly hid as he turned his head away. "When do we leave?"

"Immediately," Barnabas promised.

It was as if he had been waiting for Elwin to ask, the trip already prepared and ready. Even the retinue of royalist soldiers had been apprised of the situation, setting out with them at once. Never had he seen as many black chocobos as he had then, as they left the royal capital together. A strange thing to realize, when he should have been living much longer than a scant year with the king.

Traversing the kingdom with Barnabas at his side, it was an experience to say the least. The king took every opportunity to tease him, insisting they were close enough to sit in each other's lap. Or that Elwin should greet him in the mornings with a kiss. He wasn't that bold in the capital, tempered by the watchful eyes of their subjects. But out here, both of them dressed down to blend in with the crowds, Barnabas was using every excuse in the book to touch and prod and test Elwin's fraying nerves. It had gotten to the point that it was detracting from the mission, which was to observe their people's daily lives.

At times, he caught his gaze straying to Barnabas when the king wasn't looking at him. There was something about those unguarded moments that sent his stomach swooping, losing focus on the world around him as he studied the way the king would read a book. Long fingers turning the pages or dog-earring where he stopped. Or the way the man looked when assessing a report, lips pulled down but still appearing good enough to -

Yes, the thoughts had to stop. Something had to give. He decided to confront Barnabas at camp that evening, the fire crackling as they sat together to eat. The rest of the retinue was chased off to the other side, where the actual food for the soldiers and retainers had been set up. Even now, Barnabas was displaying too much consideration, supplying him with a meal fit for a king while the king himself ate the same rations as his men.

Fed up, he shoved the plate into Barnabas's hands and stole his plate instead. Driven by pure frustration, he cut the meat into small squares and raised it to his mouth. He choked on the taste as soon as it hit his tongue, blanching at how spicy it was. "What …?" he coughed, an amused Barnabas handing him a drink.

Spluttering more when the sting of alcohol hit the back of his throat, he stuck out his tongue, gagging, and Barnabas patted him on the back mockingly, asking, "Still think I was pampering you, dear?"

When he had made enough of a fool of himself, Elwin straightened up, wiping across his mouth, flushed as he told him, "It was fine, I have no idea what you mean."

Exasperated, Barnabas caught his chin and tipped his head back, frowning as he searched Elwin's eyes for something. He must have found it, a slow smile taking over. "You allow your tongue to be ravished like that, and yet I can't help you soothe the pain?"

"You …!" The king tilted closer, breath fanning against his lips. Elwin tensed, closing his eyes, preparing for -

Barnabas covered Elwin's mouth with his hand, suppressed mirth causing his shoulders to shake. Elwin stared at him in disbelief. "You are a delight. But no, dearest, it will be not that easy. If you want something, you have to say it."

Breaking free of the king's hold, Elwin turned his head away, biting out, "Well then, I want you to take this journey seriously. We have a kingdom strengthen and you are … you …"

"Yes? What am I doing wrong?"

Abruptly standing, Elwin told him, "I am going to sleep. Do not disturb me." Before marching into the tent and closing the flap with a decisive push. The king had to know what he was doing. It was driving him insane; he wouldn't let him win that easily either.

Clive paused mid-stride of his sword dance, catching his breath as he asked Tatienne, "How was that?" The sword in his hand was nothing but wood, but it was something. A gift from a doting older noble that liked his dances, the art Clive had chosen to study two summers ago.

An angry Isabelle had realized they had too much time on their hands and set them both to tasks, reprimanding Damien for that night where they had been allowed in the room with group clientele. "I told you to keep an eye on them, not for them to keep an eye on you. Lord Jermiah could have done without you for one night." In return, Damien had commented, "Who else pays half so well?" And taken the lashes without complaint.

"It suits you," Tatienne complimented as she braided her long blond hair. "Rosen, there's something you should know about tonight."

"Is it about Damien's dare to light the sword on fire? I know better than to take him at his word, you mustn't worry about me. You were unwell last week."

Her hands stilled and her gaze dropped to her lap. "About that. I … I had my first blood recently. It's. Isabelle is planning our blooming. Mine will be tonight, she's decided on the bidder. But yours is taking longer, she said, and that I shouldn't tell you."

Clive drove his sword into the dirt with a strength that startled her. They weren't too far away from the Veil; they could see it through the trees. This glade was their favorite retreat when they had free time or needed a place to get away. Sometimes they came here to confide in each other. Their worries, their hopes, their fears. He listened to Tatienne with everything he wished he could have given to Joshua, and in return, he shared what he could with Tatienne. She was a sister at this point, and he was furious that Isabelle hadn't told him.

"Tonight?" he repeated. "Who?"

She fidgeted with her dress, a light blue one that covered up more skin than usual. Worn and patched in places. They had both tried their hands at sewing to make it last. It didn't matter that she had nearly outgrown it. "Edgar is impatient to bed you," she deflected, but Clive knew what that meant.

He marched over and grabbed her by the shoulders, eyes wide. "Tell me it's not him. He's -"

"I'm scared," she confided, voice small and unlike the girl she was growing into. The Tatienne he knew was spirited and starting to come out of her shell, no longer tugging on Isabelle's skirts like a child that wanted to hide. No longer running to him when something went wrong. Someone who could learn to stand on her own two feet. For her to admit that - Clive loosened his grip on her and pulled her into a hug, tears dampening the fabric of his shirt. "I don't want this, Rosen. I want to run away."

Clive wished he could do that some days too. But where would they run? There wasn't a single place that wanted them. "It … it's going to be okay," he sought to soothe, messing up her hair as he stroked it. Tatienne hiccupped into his shirt, between a sob and a laugh. "I know." An idea struck him. A surefire way to get them both in trouble, but it would spare Tatienne for tonight. Give her a chance to find someone better. Isabelle could do that. After all, it was Clive who Edgar wanted. "We will switch places at sunset."

It wasn't called the Veil for nothing. During the blooming, they were given veils to wear over their faces for their patron to remove. He had never worn a dress before, but he asked Tatienne, "Will you help me look the part?"

"Rosen!" she scolded, but there was no heat in her reaction. She caught his face in both hands, tears beginning to dry. "Are you serious? The trouble we will be in …"

"After," Clive told her, "we will worry about that after."

She agreed, still looking worried as she led Clive back to the Veil, never letting go of his hand until they were sequestered in her chambers. Isabelle had delivered new dress fittings recently. The two dresses that Tatienne held up were a size bigger than her current frame would allow, made for her to grow into them. She held up the gold one to him, eyes lighting up with wonder.

"I will make you look stunning," Tatienne promised, "but … is this really what you want?"

Drily, Clive told her, "If I can fit in that dress, there isn't anything that could stop me." He may have failed to become First Shield for the Phoenix, for his brother. But he would not fail in protecting Tatienne for as long as he could.

Thankfully, his build was still wiry and lithe, not as broad as some of the other courtiers. He could get away with posing as Tatienne in a darkened room. Though that also meant he wouldn't be dancing tonight. Someone would notice.

"I know the steps," reminded Tatienne, "and Damien has a dark wig that might work. You take my place and I will take yours." She held out her pinky for Clive to join with his, sealing the deal.

Shivering beneath the fluttery black veil, too much of his arms exposed on a chilly night like this, Clive rubbed at his skin to warm it up. Careful not to jostle the golden bands of lace wrapped around his upper muscles. He felt a bit absurd dressing the part, lips heavy with painted red, eyes smoky with shadowed tint, but he knew some of it would have gone toward his own blooming as well.

Admittedly, Edgar liked to whisper in his ear how much he wanted to unravel his hose and sneak a hand up his braies, but a dress would be easier, wouldn't it? He had even shaved his legs, to make everything smooth to the touch. Isabelle stressed that for the girls. And the man seemed to like both.

He bit his lip, anxiety curling in his stomach as the weight of his own decision settled there. It spiked when the door opened, a burst of heat coiling up to wrap around his heart and he gasped, clenching a hand at the front of the dress.

"Oh?" Edgar shut the door behind him, striding forward and coming to a halt before Clive. He stared at the man's boots, struggling to control the racing of his heart. Something in him was screaming wrong, wrong, wrong. It worsened as the man grabbed the veil and tossed it aside, stunned for a moment before a rakish grin spread across his face. "Did the Dame change Isabelle's mind? What a heaven-sent surprise."

The man didn't wait or hesitate, latching onto Clive's neck as he straddled him on the bed. He hiked up the dress with one hand, the other pinning Clive in place. "Greagor, I have waited and waited for this moment. Imagining you calling my name is nothing on having you beneath me."

Discomfort setting in, Clive told him, "Wait!" He was heating up too much, feeling feverish to the touch. Fire sparking wherever Edgar put his hands or lips, but it didn't seem to be bothering the man this time. Either that, or Edgar was ignoring the warmth in favor of continuing, kissing down to the cut of his dress and tugging it free to reveal perked nipples that he caught in his mouth.

Clive bit at his own hand to stave off the noise he almost made, but Edgar swatted at him to drop it, claiming his lips for his with a surge of possession that unsettled Clive. A hot tongue raked through his mouth without care, attempting to coax him into submission. And something flared in his chest again, wrath unfolding from where it had curled around his heart.

With a yowl, Edgar drew back, massaging at lips in confusion. "What sort of game are you playing at, lad?"

"I … not me," Clive insisted, "it shouldn't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," the man told him as he began to pull out his belt. He tied Clive's hands above his head, licking his lips. "You have teeth, I'll give you that. And I like that more than the docile type, but not for a first time, aye? Lay back and take it, Rosen. I will be gentle, but if you test me …"

Clive turned to face the wall, letting the man hike up his dress. He wasn't wearing anything under and Edgar seemed to find that funny, leaning down to breathe in his ear, "Were you that excited to have me? Took your friend's place because you couldn't wait either?"

He wasn't hard yet, but Edgar took his flaccid cock in hand and pumped, rolling his balls in his hands as if they weighed nothing. It didn't take long under the attention to have him at full mast, Edgar thumbing at the tip in fascination. "This part is as pretty as I imagined. Matches that face. Going to cover it in cum by the end of the night. Your face, your ass, your cock. All of it. Mine," decided Edgar, sneaking his hand down to pry Clive open dry and insert a finger.

It hurt and he clenched hard around the intrusion. "Relax," the man urged, "I won't put more in, I just want to feel you. I can't …" Trailing off, Edgar rutted against his exposed hip, moaning into Clive's ear. "Petal soft and firm at the same time. Unholy angel. That's what you are."

He didn't like the feeling, squirming to get it out as Edgar pressed him harder into the mattress. Ways to escape the bonds flashed through his mind, thoughts sharpened to a fine point as he narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth as Edgar tried to lean in for another kiss. The man stopped, a laugh breaking free before he shoved his finger in further, eating up the gasp Clive gave as he sealed their lips together.

When Edgar was satisfied, he pulled it out and started undressing, the tenting of his trousers obscene. Once he was naked, the man found a bottle of oil that Clive had sat on the bedside table, giving it a sniff of approval before slathering his fingers in it. Wiggling them at Clive with promise. "Going to fuck you with these first, make you whine. You ever played with yourself here, lad?" He pushed two cold fingers in with little to no warning, sliding them right in and parting Clive with enough force to hurt.

Tension built in his gut. A reminder of: wrong, wrong, wrong. He breathed out and responded to Edgar with a shake of his head, lips pressed too tight to answer with words. He had never touched there. It wasn't against the rules, but he had felt like it was something he shouldn't do. A choice that left him unprepared when Edgar dragged his fingers against a spot that stoked a raging fire in him and he arched his back, feet planted on the bed as he buried himself deeper on those fingers.

"Beautiful," Edgar gushed, "yes, that's it. More, give me more. I want to know every face you can make. Every single one, I want to see them all. You try to be stone cold, Rosen, but look at you. Burning up with every touch."

Clive did feel like he was burning up, mouth opening to pant. It was stifling, the pressure inside him, the inferno blazing to a fierce roar. He lost control of the fire when Edgar struck that spot again and he keened.

"Son of a bitch!" The man cursed, withdrawing his hand. It was burnt, red splotches glowing from fingertip to joint. He seemed baffled how it had happened. "Don't tell me … can't be. I was about to fuck a bloody Bearer!" Disgusted, the man wiped his hands on the blanket and stood, still hard despite the revulsion coloring his face. He seemed torn between whether he wanted to continue or not. "Answer me, Rosen. Are you a Bearer?"

"No!" Clive denied. He didn't know what had happened either. It wasn't true. At fifteen summers, he should have known if he had magick or not. The Phoenix hadn't Blessed him either. He was nothing. "Please, that's not … no." He hadn't realized tears were pooling in his eyes until Edgar thumbed at them, a serious expression shuttering the arousal behind it.

"It doesn't have to be put inside to feel good," Edgar relented, kissing at the side of Clive's lips before climbing back over him and straddling his waist. "Roll over. Let me finish before we talk."

Clive obeyed, letting Edgar hold his bound wrists in place above his head as the man raised his ass to the air and slipped his cock between Clive's thighs, already damp from pre-cum and the oil. "Close them tight, but not too tight," warned the man, gripping Clive hard by the hip. "Do it right and I won't hurt you." He thrust between the gap, remorseless, pulling back with a groan of pleasure. "That's good. Just like that. Stay still. Pretty fucking Bearer," he mumbled into Clive's hair. "You won't be running when I mark that face of yours. Going to get my hands on you, won't let you go."

Fear unfurled in his chest and Clive burned through the bonds without thinking, snarling, "You won't brand me. Never." He rolled out from under him, feeling heat build unbidden in his hands as he clenched them into fists. Fight or flight instinct overriding common sense, he swung at Edgar and stood, the dress falling back into place as he adjusted it to cover his chest. He would pay dearly for that, but it felt good in the moment.

Unfortunately, the commotion had drawn the attention of the last person he wanted to see. Isabelle had entered with a reprimand on her tongue, stopping short as she took in the fallen veil on the floor and Clive's state. Her eyes skirted from the burns on Edgar's hands to the bruises marring Clive's skin. Acting fast, she placated, "Forgive him, my lord. He acted without thinking. Anything that transpired here, need I remind you, is to be kept quiet. Lest you wish to be barred from accessing the Veil's many delights."

"… Fine," conceded Edgar as he rubbed at his cheek, cock pulsing harder even at the outrage. "Come over here, Isabelle. You know how I like it. Show me how much you want this to stay our little secret."

Smiling beatifically, she gestured for Clive to leave. "Of course, my lord. You deserve exemplary treatment for your understanding. Rosen, we will speak later. Go to your room and clean yourself up."

He didn't have to be told twice, fleeing the room. His chamber was empty and dim when he entered, and he shut the door with a decisive bang. With a shuddering breath, he collapsed to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, crying into his arms for what felt like hours before he could stop.

A Bearer. He was a bloody Bearer. They would have him marked and degraded until there was nothing left. Isabelle couldn't protect him forever.

Cidolfus,

I am seeking your help once more. The roses I purchased are unable to bloom. Too much water or sun, I am unsure. But that was when I remembered you. Last time, you gave me that perfect vase and they bloomed without difficulty after that.

You must come by and allow me to repay you.

Yours in closest confidence,

Isabelle

Cid sat the letter aside and buried his head in his hands. After two years of venturing the kingdom far and wide, repairing the structure of alliances and commonfolk alike, Barnabas had returned to sit on his throne once more. Yet Cid was still stuck here in the study, drowning under work because his king was too busy making doe-eyes at Elwin Rosfield.

Yes, he was aware who the man was by now, and he had made sure his king knew as well. But Barnabas refused to see reason and return the man. The man who had a wife and two - wait, no, the eldest had passed from illness three summers ago - leaving but one child waiting. They couldn't keep him forever. The sooner his king learned it wasn't going to work, the easier things would be.

The problem? Elwin was starting to fold. He wanted to gag every time he caught them almost making eye contact, only to turn away like youths in a passionate spring. And some of the things he had heard his king say. There wasn't enough cotton to stuff his ears with these days. Sappy and sweet was not how he would have described his tyrant of a king, but where Elwin was concerned, the man crumpled like a wet sheet.

Now he had one more problem to go along with the first: Isabelle had another Bearer amongst her blossoms. Why, he thought to himself mournfully, did sex always drag out the latent ones? Was it the fear, the excitement, the freaks that liked to stick their dick anything that moved? No, no, he was taking out his frustration with Barnabas on that last one. (Of all the men in Valisthea, why did it have to be Elwin Rosfield? The same archduke that the Rosarians had never stopped looking for? Well, one good thing had come from his travels to search for who Elwin was: he found a daughter to call his own. Small wonders never cease.)

At least a Bearer was a quicker fix than his king.

He would put in an order with Blackthorne, have him make a crystal bracelet to help the Bearer keep their magick in check. It would also bypass any screenings those imperialistic fanatics liked to conduct. That should keep her satisfied until he could take a look for himself. Maybe give the Bearer a go if he was lucky; it had been too long since he had a chance to cut loose.

With a groan, he recalled her wording and nixed that idea immediately. Unable to bloom meant too young for him. The last one had been older when a client had gotten violent; the girl had used ice to freeze the bastard in place. From the sounds of it, that had been harder to cover up than whatever transpired this time.

Not his business, he scolded his inquisitive mind, already penning out a missive to send to Dhalmekia. It shouldn't take too long to hear back and he could put her mind at ease. That settled, he stood to find where Barnabas had put the wax. He would make a proper seal and deter anyone from sullying the King of Waloed's express mail.

Someone knocked on the open doorway and he glanced toward the culprit, offering an indulgent smile when he saw who it was. "Jill, what brings you here?"

"My lord, I have a question." She held up a hefty tome with both hands, bright-eyed and intrigued by something she had discovered. "There is a passage here about the Twin Flames of Rosaria. Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

Jill placed the book on his desk, flipping through to the page that she had been reading. "Here. See? Maybe this could spark Lord Elwin's memory."

"Don't let the king hear you talking like that," Cid grumbled as he walked over to see the passage. It was written in Old Valisthean and he commended Jill for her effort. Not only had she begun studying a near dead language, but she had taken pains to learn the language of Waloed. In her words, it was best to be prepared - to know thine enemy.

Cid often wondered if she viewed them as the enemy, or perhaps she was planning ahead for a life here. She was a difficult one to read, even on the best of days. And Barnabas didn't help, threatening her to keep her mouth shut about Elwin's past. She had relented at the time, saying it wasn't her place to do such a thing. Yet here she was, plotting treason.

Folding her arms across her chest, a Northern pendant swinging at her neck, she said, "That is up for him to decide, isn't it? Besides, I want to hear his thoughts on it more than I want to change his mind on anything!" She sounded defensive, an embarrassed flush to her cheeks. "He's been teaching me an old sword dance that every Shield in Rosaria knows, did you know that?"

Cid rubbed at his beard, carding a thumb across it as he frowned. No, he hadn't heard about that. It implied Elwin's memory was coming back. Slow as a daft hare but sure as the ever-burning embers of the Phoenix. Barnabas ought to be informed. Someone should do that. Ah, he couldn't be bothered, dropping his gaze to the passage and squinting. "How much does he suspect already?" he mused aloud.

"He didn't know the name of the sword dance," Jill admitted, ducking her head. "I looked it up myself. It's called the Wrath of the Flames."

"Wrath of the Flames? Ha, that sounds about right for what the good king is going to receive when Lord Elwin remembers himself."

With a giggle, Jill pointed to the line in particular that had caught her interest, reciting, "The book says, 'On the eve of the last sunset, the Twin was borne of Fire and the Phoenix loved him so.' What do you make of that?"

"A twin to the first Phoenix? Never heard of such a thing," confessed Cid. "For it to be struck from history, there must have been a reason."

"A mystery," breathed Jill. "It's fascinating. Shiva keeps telling me it's important too."

Cid gave a start, looking at her sharply. "The snow fairy's talking?"

"Ah, I misspoke." Jill snatched up her book, pressing it to her chest. "She … there's an impression in my mind. She wants me to find this other half of Fire. Like a calling."

Ramuh stirred in his mind. That damned old man eavesdropping no doubt. Flashes of a boy were provided, dark haired with a shy smile, eyes as blue as aether filled crystals. He watched him age into a young man, too fast to catch more than the loss of that smile and a flutter of blue at his wrist. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out. He didn't know what the geezer was implying, but he didn't like it. And he didn't have time to go hunting for some unknown kid.

"How's Mid?" he asked to distract from the disconcerting thoughts.

Jill beamed, thrilled to share, "She took her first steps yesterday! You missed it."

Of course he had. Curse that stupid king.

Thunderous applause welcomed Clive after he finished his usual routine, spinning to a stop and bowing for the patrons. The common area was thick with smoke and the lingering fragrance of the chosen incense for the night. Isbaelle must have splurged to celebrate taking over for the retiring Dame, wanting to make a statement with something expensive. It smelled similar to what his uncle had once favored, the memory so distant he couldn't even recall the name of it.

Tatienne handed him a small towel and he dried the sweat from his forehead and neck, catching his breath. Groups of dancers continued where he left off, instruments picking up the pace to encourage patrons to enjoy a more light-hearted tune. At least with this, he felt like he knew what he was doing. The movements structured and precise. Nothing left to the imagination.

"He's here again," Tatienne whispered lowly, the slightest scowl on her face, "doesn't he have a life?"

Clive refrained from laughing as soon as he saw who she was talking about, shrinking into himself as he tried to look as small as possible. No easy feat after his recent growth throughout the years. He was taller than Tatienne now and broader by far. It didn't help that his muscles had filled out from the training and he wasn't a lean stick anymore, quick to blend in with a crowd.

From across the room, Edgar caught his gaze and smirked, holding up a ticket that Clive dreaded. "I should go. Isabelle will be displeased if I refuse him again."

"He's here every night," Tatienne replied, scoffing, "it's going to fall off at some point." Emboldened by the tiniest of chuckles from Clive, she continued, "And good riddance too. I've never known a bigger prick."

Covering his mouth with the back of his hand to hide a smile, Clive reminded her, "But he pays well enough."

"Oh, like you care about paying off your debt. I heard you talking with Isabelle, you know, the other night. This whole thing with that bastard is performative, isn't it? Let him wait. He doesn't even touch you anymore."

Not exactly the truth, but he didn't have the heart to correct her. He wasn't sure how much she had overheard. Tucking a too long strand of hair behind his ear, the bracelet on his wrist fell down to his lower arm and he watched it sparkle in the dim lighting, casting its own pale glow. No, he couldn't tell her: Edgar didn't touch him, but that didn't stop the man from touching himself. The man seemed to get off on marking his face with semen, particularly the left side, and it curdled his stomach something fierce every time. Still, it was better than the alternative: Branding. A permanent fixture he would never be rid of, not nearly as quick to wipe away as spend.

Unhooking the necklace a patron had given him, glimmering gold that he didn't deserve, he handed the finery to Tatienne and asked her to put it back upstairs. Edgar didn't like when he wore other people's gifts around him. Often they were destroyed.

With nothing else to delay him, Clive approached as he was expected and bowed. "My lord, you honor me with your presence. Shall we retire to the usual room?"

Edgar gave a hum and gestured for him to kneel between his spread legs. "Here will suffice. I have some news to share." The settee was comfortable enough and Edgar tucked his arms on either side of the back, making it clear no one else was to come near their little corner. "Through the cloth should be fine, suck," ordered Edgar, his cock already half hard when Clive found it with his lips. He worked it through the trousers until it peaked, straining against its covering. This was different, and he didn't know how to feel about it.

One thing was certain: it meant Edgar was growing bold again. Bad enough he was chasing clients away from buying his time. Now Edgar wanted to make a statement to the whole room. Isabelle had warned him against always giving the man his way, and he still remembered the stinging slap from that day, as she asked, "Do you have no respect for yourself? They are not the ones in control. We are. This is our house, these are our rules. Show them you are not to be trifled with."

Hollowing his cheeks, he pulled in as much as he could, gagging a bit from the taste of sweat and grime. He would have to wash his mouth out after. At least Edgar seemed to find it to his liking, burying rough hands into his hair and pulling. On a stuttered breath, Edgard told him, "You might be interested to know you will be having some guests soon. I'm not one to share." That, Clive knew too well. "But this isn't just anyone. Word has it the Crown Prince will be completing his training here in Northreach. My garrison! Ha," breathed Edgar heavily, rutting forward, "going to show him a good time. Have to make a showing of it. You will be good, won't you?"

Clive pulled off his cock and kissed the underside, looking up at him from beneath his lashes as he said, "Would you like that? For me to show the prince what he can't have?"

Edgar swore, spilling in his trousers. "Yes, just like that. Wind him up until he can't stand it." He let go of Clive's hair and started cleaning himself up with a handkerchief, a satisfied grin curling the edges of his lips. "We'll see how pure Bahamut can be when faced with temptation. I'm looking forward to it."

Clive wasn't. If he was remembering correctly, the Crown Prince of Sanbreque was no older than his brother would be. Not more than sixteen summers. He didn't want to be anyone's first time when he didn't know what he was doing himself.

Once Edgar had scrubbed off as much as he could, he wiped the excess on Clive's cheek, leaving the skin feeling tacky and wet. He could imagine what it looked like; he had seen it enough times when Edgar was done. Semen blotted like a devilish claim, crisscrossed by hand into an intentional 'X' across his cheek.

Standing abruptly, feeling sick to his stomach, he made for the stairs. But he stopped before ascending, tossing a coquettish smile to the room. A firm stance; Isabelle said to show them who was in control. He would. The only way to keep the fire contained, to keep it from spreading. He wasn't afraid of it anymore, but sometimes he could feel his tenuous hold on it slipping.

No matter. He forced himself to take the stairs with every measure of elegance he could muster, at his leisure, all too aware of the eyes that followed him until he was out of sight. When he was alone in his room, only then did he scrub at his cheek until it went raw, leaving a red blotch behind. It would have to do.

Running a comb through his hair, Dion had to wonder if this was worth the pageantry. He had dressed as Terence recommended: loose clothing with a trace of nobility in their design. His wardrobe mostly consisted of white, but he had purchased a light blue vest for the occasion to add a bit of color. Terence had teased him and asked who he was trying to impress. And Dion had bit his tongue to refrain from saying, "I was hoping you would be impressed."

His friend hadn't taken the bait either, when he asked him to help lace it in the back, to draw it as tight as possible. A task he pretended no other servant could accomplish but his squire. Terence had scoffed and sent in a burly maid who had arranged the laces in one swift go. As impressive as that was, he had scolded Terence for bothering the servants. They had other matters, surely, to attend in Northreach's bustling garrison.

Terence had gone off to dress as well and Dion waited for him impatiently, arms crossed and foot tapping at the stone floor. Each clack of his heel more unforgiving than the last. At least he wasn't disappointed when his squire returned, black hair slicked back, chest accented by a white button-down, trousers hugging the solid lines of him.

Wetting dry lips, Dion turned his head away before he stared too long. "Ready?"

"As ever," allowed Terence. "Shall we?"

Dion sighed and followed his friend out the door. He had to show his face, nothing more. Admittedly, this was not a normal social gathering, but he had every intention of sneaking away as soon as possible. He would rather spend the night stretching Bahamut's wings beneath the full moon; his Eikon seemed to enjoy that.

The establishment wasn't one he was familiar with. That wasn't saying much, as he didn't make it a habit of frequenting brothels. Terence had lectured him after hearing him say that, insisting that courtesans were not the same as whores from the Pleasure District. Dion had yet to be persuaded. They both sold their bodies, what was the difference? His friend had insisted he was in for a treat then.

The Veil seemed a bleak place from the outside, the same as any other whorehouse. There was faint light drifting through the windows, shrouded by thick curtains, and an oddly somber song in the air. As far as first impressions went, Dion wasn't looking forward to the venture. And the cloying smell as soon as they entered made him want to walk right back out.

Terence grabbed his arm before he could do that, reading his mind in that uncanny way of his. "Come on, I've heard good things about this place. They have a sword dance that I know you will love."

That had his attention as he asked, "They have a courtesan with that sort of talent?"

Grinning, Terence led him to a table in the hazy common area, placing an order for two ales before gesturing to the dancers gracefully gliding across the floor in time with the music. They kept to one area, self-contained, poetry in motion as their bodies moved as one. It was something he would have expected from the imperial court's form of entertainment and the realization hit him, noting familiar faces. Buxom women that his father had admired the last time he was in Whitewyrm Castle.

Uncomfortable, he diverted his gaze elsewhere, snagging on a young man quietly murmuring with a courtesan. He didn't look like the part of a patron, dressed in a flattering tunic that dipped to reveal his chest and tied at the waist with a sash. The sleeves had gaps from shoulder to wrist, leaving little to the imagination regarding the muscles beneath. And Dion was embarrassed to note the man had his undergarments exposed, pale white braises against dark blue hose.

"Pretty, isn't he?" Their host had deigned to join them, bowing to them both at the waist as he said, "Pardon my lateness, there was trouble with a sentry. False alarm." Terence narrowed his eyes at the man but said nothing, returning his attention to the dancers as he sipped at his tankard.

"No matter, Lord Laicroix," Dion dismissed out of politeness. "And you know that man?" Against his better judgement, he wanted to know more. This wasn't a world he often found himself in; he might as well make the most of it.

"He will be our private entertainment for the evening, Your Highness," promised Laicroix. "Only the best for imperial blood." With a wave of his hand, he added, "There will be others, of course, if he's not to your taste. A variety of them. You may have first choice, as is your right."

"I see." The man's tone set him on edge. "Terence, when is that sword dance meant to start?"

"Soon," promised Laicroix, and Dion followed the man's gaze back to the young man from before. He had received a wooden sword from the courtesan, striking it with a crystal bracelet to light a flame that burned through to the hilt. The fire stopped when it met the man's hand, bending to his will as he swung it, testing to make sure it would hold and the smallest of smiles brightening his face when it did. "Oh, that's a new trick," Laicroix commented, a catch to his voice before he cleared his throat.

A ripple of murmurs filled the room before quiet set in, the music drawing to a close. The tempo for the next song was stronger, more vibrant, exuding power as the man stepped into the circle of dancers and slashed through the air. He gave a stately bow to his partners and they flirted around him, careful of his fire as they giggled and blew kisses in the air before retreating to give him space.

Dion watched with bated breath as the man moved, cycling through stances with an effortless, trained ease. Body glistening with sweat from the heat of the fire and the strength behind every swing of the sword. Dark hair had pulled back in a loose half bun that slowly came undone with every spin, every thrust. He wasn't sure when, but Dion found he had gripped the table with enough force to make it crack. Terence sent him an amused glance before returning to the dancer, noticeably shifting in his seat and crossing his legs.

A spike of irrational annoyance shot through him. He could do that too. In a real fight, he would have pinned that man to ground and - Doubly annoyed at his own body's response, he pulled himself closer to the table and drank deeply from his tankard.

At the end of the song, the man took one last bow and snuffed out the flame. With a noticeable parting of his lips on a heavy breath, many patrons whistled and called for him to join them, but he held up a hand and revealed he was taken for the night. Tossing his sword in the air, he caught it and gave a Sanbrequois salute while looking directly at Dion. It sent a jolt of exhilaration through him, suddenly wondering how much longer he had to wait for private entertainment.

Terence was giving him a filthy smirk that he had never seen his friend wear before. "Was that all it took, really?"

"I may have been persuaded," he conceded. Draining the ale to the last dregs, he asked their host, "How much does he cost for a night?" Dion wasn't planning to purchase anything of the sort, but an itch in the back of his mind wanted to know. That was all.

"Oh, he's not for sale." Laicroix leered in the man's direction, patting his lap when the courtier met his gaze. The man glided over, boots clicking on the wooden floorboards, louder than even the pounding of Dion's heart. Not even the music could drown out his approach. As if a common occurrence, the man settled on Laicroix's lap, careful not to touch more than he had to as he held on with an arm around the nobleman's neck. Laicroix trailed his fingers over the courtier's chest, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "He's mine."

"Yeah?" Terence didn't hold his tongue. "Last I checked, that wasn't allowed unless you had the gil."

Lacroix masked a glare behind a layer of polite indifference. "Money talks. You are not wrong, young lord. A good thing I have more than enough to spare." A casual posturing that Dion had long grown tired of seeing. "Let us retire to our room for the evening. I will show you what he's worth. Rosen, lead them there. I won't be but a moment."

Rosen. Was he named after a rose? There was a golden hairpin holding up his hastily fixed hair, the adornment spun into the shape of a blooming rose at the end. It suited him. Rosen noticed his stare and covered it with a hand, making ready to pull it free. Dion shook his head at once. "Leave it. I like the way it looks."

The man gave him a strange look, eyes darting to Laicroix's retreating back. There was a calculation behind those darkened blue eyes. A consideration of something that Dion didn't understand. "He is not your ruler tonight," corrected Dion, lowering his voice, "I am."

Terence gaped, asking, "Are you the same Dion Lesage I know?"

A flush overtook his face, but the words had the intended effect. Rosen settled and led them to the room upstairs, holding the door for them and giving one last look down the hall. As if making sure he was safe. Peculiar as that was, he decided not to give it too much thought.

"Would you like to bathe first, Your Highness? Lord Edgar won't be long. He is most likely collecting the others that will join us."

Out of his depth already, Dion nodded. Terence had taken a seat on the nearby daybed, kicking off his boots as he laid back and propped up his head. Fully prepared to watch, the bastard.

Rosen undid the laces holding Dion's vest in place and eased it off with gentle but worn fingers that skirted through the thin shirt he was wearing underneath. He shivered at the feel of it, not used to the intimacy it implied, and Rosen stilled his hands. "Should I not …?"

"Continue," ordered Dion, hoping the waver in his words wasn't heard. The man proceeded to slip him out of his shirt and then kneeled to work on his shoes, face too close to Dion's crotch when switched his attention to his trousers afterwards. Hot breath fanned across his cock as soon as it was exposed and the traitorous thing gave a twitch of appreciation at the picture Rosen painted on his knees.

"Enough." The dismissal cut the moment in half and Rosen stood at once, shying away to retrieve a crystal to fill the tub. It was just the right temperature, to his surprise, sinking into the warm water with a happy groan. After days of travel to arrive in Northreach, it felt nice to have a chance to unwind. Even better was the service, Rosen massaging oils into his back to coax the tension from his muscles.

Warm breath tickled his ear as the man asked, "Does this please you, Your Highness?"

Dion gave a faint hum, sinking lower in the tub. Rosen's hands followed upwards, kneading into his neck and then his hair. He closed his eyes and allowed the man to do what he wished. Between the warmth in his belly and the relaxing heat of the tub, he found it easy to doze off - and he trusted Terence to alert him if anything went wrong.

"Ah!" A gasp next to his ear startled him, and he blinked his eyes open, finding his squire had joined them near the tub. Terence had caged the courtier against the wood, whispering something in his ear that had the man turning red all the way down to his neck.

Noticing Dion was awake, his friend smirked and nodded in greeting. "Morning, princess."

Rolling his eyes, he stood and gestured for the courtier to hand him a towel. "Is there any point in dressing?"

"Robes are provided, free of charge," answered Rosen, helping to dry Dion's hair while Dion ran another towel down his body. "The Dame ordered silk for your arrival, Your Highness."

"I was expected?" Now that was curious. How long had Laicroix been planning this? "Bring it here then." With the courtier's dutiful hands, they made quick work of tying the sash closed and Dion joined Terence on the daybed. Their knees brushed and he risked leaving it there. His friend didn't seem to mind, gaze following Rosen around the room.

The courtier was placing oil near the bed when Laicroix made a reappearance, accompanied by a petite blond woman and a redheaded courtier. Their host closed the door with unnecessary force, stony eyes flitting from Dion's robed figure to Rosen, forcing a smile. "I did say you would have first choice, Your Highness. I should have been clear. Rosen wasn't one of the choices."

Terence grimaced at his side, looking away from the courtier. But Dion met the other noble's gaze, bemused. "Then why is he here?"

It seemed not even Laicroix was bold enough to say he had bought Rosen for the night to show off. "My apologies," Laicroix amended, "if he's who you want -"

Dion spared him, waving his hand. "I will take the other courtier then." The redhead took a seat beside him, enough space for three on the daybed, and the other courtesan sat on Terence's lap with a flutter of colorful skirts. His friend accommadated her weight easily, wrapping an arm around her waist and teasing her sides.

His courtier turned his gaze to him, leaning forward to kiss along his neck. From this angle, he wasn't able to tell what Terence was doing with the woman, but he could presume from the little gasps she was making. It was enough to bring him to hardness, imagining what his squire was doing. The thickness of his hands, the callouses from their training, the feel of them inside -

The resounding sound of a slap stopped everyone in the room. The redhead cursed, springing from his seat with an angry shout of, "Did you pay extra for that, you piece of hellfire shit …!"

Rosen's cheek was swollen from the blow, his face turned to them, gaze far away and unfocused. Dion stood as well, placing a hand on his courtier's shoulder and drawing him back. This was the perfect excuse to leave. He wasn't intending to go much further than this. At most, he would have allowed a handjob to save face amongst the nobles who liked this sort of entertainment, but now. No need to continue when the mood was already dead.

"Indeed," Dion spoke with the intonation of a prince to be obeyed, "what is the meaning of this, Lord Laicroix?"

The nobleman stared down at his hand and slowly started laughing. "Unbelievable. No fire in you today?"

Rosen tensed, blinking back into awareness. "Double the price, or the Dame will have you banned."

"It's him, isn't it? You want his cock, playing all docile. Pretending you won't burn him too. Not on my watch. I've been patient, Rosen, the least you can do is let me have you."

"All right." Dion couldn't believe the courtier was humoring the man, stripping out of his shirt and settling on the bed. "See if you can manage not to get burned, my lord."

"Rosen …!" seethed the redhead. The young woman had stood as well, straightening her dress with a tight expression on her face. "Tatienne, get the Dame!"

Laicroix reached down and retrieved the sash that Rosen had dropped. It was a translucent piece of fabric, but it was unyielding when the man tugged on it, tying the courtier's hands with it and jerking them behind Rosen's head, ordering, "Hold." He grabbed the hairpiece as he did so, freeing dark hair from its confines and snapping the adornment in two. "No one can have you," the man proclaimed as he let the destruction fall to the floor, "do you understand me?"

"You speak a lot for a man who has never once pleased me," snapped Rosen, a spark of fire rippling across an ocean of wrath. "You want me to be a spectacle for your guests, make me want you. Go on. Try."

Spurred on, Laicroix discarded the courtier's boots and gripped one side of the hose in his hands, breathing heavily through his nose, pupils blown wide. "This side of you, is it for him? Is that what it takes?"

Rosen glanced at Dion in apology and then steeled his expression. "Yes. You have nothing I want. Keep your money. All I need is your silence."

Voice cracking on a laugh, the noble ripped the hose down the side as he tore it off. "That's all? You think you are worth it?"

"Shut up and fuck me, Edgar, if you are so desperate for it. Or are you too scared? I'm sure His Highness has bigger balls than you do. Let him give it a go."

At that, Dion decided to step in. He may not understand the underlying conflict, but he would calm them all the same. Rosen had taken the heckling too far. "Remove your hands, Lord Laicroix. Do not disgrace yourself any further."

"You can't have him." There was a maddened glint in Laicroix's eyes as he faced Dion, tossing the hose to floor as if he was challenging him to a fight. Dion bristled at the action, taking a step forward as Bahamut reared to life under his skin. Threat, eliminate, the dragon agreed with a rumble. They did not take kindly to others claiming things in front of them. "Stay back!"

The man dared to grab Rosen by the neck, using him as a barrier. Dion scowled at the cowardice, but Terence grabbed his shoulder and prevented him from tearing the man apart. "He could injury the man. Let me handle this." His squire turned frosty eyes on Laicroix, asking, "Is there to be peace or not?"

Laicroix tightened his grip on Rosen's throat and Dion snarled, scales rippling down his arms and claws lengthening. He blinked in bemusement, not intending to semi-prime, tail thumping in agitation. Rosen was staring at him in fascination, paying no mind to the man choking him. Bahamut was preening with every glint of scales, beckoning the man to look at them. It was disconcerting. His Eikon had never once behaved like this before.

Out of fear, the nobleman released Rosen and lunged for Terence. An unwise move. His knight pinned the man to ground and restrained his hands behind his back. "Know your place," Terence told him, "I may be young, but I am no gutless knave. I am a retainer to the Crown Prince of Sanbreque. Would he keep just anyone at his side?"

Dion gave a mirthless chuckle at that, releasing the aether that Bahamut was drawing in. "Call the guards," he directed to the other courtier, coming over to look down at Laicroix. "Why are you fixated on him? A whore is a gil a dozen." He regretted the words as soon as Rosen flinched and stopped looking at him, lowering his bound hands. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the courtier untie himself, impressed. "Find another. This one is under the protection of the Lesage household."

Laicroix mumbled something into the floor, cackling, and Dion crouched to hear him. "I'm sure His Radiance will be thrilled to learn that his son is fucking a Bearer."

Terence cast a sharp glance at Rosen and Dion clicked his tongue, revolted. Not at the thought of Rosen being a Bearer, but the implication. He would do nothing so crude. "Rosen is correct. You speak too much for a man with no future. Terence, gag him."

It was fitting that his squire chose the torn hose to latch around the man's mouth. Let him take it with him. Dion would buy Rosen a set of less tattered ones.

The Dame arrived first, assessing the room, relief flashing across her face when she found Rosen in one piece. She marched over and grabbed the young man by the ear, dragging him out of the room with a holler of, "Foolish boy! How much nonsense goes through that mind of yours!" From the hallway to the stairs, she lectured him for everyone to hear.

Once they were in the Dame's office, Isabelle let go and placed both hands on her desk, shoulders shaking. "I can't believe that absurd plan of yours worked," she laughed, wiping tears from her eyes as she spun to face him. "How did you know it would?"

Clive shrugged, accepting the shawl that Isabelle provided him, draping it over his mauled form. "It was a chance I was willing to take. Edgar was becoming a nuisance. And if there's one thing that never fails where nobles are concerned: they love their pecking orders. Aside from the emperor and the cardinals, who has more sway than the Crown Prince?"

"Clever," complimented Isabelle as she leaned back on the desk, hip jutting into the edge as she tapped her nails against her arms. "This isn't over, of course. He has a loose mouth when he doesn't get what he wants. Are you prepared for that … Clive?"

Staggered, Clive asked her, "What did you call me?"

"Your name, boy. It hasn't even been more than six summers, have you forgotten?"

"No … you knew?"

It was Isabelle's turn to shrug, watching him closely. "I suspected. The news was everywhere when I bought you, and it was obvious someone had tried to kill you. There was little choice, I had to get you far away from there. Who was it?" Clive kept his mouth shut, refusing to elaborate, and Isabelle told him on a sigh, "Fine, but don't bring that mess here. What if they try again? I need you around, how else am I going to keep fleecing all the idiots of Valisthea for nothing more than a glimpse of your pretty mug?"

"Live to serve," Clive acknowledged with a silly salute. Isabelle cuffed him upside the head, promising to discipline him in the morning.

True to word, she had him running laps around the garrison's training yard as soon as the sun rose and the roosters were crowing. From the attention the soldiers were giving his every move and the whispers following him, he hazarded to guess her other intention was to spread rumors that he was sweet on the Crown Prince and vying for a chance to see him. It must have worked, because the prince didn't hesitate to confront him that afternoon.

Or that was what he thought was happening until Dion guided him under a tree and asked him to sit on an obviously prepared blanket. Were they having a picnic? In public? The prince must have lost his common sense by accident. He hesitated to comply, but it was the sorrowful eyes that had him giving in. "What is it, Your HIghness?"

"I was afraid I would have to wait until night, but here you are." A curl of amusement lingered on Dion's lips, amber eyes lighting up with genuine joy at his company. Clive stiffened at the attention, unwilling to believe it. There had to be a catch somewhere. "There was something I wanted to give you."

The box was light in his lap. It couldn't possibly be anything extravagant, he told his racing heart. Even then, he should return it. He wasn't supposed to accept gifts outside of work hours. It set a bad precedent.

"Open it," Dion ordered with that imperious tone from last night. Cute, he thought, knowing that the prince was putting on an act. Too much experience with nobles who did mean it - well, it made him acutely aware of the ones who hid behind the facade. Once upon a time, he would have ended up as one of those as well. "What do you think? Is the color to your liking?"

Clive gaped at the uncouth gift. How the hell did he tell the prince that endowing a courtesan with clothes was only done when you were that courtesan's favored lover? He shut the box with a snap and handed it back. "I cannot accept." Besides, the fabric alone would have too many people asking questions. Not to mention the color. What were the odds of the prince picking red? "Thank you for the consideration, but I have no need of it."

"A pity. You would look fetching in it. I bought the tunic to match, or is it too much?"

Too much, he wanted to say, but he held back the vitriol. The prince had the air of someone who had no idea what he was doing. He would give him the benefit of the doubt. "Your money is better spent elsewhere, Your Highness, please. As you said last night," it was a bit mean to bring it up when Dion had looked ashamed of himself for saying it, but he repeated, "a whore is a gil a dozen."

Dion pressed his hand to mouth, hiding his expression as he said, "That … I didn't … you must have been offended." He lowered his head in contrite admonishment. "Forgive me, Rosen. You have every right to hate me."

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Clive was having a difficult time saying what he needed to say: "Yes, I do. Please keep me at arm's length. For your sake, if nothing else." Instead, his wires were crossed and he blurted out, "Please keep me. I want nothing else." No! Mortified, Clive held the box in front of his face and wanted to scream.

"Oh." Dion cleared his throat, pitch too high. He lowered his timbre to a near rumble as he said, "That's … I don't usually." Dion gave up and asked, "Would you allow me to court you proper? I do not wish to lay with an unwilling partner, regardless of the money involved."

"That's not how it works, Your Highness. Forget what I said, if you would so kind. A mere slip of the tongue."

Disappointed, Dion allowed it.

That didn't mean the prince's knightly aide-de-camp received the message, however. Terence, if he was recalling the name correctly. The squire with the vulgar tongue. He rubbed at his ear as he recalled the torrid words. The promises of what Terence would do to him in front of his prince. From the way the two acted, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that they were more than friends.

The young squire had bought a few hours worth of his time, asking for a private room straight away. It unsettled him more than anything. Was Terence indignant that he had refused his prince?

"Relax," insisted Terence, pouring them both a glass of wine and asking Clive to join him on the edge of the bed for lack of anywhere else to sit. "I am not here for you. At least, not today." With a smirk, Terence leaned in to ask, "Why did you deny him?"

"Pardon?"

"Don't play coy. His Highness was inconsolable after your talk with him. What did you say to him?" Terence swirled the wine in his cup, clarifying, "I am not taking his side, you know. If I had to guess, he made a misstep and you were being careful. What happened?"

Baffled, Clive answered without thinking, "He gave me clothes."

"Ah." Terence hid a grimace behind the brim of his cup before draining the rest and pouring himself another. "How bad was it?"

"Lingerie and a shirt that matches his style too closely."

Terence choked on his next sip of wine. "Excuse me? Lingerie? That prude?"

Flustered, Clive explained, "He said he was replacing what Edgar ripped last night."

"Don't."

Clive blinked, tilting his head.

"Don't say that man's name. It will taint your tongue."

Stifling a laugh, Clive wondered, "What am I to call him then?"

"I'm partial a piece of Bahamut shit, but I will leave it up to you." Eyes catching the candlelight, alighting with mischief, Terence splayed his fingers on Clive's cheek and moved closer, ghosting his breath over his lips. It wasn't unpleasant, he found, and he wouldn't mind the squire following through with some of those promises from before. "Say, would you like to rile Dion up?"

"What?" That didn't seem like a good idea. "Why would we do that?"

"I'm frustrated with him. What more reason do I need?"

"That's …" Definitely a bad idea, but it felt nice when Terence placed his lips on his neck and sucked. A gentle pressure, hardly demanding. He curled his fingers into the blanket, refraining from even breathing until Terence licked the spot. Inhaling sharply, Clive made a noise in the back of his throat and the knight chuckled against his skin.

"How are you innocent after asking a man to fuck you?"

"Didn't mean it," he mumbled, "he was terrible."

"How terrible?" asked Terence as he found a tender spot between collar and neck and dragged his teeth over it. Clive shivered. "Would you like help erasing the memory?"

"What happened to you not being here for me tonight?"

"I am not unreasonable." Terence lowered him to bed, sneaking a hand up his tunic. "And I did pay a hefty price. At least reward me."

Clive tugged him down, leaning forward to place his lips on sweaty skin, wondering absently how long Terence had been training this evening for it to have lasted. He imitated the knight's movements, suckling until the pressure felt right, running his tongue over the spot when he was finished. Hoping it was as comforting to him as it had been for Clive. Terence ran a hand through his hair, smiling softly, and rose from the bed.

"You're leaving?"

"Well, I did receive my reward," conceded Terence, "wouldn't want to overstay my welcome. Thank you."

As he left, Clive was half-convinced that was purposeful. It would make sense Terence would be frustrated with him too, if he liked the prince more than words could say. That was the only reason Clive could think as to why the squire would leave him without following through.

Terence groaned when he got back to the barracks and he still hadn't softened from that encounter. Cold shower at midnight it was. He pressed his fingers into the mark that would be there come morning and ached. How could a man be that enticing? His prince was everything and more to him. Friend, confidant, partner. It left him with a burgeoning need to impress him always. But with Rosen, it had been easy to find the words. Was it because there was no urgency to their interactions, no desperation? Or maybe it was that disarming little half-smile from the courtier? Clueless and breathtaking.

He was going to turn into a deviant at this rate, seeking out the smallest ounce of that man's time if it meant reliving the experience. And the cold water wasn't helping. He curled his fingers around his cock and pumped, bracing himself on the communal shower wall. Anyone could have walked in, and it was just his luck that someone did.

His prince. Their eyes met across the room and he spilled across the wall, the water washing it away with a splash.

Dion dragged his eyes away from his cock to make a face. "I was wondering where you got off to. Having a nice time?"

"Lovely," he commented, turning to face the wall in disbelief. Greagor, Dion was going to give him a heart attack one of these days, blood pumping faster than it had any right to after being caught like that. "Would you mind giving me a moment?"

"Are you all right?" That wasn't making the situation any less embarrassing, his knees wobbling from the after tremors. "Here, let me help."

"Dion," his voice was strained as he pleaded, "really. I can take care of myself."

"I can see that," Dion had the gall to say, sly smile on that too handsome face. "Who has you all worked up?" Amber eyes narrowed at the bruising on his neck, something clicking in his mind. "Where were you?"

Guilt flashed across his face. That had been a reckless decision. Dion would know as soon as he saw Rosen's neck as well. Or … would he? How much did his prince care about the courtier? Surely, the interest wouldn't last. Right?

Terence turned off the water, crystals losing their glow and sinking the room into shadow. He hadn't bothered with any light, but Dion's eyes pierced through to him with their own glimmer. Staring at him as his prince awaited his answer.

Well, he wasn't going to give it until he was covered up, drying off quickly and tying the towel around his waist. "I am sure you can guess."

"And he left you unsatisfied?" Dion responded with an edge to his voice. "Wasn't worth the coin?"

"How unlike you to be so crass," returned Terence, stepping forward to join his prince near the door. They were nearly the same height, but Dion had to cant his head the slightest bit to meet his gaze and it sent a wave of triumph through him. "What, regretting all that talk about how you wouldn't waste half a gil on -"

"Did he tell you why he was upset with me?" interrupted Dion. "I assume that's why you went."

"More or less. You certainly made a spectacle of yourself. You ought to be careful word doesn't spread to your father."

"Do you think it's true?" Dion asked, pulling his stare away and dropping it to the floor. "About the Veil hiding a Bearer, I mean."

Terence didn't see any reason for that to matter. Dominant, Bearer - was there any difference in the end? Both used as tools, to be thrown away when they outlived their usefulness. It was half of what made him so protective of Dion, which inevitably had him seeing Bearers in a different light. He wanted to keep his prince safe, away from harm. And if Rosen would allow it, he was willing to extend the notion to him.

"Is that any concern of ours? Besides, it could have been a lie. The bastard wasn't in his right mind." He reached around Dion, grabbing his nightgown from the hook near the door. From under lowered lashes, he smirked and asked, "Planning to spend a night with him after all?"

Dion inhaled sharply. "Why him?"

Slipping his gown over his head and pulling his towel free, Terence gave it some thought. The truth was: "It doesn't have to be him. I'm sure any courtesan would part their legs for you."

"That …!" Dion shoved him, scowling. "Is that all you care about?"

"No." He cared enough about Dion not to act on his own wants and needs, unwilling to pressure his best friend with feelings he may never return. But he also wasn't made of stone. On restless nights, it was easier to find comfort in another's body and pretend for a single, fleeting moment he could have what would never be his. "Do not mistake me. I am not about to let an opportunity pass. He's breathtaking. Bewitching even. If you won't have him, I will."

"Ridiculous." Dion curled his hands into fists at his side. "I thought you had someone you liked."

Terence searched his face, trying to understand what he meant by that. Expression carefully blank, Dion gave nothing away. Except his eyes. They were on Terence's neck again, a heat behind them that his prince didn't often let slip. "Stop talking in circles and tell me what you think you know."

"Correct me if I speak in untrue," Dion mustered the courage, the words slipping out before he could think better of them, "but I thought we -" The prince stopped abruptly and stumbled over an excuse. "That is to say …"

"We?" Terence hadn't intended to sound accusatory, but every nerve in his body was eroded to a fine point. He took a step forward and Dion moved to the side, evading and bumping into the wall. That gave him pause, watching how flustered his prince was, blond hair covering his eyes as he turned his face away, throat bobbing with worry. "Dion, look at me."

Dion refused, lips tugged into a frown. He didn't have the prince's attention until he slammed his arms against the wall and wide eyes fell on him in disbelief, glancing from the hands beside his head to Terence in askance. "What are you …?"

"Yes," Terence breathed, deciding to be honest before either of them came to their senses, "yes, I do. I have liked you for years. But it's more than that, Dion, more than you can fathom. In the past summer, there hasn't been a day that I didn't wonder what it would be like to be your strength, your pillar to lean on, your bastion of respite on nights when you can't take it anymore. Do you know what I would give to -"

Hesitant lips brushed against his chin and Terence choked on the words he had been about to say. Resolve in shambles, he looped his towel around his prince's neck and dragged him forward, showing him what a real kiss looked like. Feather light at first. Then he deepened it, sinking his tongue in as Dion parted his mouth. He tightened his hold on the towel when a little mewl resonated on his tongue, unwilling to allow Dion any recourse or escape until they confirmed this was real.

Gentle hands found his hips, thumbing circles into bone with enough pressure to be felt through the gown. Terence answered him with a groan, leaning back to mumble against reddened lips, "Did you want me to teach you how to part your legs?"

Bashful, Dion answered, "You are the only one I trust to do that, Terence. It's always been you."

Heart beating with fervor, Terence lowered his lips to Dion's neck, suckling until his prince squirmed in his hold and dug blunted nails into Terence's hips with a gasp. This wasn't the time or place to go any further, and he reluctantly released Dion after he was done. "Well, I can think of a better reason to visit the Veil now," Terence said before Dion regained himself and slipped back behind that mask of propriety. "Privacy is one of the few things you can buy along with a courtesan."

Dion dipped his head, acquiescing easily in his daze.

It wasn't until a week later that Dion felt daring enough to ask, "When are we to go to the Veil?" Equal parts anxious and excited. The stolen kisses were nice when they could manage a moment to themselves, but he wanted an uninterrupted night. Craving to see more of Terence's expressions than just the one he had caught the tail end of that night in the shower.

Amused, Terence brushed his hand over Dion's thigh under the table and squeezed. The muscles tensed with quiet yearning under the touch, but his squire did nothing more than give him one last pat and tell him, "Not too much longer."

"Why the wait?" Dion asked, crossing his legs and hoping no one else in the mess hall had noticed their interaction. Between tonight's celebration of the recent beast culling and Laicroix being released from the gaol to serve out his punishment at the garrison, the eyes of their fellows were elsewhere. Still, such a nobleman going free meant that was all the more reason to check on Rosen. To ensure everything was all right. Rumors were already starting to spread. Some good, some bad, and some absurd.

"Rosen was unavailable," Terence told him with a quirk of his lips. "You know that his time is not his own." Darkened blue eyes glanced at him, flirting with danger. "You did want him to be the one watching, did you not?"

Flushing to the roots of his hair, Dion could give nothing more than a little nod of his head. If it had to be anyone, let it be that enchanting man with the fire that burned. That dance had left an itch that couldn't be scratch in the back of his mind. A distant memory. Familiar but not. "And?" Dion breathed in suspense. "When is he available?" He would prepare a proper gift this time; Terence had informed him to stay away from clothes and he had a few other ideas for things he could replace. One of which he had already ordered, tucked away with the rest of his things at the foot of his bed.

"Tonight," replied his knight, knocking their knees together. "Lucky you."

"You could have told me sooner!" Standing abruptly, he went to retrieve the gift. Terence followed him with his eyes, smile softening at the edges when Dion glanced back at him. "I'll, uh, meet you there?" he called over his shoulder.

"Don't be late."

Not much had changed since the last time they were there, but the atmosphere seemed more relax. Drinks flowing easily, music carefree, the laughs louder to Dion's ears. From the talks he overheard, most of the patrons were thrilled that Laicroix had been banned from the Veil. A point of contention for some, but everyone could agree: at least one of the most sought after courtiers had become open to the market.

Terence gestured for him to follow him straight to the stairs, explaining, "He will meet us in the room. The Dame had to speak with him first. It was an odd request I made."

"All right," Dion agreed, trusting his friend to know what he was doing. He fiddled with the box in his hands, slim but long, and hoped Rosen would accept it this time.

The room wasn't as a big as the one for groups, he noticed, when Terence held the door open for him. His friend left it cracked and walked over to the bed, trailing his fingers over the assortment of oils before abandoning the thought and lighting the candle with a crystal. The pale flame lit up the room enough to cast shadows at the end of the bed.

Once done, Terence turned to him, muscles taut as he asked, "Are you sure? … With me, that is. I am …"

"You are," Dion continued, striding to meet Terence by the bed and pushing him down on it. He straddled his waist, placing the gift aside as he took Terence's face in both his hands. "You are my everything." Terence's breath caught, gaze wide as it focused on him and him alone. "Tonight, you will show me exactly how you can please your prince. Will you not?"

The edges of Terence's eyes wrinkled in laughter, running his hands up Dion's sides and settling them on his back, supporting his prince's weight as he shifted to better lean up and kiss at Dion's neck without a second thought. It was comforting, putting his mind at ease; a reminder that Terence wanted this as much as he did. For too long, he had thought his friend would never see him that way. Moon after moon, Terence had sought others to spend his nights with, never once turning that gaze to him. Too quick to see Dion as someone out of his reach. And Dion had let him, knowing it would be selfish to force the matter. There were certain expectations of a prince.

For tonight, he would let go of those duties and let Terence take the lead. His friend had not a single ounce of that previous hesitation as he unlaced the strings holding Dion's vest in place, tossing it aside as he skirted one hand up to Dion's neck and rested it under blond hair. He coaxed Dion down to meet him in a kiss, swiping his tongue over his prince's bottom lip before pulling back. His eyes searched for something as he asked Dion, "How much are you willing to allow of me?"

That was a silly question, and Dion was quick to respond: "Take as much as you want." It wasn't as if he knew what would be too much. Not yet. They could find out together. There wasn't a shred of doubt in him that Terence would oblige him.

Terence let slip a throaty laugh, flipping their positions, pinning him to the bed as he slid a knee between Dion's legs. "Where did you learn to talk like that, hm?" He toyed with his prince's hair for a moment longer, curling it in his fingers before letting go and taking a seat next to Dion on the bed instead. Disappointment burst in Dion's chest as he sat up. "Oh, don't give me that look. Wait for Rosen to arrive, so we can close the door."

He had forgotten about that, too focused on every brush of Terence's fingers. Finding the present he was going to give to Rosen, he fiddled with that to distract from the noticeable bulge in his trousers. Would the courtier really be watching the entire time? His cock gave a twitch of approval and Terence placed a hand on top of it, massaging until Dion had an ache deep down to his bones.

It didn't take much longer for Rosen to enter with his back to them, shutting the door with a purposeful snap. When the man faced them, Dion noticed he was carrying a strip of cloth his hand. A dark red bit of satin. He frowned at the thought of someone else giving it to him. Was it that simple for courtiers to find lovers that pleased them?

Rosen caught his gaze, explaining with a sheepish smile, "Courtesy of the Dame. She said that your knight asked for me to be blindfolded. And that I wouldn't be necessary for more than my presence. Something I'm used to." There was a hint of something self-deprecating there that Dion didn't like, but Rosen wasted no time in reaching up to begin tying the fabric around his eyes.

Dion halted him as he stood up and held out the box in his hands. "Before that. A gift. I … this one. You should be able to accept this one."

The courtier took the box in one hand and remained silent as he untied the ribbon on top. The silence persisted until Rosen closed it and set it aside. Not taking the gift out of the box. "It's lovely," he said, voice tight, "but I can't accept something so expensive."

Bemused, Dion wondered, "How do you know what it cost me?"

Rosen froze, gaze skittering to Terence and then back to him. "That was solid gold, Your Highness. It does not take more than a glance to know. Even a fool would guess it." He tied the satin around his eyes, tugging to make sure it would stay. Hiding behind it as he said, "You have someone who cherishes you, Prince. Give it to him."

Dion exchanged looks with Terence, not convinced at all. His knight picked up the abandoned box and took out the hairpin, thin gold carved into a blooming rose at the end. Much more refined than the ornament that Laicroix had broken. There was a piece of sapphire in the center of the rose, twinkling in the low light of the candle as Terence stepped over to Rosen and said, "Since it is mine, then I can do what I want with it. Is that not so?"

In response, Rosen flinched as Terence started pulling up his hair into a messy bun, slipping the hairpin through to hold it in place. "Apologies," said the squire, "I know nothing of elegance."

"It's fine," muttered Rosen, swallowing. Terence let his fingers linger on the back of his neck and then removed them, ordering the courtier to sit anywhere he pleased. Their guest chose to sit on the daybed, carefully turned away from them even with the blindfold preventing him from seeing anything. Little feathered hairs of black drifted on his neck, casting shadows on the lingering vestiges of Terence's bruising marks. Dion touched his own neck and wondered if he would have one too. A claim that he could keep long after Terence was done.

"Come here," Terence coaxed him back down on the bed, lifting up one of Dion's leg as he started pulling off a boot. He let them fall to the floor before stripping out of his own tunic, baring rippling muscle for Dion to explore with careful touches. It was almost unfair. They had trained together for so long and yet Terence had such visible proof. He flattened his palms above Terence's trousers and traced the dips of him upwards, brushing against his nipples before resting them on his knight's shoulders.

Terence kneeled on the bed, lunging forward to meet his lips again, prying them open with his tongue. Dion met him halfway, wrapping his arms around his neck and rocking into him. Making a noise in the back of his throat, Terence pushed him over, climbing on top to straddle his waist as he freed Dion of his shirt. Then he nipped at Dion's chest, causing him to shudder. Tiny tremors couldn't be stopped as Terence snuck his hand beneath his trousers and pulled his cock free, pumping it once before tracing the outline of his balls.

Dion gulped and tipped his head back. His friend had the audacity to chuckle and then stop. He turned furious eyes onto Terence, but he couldn't be mad for long. His knight had only pulled down his own trousers, just enough to brush the head of his cock with Dion's and leave him shivering at the wet slide. Proof that Terence was as desperate as him.

"What would you like, Your Highness?" Terence asked him on a trembling voice, heady with lust and leaving Dion wanting to do anything to make him keep talking. "Close your eyes. Picture it. What do you see me doing?"

Playing along, Dion closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing. It was more difficult than he thought, trying to focus when Terence kept sliding their cocks together, fisting around them both to hold them in place. Oddly, with his eyes closed, he was acutely aware of Rosen's presence on the fringe of his thoughts. Silent but warm, glowing in the darkness. It was distracting when he wanted nothing more than to imagine Terence putting a finger in him, to feel the coarseness of it. More vivid the longer he thought about it until he blurted out, "I want you inside me."

Terence startled, losing pace and slowing their slide. His pupils were blown wide, lips shaking as he asked, "Here? Now?" His squire sent a look at Rosen, red high on the courtier's cheeks. "That's a bit …"

"This was your idea," reminded Dion on a pant, rolling his hips and pulling Terence closer, "you do not decide when we stop. I told you what you wanted to hear. Now give it to me."

"All right," Terence told him, "finish undressing. I will find the oil."

"I recommend the one on the right," suggested Rosen, voice carefully devoid of emotion. The suddenness of it gave both of them pause. "Forgive me." The quiet must have made him think that his advice was unwelcome. "I do not mean to interrupt. This is a first for me. Not participating, I mean."

Dion groaned into his hands as his cock pulsed, veins twitching with every little word coming out of that oblivious mouth. Terence hurried to find the bottle Rosen told them to use, coating his own cock in it and giving it a squeeze before lathering more on his fingers. Dion had kicked off his trousers in the meantime, raising his legs at the knee and planting his feet on the mattress.

He was uncertain how to proceed, but Terence helped him widen his stance enough to make it easier when he trailed wet fingers down his prince's length and met the tight muscle underneath. The finger that slipped in was thicker than his own and Dion threw an arm across his eyes, overwhelmed already.

"Does it hurt?" Terence asked, sinking a little further despite the concern, a devilish smile unfurling at the edges of his lips. "Or is it better than you imagined?" Another one was added in, spreading him further as Dion clamped down on the intrusion. "Ah, ah, my prince. You wanted this. Be good." He gripped him by the hip and then slid to accommodate his leg, pushing it up higher as he thrust in his fingers. Dion gasped and fisted at the blankets, seeing stars as Terence kept aiming for that one spot with a deliberate curl and plunge. "That's it," praised his knight, "easy does it. Loosen up for me, my prince. Let me in."

He did, relaxing into pure elation of having someone he loved with every fiber of his being tracing every intimate part of him until there was nothing left. It was achingly empty when Terence pulled his fingers out, but his knight didn't keep him waiting this time. The tip of Terence's cock eased into the opening, slick and twitching. It didn't go further than that before Dion arched and told him, "Hurts," arms thrown back to grip the pillow behind his head.

Terence cursed and stopped moving, kissing at his jaw in apology before asking, "Think you could take a little more?"

Dion shook his head, not trusting himself to speak as his nerves flared with thrums of aether. Protective tendrils of magick soothing him as they reached out for anything to latch on to and hold. He focused on his breath as Terence kept kissing at his face, telling him he was doing great even if it had to be torture not to press further in.

It was Rosen who responded to the aether in the air, a heavy hand on his brow leaving him dazed as the courtier carded fingers through his hair. The blindfold was still in place but it was as if Rosen could see everything anyway. It sent a wave of pleasure through him and he nuzzled into the hand, light dancing on his skin as he panted and told Terence, "Now."

His knight buried himself to the hilt in one excited motion, moaning into Dion's ear. "Greagor have mercy on my soul, you are beautiful. You have no idea how good that feels." Terence was looking at the courtier as he said, "Lovely. I can't … Could you …?" His words broke off as Dion rolled his hips, keening, and Terence pressed Dion's leg into air, thrusting as he moaned, "Kiss him, Rosen. Fuck!"

The courtier obeyed, feeling with his fingers for Dion's lips before leaning down placing a chaste kiss against them. Dion opened his mouth and met him with tongue, whimpering, and Rosen allowed it, tentative as he rubbed his own tongue against Dion's.

"Deeper," growled Terence, pace unwieldly.

"Ah!" Dion gasped into Rosen's mouth and the courtier swallowed down the noise, kissing with more skill than either of them combined. He closed his eyes and enjoyed it, riding out the waves of pleasure until his balls drew up under him and he spilled across Terence's bare stomach. Terence followed seconds later, panting on all fours before removing himself with a squelch.

Rosen moved away, asking, "Will that be all, my lords?" He didn't reach up to remove his blindfold yet, and Dion found it a bit unfair to leave the courtier as the only one who hadn't found release. The front of his trousers was standing tall, a wet patch testament enough that he was interested. Dion grabbed his wrist and tugged him to the bed, making him sit. "My lords?" There was a tremor to his voice that Dion hoped to alleviate, pressing his hand against the man's cock and kneading much the same as Terence had done for him.

His knight didn't seem to mind, watching from under hooded eyes as he calmed his breathing to something less frantic. "I will tip extra," Terence breathed, "if you let my prince finish what he started."

"That's unnecessary," started Rosen, squirming on the bed, "I would rather -" Dion squeezed and the words were cut off, huffs of breath meeting their ears as Rosen fought to stave off his own climax.

In a fit of daring, Dion leaned in and mouthed at the man's neck, right over where Terence had once put his mouth. Dragging his teeth over sun dappled skin with enough pressure to leave lines behind. Rosen stiffened, body going taut as he came, a cute mewl leaving parted lips as he curled into Dion, embarrassed.

It felt right, perfect even. Warmth flooding Dion's chest as fire flickered across the man's skin and sank into him. A Bearer then, the truth. With curious hands, Dion traced the flames that danced on Rosen's skin. They didn't hurt, as if welcoming him.

"Careful," Rosen scolded him when he found his voice. "I still don't have full control of them."

"Would you like to learn?" Dion asked. The courtier was keeping their secret. The least he could do was return the favor - and maybe even help, if Rosen would let him.

"All right," allowed Rosen on a sigh. "It would be rude of me to keep refusing your gifts, Your Highness."

Joshua frowned down at the letter in his hands. He was alone in his room and reading yet another rendition of his friend from Sanbreque's exploits at the Veil. Nothing sordid. Dion was tight-lipped about whoever he was sleeping with. But there was a curious mention of a sword dance. One that sounded too much like a Rosarian Shield dance to be such a coincidence. It struck a nerve with him.

Between this oddity and his mother preparing to remarry at the end of the year, once his father was officially declared dead, Joshua was starting to lose what was left of his patience. Not that he had much of it these days. After losing Clive, life had become dull and bland. Each day more meaningless than the last.

The only thing that kept him going was the prospect of revenge. His father had taught him how to turn dying embers into a raging inferno, a lesson that Clive had always recited, "With diligence and patience, the smallest flame can become an inferno. Father knows best." It wasn't wrong. He had fostered nothing but embers for so long that he had nearly forgotten what a harsh fire could bring.

But it would be soon. His mother may have ruled in his stead for these past six years, but his coming of age would be soon. Once he sat upon the throne, there would be hell to pay. No more dutiful son. The Undying had helped him discover who had poisoned his brother, who had killed him. It was only right of him to pay the culprit back ten-fold.

He would start by sullying her relations with Sanbreque. Dion could help with that. His friend didn't even have to know. He penned a letter that thanked the Crown Prince for sharing the amusing anecdote and asked if he could meet the sword dancer. If he caught a deserter whoring themselves to Sanbrequois soldiers, surely that would muddy his mother's reputation.

Dion responded days later, agreeing, saying it had been too long since their last meeting. It truly had been. They had been nothing but boys, innocent and bright-eyed, when they last met in person. His mother had introduced him to Dion during a visit to the holy capital. Of which, she had used as an opportunity to explore the court of Sanbreque. She already had her ties with Sylvestre by then, and he became her stepping stone to reach greater heights when she maneuvered to put him on the throne.

In a way, Joshua pitied his stepfather-to-be. He knew too well what it was like to be nothing more than the his mother's puppet. But there were things that she couldn't influence. Namely, the Undying obeyed no one but the Phoenix. She didn't even know the group existed as anything apart from passing tales in history books. And if Sylvestre was smart, he would have his own group that couldn't be touched. Preferably loyal to him.

It was no matter though. He had other concerns to address. Preparing for his trip to Northreach meant he had to go through Lord Murdoch first. He would leave it the lord commander to convince his mother that the excursion was of absolute necessity, paying no mind to the judgement on Rodney's face. It was telling though, if even Rodney knew what laid in the city of the Veil.

A quaint city, he found out a week later, that offered little in the way of entertainment. A militant city, fortified more than any of the others they had seen. A stop-gap before reaching the holy capital. He distantly remembered passing through the checkpoint, but they had not lingered. His mother had turned up her nose at resting there. And now he suspected why, if Northreach was famous for its whorehouse.

He had traveled lightly, accompanied by three Shields at most, but Dion had spotted the emblem of Rosaria on the carriage and rushed to greet him. His friend appeared in good spirits, and he could imagine why. How lucky, he thought, sarcasm bleeding to taint his smile.

A squire hovered behind the prince, one hand resting on his sword and the other tucked at his back. There was an indulgent look to the other boy's face as he watched them, an expression he carefully shuttered when he saw Joshua looking. Glancing between them, he began to suspect that Dion wasn't sleeping with a whore after all. Pity, he had been hoping to use that against Sanbreque if the deserter failed to live up to his expectations.

He cast the thought aside and asked, "When will I be meeting the dancer that has you so enthralled?"

"Tomorrow night," promised Dion. "He's a popular one, and I hadn't expected you to arrive early."

"Of course," Joshua conceded. "Tomorrow then." His skin was already crawling at the prospect. Of all people, he hadn't expected Greagor's veritable saint to sink to such lows.

Dion showed him to the lord's manor that had offered to host him, introducing him to the pair of rural nobles and their daughter. Underlying intentions clear, Joshua smiled to feign ignorance. But he did follow through with the tradition, bowing to take the daughter's hand and press a kiss to it. An appeasement for all involved.

After a bath had been prepared for him and he was finally alone, he rinsed out his mouth. He would let them think what they wanted, but he would never marry. There wasn't a single person worth that outcome. Once the throne was his, he was planning on destroying it. No more Phoenix. No more Archduke. No more High Houses and their games. He already had their weak points from the Undying's surveillance; now he required but the patience to see it through.

His brother would have asked if living like this was worth it and Joshua would have humored him, saying, "Anything for you, brother." Living for a ghost was the only thing he had left.

Once clean, Joshua dressed in casual wear, planning to take a stroll before bed. He wanted a glimpse of the Veil before he venturing inside tomorrow. Best to know what he was getting into; he refused to look the fool.

"Sir Wade, you need not accompany me." The Shield shook his head and Joshua sighed, gesturing for him to stay back. "Then keep your distance." His mother was still furious he had refused to choose a First Shield, going out of her way to make sure that any Shields that did guard him knew that he wasn't to be left alone. Most assumed she was worried after his health, but Joshua knew better now: it was to keep an eye on him. And as such, the idea of Shields had become warped in mind. Not a single one could even live up to the ghost of his brother.

It was early evening yet. And still the Veil had patrons milling about the courtyard. Laughter and music drifted through the open front door as Joshua searched the faces to see if he could guess who Dion had fixated on. None of them seemed like light-footed dancers. That person was no doubt inside, entertaining the early guests before the night became late.

A young man darted through the door, calling to a courtesan flirting with a plucky young soldier, "Tatienne, the Dame would like a word."

She stood, walking her fingers up the soldier's chest and making him promise to wait. As she turned away from the client, Joshua saw a look of worry flash across her face before she followed the courtier into the halls. Strangely, the Phoenix was trilling in his mind, directing his gaze to the upper floors of the Veil. He followed the inquisitive nature of it, stepping across the threshold and waving off any calls for him to join in the merrymaking.

He was stopped at the stairs, a courtier holding up a hand to halt him and asking to see the ticket of who he had purchased for the night. Joshua clicked his tongue and drawled, "How much are you?"

Flustered, the man said, "I am on guard duty this evening, my lord. Perhaps another night. For you."

"I am not allowed to explore the place?" He crossed his arms, tilting his head with a winsome smile. "I swear I won't be peeking. I'll even pay extra for you another night."

The courtier hesitated, but he seemed to take Joshua at his word. Noting the brooch that cost a small fortune on his breast. It was shaped like a phoenix feather and crossed with an indomitable sword. A reminder of who he was living for, but no one needed to know that. They only saw the face value: how much it cost. "All right," agreed the man, "but don't cause any trouble. The Dame's in a mood after Rosen was hurt last night."

Joshua wrinkled his nose. "Must have been a brute. No matter," he said with a flourish, "I am here to have a good time, not cause trouble. Your trust is appreciated."

A ticket was passed to him, an open invitation for the night, and Joshua took the stairs quickly. The Phoenix was restless after hearing someone had been hurt, and admittedly, Joshua also disliked the idea. It went against his nature to allow someone to remain injured on his watch. That could be what the Phoenix was leading him toward, always seeking to mend what Joshua had given up on.

At the end of the second floor hallway was an open door, an older woman with not a hair out of place swept out of the room in a rush. The courtesan from early was with her, whispers of concern exchanged between them. They slowed in front of Joshua, bemused at his appearance. "I might be of assistance, my good ladies," he allowed, sweeping into a bow, "I hear someone was hurt."

"How could - ?" The Dame pinched the bridge of her nose and hardened her gaze, asking, "What do you hope to accomplish with such audacity?"

Joshua pressed a finger to his lips. "You can keep a secret, can't you? And I will ask nothing but a small favor." He wasn't about to let this chance go. He might not even have to involve Dion, if everything worked out for the better.

The Dame relented, looking him up and down. "Follow then. Let us see if your secret is the same as his." She led the way to the third floor, striding to a small room that opened to present two people. She ordered the courtier tending to the one in the bed to leave and watch the door, making room for Joshua. But he was frozen to the spot, mouth gaping at the man with fire lashing across his skin. "Close the door, Tatienne," instructed the Dame as she pushed Joshua to the bed. "Help him. Is that not what you wanted?"

Joshua hovered his hand over those flames and they jumped at him, rubbing against his hand as if welcoming an old friend. He shivered and pulled his hand back, eyes raking over the man. Dark hair, day old stubble on his sharp cheeks, muscles expanding on a heaving chest. Absurd, he thought, the man looked so much like the paintings of his father from his younger days that Joshua was half-tempted to believe Elwin had sired a bastard. "His name," he demanded, "what was his name again?"

Calculating eyes met his, the Dame answering slowly, "Rosen, my lord. Nothing more and nothing less."

"I see." He settled his nerves and placed his hand on the man's forehead, drawing the fire to him and coaxing it out to burn. "What caused this?"

The Dame exchanged a glance with Tatienne and the courtesan toyed with her dress before admitting, "He still … when it comes to blooming. It's difficult for him."

"Blooming?" asked Joshua, something going tight in his chest. "What does that imply?"

"No need to be shy," the Dame deadpanned, rolling her eyes. "He has yet to be penetrated, my lord." She picked up the courtier's wrist, slipping off a crystal bracelet and tossing it to Tatienne. "Useless thing. The rumors are getting worst. There is only so much I can hide."

"The prince will be here tomorrow. If he can convince a prince to claim him fully, wouldn't that solve matters? No one would dare touch a prince's -"

Joshua interrupted once he was sure the flames had all but been dissolved, smoothing out the courtier's sweat matted hair with a protective hand. "If it's a prince you need, allow me. After all, a Bearer of the Motes of Fire should be my responsibility. Forgive me for the late introduction, I am Joshua Rosfield of the ducal household of Rosaria. Blessed of the Phoenix and master of the Wrath of Flames. Is there anyone more fitting than me?" He needed to find out why the Undying had never reported this man's existence to him. Though he could guess, unwilling to let their darling Phoenix become influenced by outside forces.

"He is spoken for," insisted the Dame, tone formal as she folded her hands in front of her. "I am afraid that is unnecessary."

"Ah, but Prince Dion hasn't claimed him," Joshua surmised. He placed a hand on Rosen's neck, checking his pulse. It had slowed to a normal thrum, and he stroked his knuckles across the spot, content to watch the man sleep. With those eyes closed, he could almost picture him as his brother. And no brother of his would be left to the hands of other men. "I will be visiting with the prince tomorrow. He can choose for himself then." Not a deserter then. He would never have let a Shield go who looked like that, and he would have remembered them besides. Still, he had to wonder who had taught the man. A Rosarian soldier who had attempted to sleep with him? The mere notion had him wanting to snarl.

The Dame disregarded him. "Tatienne, help Damien tend to him tonight. Make sure he has his strength back before tomorrow. As for you, Lord Rosfield, a word."

Joshua accompanied her to the room on the second floor. A solar meant to keep the Dame close to her working courtesans should anything go wrong. It had a sectioned off space to the left, a bed nearly hidden by partition, draped with fluttering see-through fabric. A special place for special guests. He frowned at the sight, eyes going cold as he asked, "What did you bring me here for?"

"Rosen was set to become my successor, you know," she started as she traced her fingers along the desk, looping around to take a seat on the plush chair and lacing her hands together. She leaned forward, conveying a secret, "But I am more inclined to let him go now that a suitor has appeared."

Preening, Joshua said, "I will take good care of him. Like a brother."

The Dame snorted, slapping her palms flat on the desk and standing. "My blossoms are not anyone's brothers or sisters or anything. We stand on our own two feet here." She calmed, cupping her hands together and smiling. "Nevertheless, I agree. We will let Rosen decide. But make no mistake, if I discover you have pressured him into anything. There is seldom a chance you will see him again."

"I would never," assured Joshua, fingers crossed behind his back.

Clive's lips were dry and cracked. The water meeting them was like a heavenly balm as it splashed along tiny cuts. He licked his lips after, sighing in relief. His gaze was hazy and unfocused, but he could make out the familiar outlines of Damien and Tatienne. His chambermate reached out to place a rag on his forehead, wiping sweat away, and Tatienne held his hand, whispering soft words of thankfulness that he had awakened.

"How long?" he asked on a croak. Aggravation seeping in, it pulled him out of his fog as he said, "Why can't these accursed flames let me do my damn job?"

"Don't know, mate," Damien replied, wringing out the rag. He looked at Clive with a leer as he suggested, "Maybe they're not the right one? You did say the Crown Prince was able to touch you without getting burned. That's progress, ain't it?"

Clive covered his face with his arm, mumbling, "I shouldn't have told you about that."

"Well, if that's true, what about the lord who was here last night?" Tatienne had his attention now. He peeked at her and she explained, "There was this young man who tamed the flames as easy breathing. What did he say his name was again?" She tapped her chin and then exclaimed, "Joshua! His name was Joshua."

Heart like a drum, Clive asked, "Who?"

"Bloody ponce, is what he is," muttered Damien, smacking the rag back at Clive's forehead with a scowl. "I heard him, said he wants to buy you. What a cad."

"Buy?" Clive pushed the rag away, sitting up. "Why would he …?"

"He took one look and was smitten," Tatienne told him with a tightening of her lips. "He'll be here tonight with your prince. Do you think he could make it easier to -"

Cutting her off, Clive said, "I won't be going then. Tell them I am sick." It couldn't be who he thought it was, but still. To be safe. He couldn't show that side of himself to someone named Joshua. The notion turned his stomach.

"All right," allowed Tatienne. "But what about your prince and his handsome knight?"

"It doesn't have to be me," Clive reminded them. "You know as well as I do, neither of them have …." He ran a hand down his face, breathing out harshly. "Damien, you go. I know today was meant to be your day off, but please."

"For a price," hedged Damien, "I'd do just about anything." Clive held up two fingers and his chambermate grinned from ear to ear. "Say no more!"

He should have known not to take Damien at his word. Isabelle banged on his door before opening hours and told him to make himself presentable. It was important, she insisted, and he had no reason to argue with her. She had been pushing him at the Crown Prince for nearly a moon now. A ploy to deter others from requesting him. It was only a matter of time before his fire was revealed to be more than a parlor trick to entertain.

At the very least, she let him skip the sword dance that drew in patrons by the droves, telling him to rest in the room that the prince had arranged for the night. He could do that. But first, he tied the red satin cloth around his wrist before he forgot it. No doubt Dion would want to lay with Terence once their guest for the night was gone.

Or perhaps he was meant to provide for that guest. He made a face as he pushed the door closed behind him and laid down on the bed. His strength had returned, but the headache was lingering. It always did. Like a scratching of nails on the walls of his mind.

He must have fallen asleep in the darkened room. The feel of someone's hand on his forehead jolted him out of his doze at once, warmth and familiarity having him searching out the source. Pale eyes sparkled in the newly burning candlelight with an overly modest smile. Blond hair framed a face that had grown into itself and it struck Clive right in the heart. Without thinking, he reached up to cup the boy's face in his hands, tracing his cheeks in wonder. It was really his Joshua after all; and he wasn't prepared for the fierce pride in him at seeing his brother all grown up.

Joshua patted one of his hands, smile turning vicious as he said, "Now, now. We hardly know one another. I thought I would arrive a bit early to introduce myself." He took Clive's hand in his hold and kissed the back of it, looking up from under golden lashes to add, "You remind me of someone."

Clive didn't dare to respond, staring at his hand as Joshua released it. "But that would be unfair to you. I will treat you with the respect you deserve." He sat beside him on the bed, facing away from where Clive was laying. "I know not what His Highness intends to have happen in this room, but you can leave with me. Right now. We can run and never look back. Rosaria would welcome you."

"My lord," Clive found his voice, higher than usual as he told him, "I can't."

"Why not?" asked Joshua, studying his own hand before summoning a fireball, making it dance on his palm. "I heard you have a little problem with fire. The Phoenix will guide you. As purveyor of flame, I swear it. I, Joshua Rosfield, give you my word that no harm shall ever come to you."

That wasn't the problem. It was the discomfort in knowing that Joshua saw him as another man. His death had been confirmed throughout the lands. Clive Rosfield was dead. He curled into himself, raising his knees to his chest as he took a deep breath. Now wasn't the time to become emotional. He had already slipped. His brother probably assumed he did that to everyone. "I can't," he repeated. "What good is a whore? Aside from the obvious."

"Who said that?" Joshua's voice was biting. "Who told you that? You are not allowed to say such things with a face that resembles his," his brother muttered. Louder, he cleared his throat and continued, "Prince Dion tells me you have a beautiful sword dance. Show me."

"Here? I don't have a sword."

"Improvise," instructed Joshua, turning to observe him on the bed. "Control your fire. Prove you don't need my help."

It was a trap. He knew that Clive had no idea what he was doing. Still, he had to do something. Preferably something that would discourage Joshua. Rolling off the other side of the bed, he pulled out the hairpin from his hair and used it as a focal point. Dion and Terence had refused to take it back, and he was usually careful not to mar it in any way on the off-chance that they would want it returned. When they grew bored of him. Those thoughts made it easier to create a flame around it, using the shape to build a sword that never touched the gold. Remembering when Dion had guided his hands to mold the fire to be his, he shivered and allowed the flames to bloom.

With fire in hand, he gave it a testing swinging and Joshua clapped his hands, crossing his legs with a smirk. "A nice start. But how long can you keep it up?"

The dance fell into place, repetition leading his moves from days of practice. He spun, cautious of the furniture around him, and sank down into a low sweep with parted lips as he tried to catch his breath. The fire was singing in his veins, flaring up as if to escape his will, reaching out for his brother. Covetous of the other heat in the room. He didn't let go of his grip, stomping on the greed as he brought the dance to a close.

After, he sank down on one knee with a groan. Fire dissolving around him as Joshua stood in front of him, holding a hand above his head as he used the Phoenix's giving flames to heal him of exhaustion. It tingled, every nerve in his body responding. "All right," laughed his brother, "you've bested me this time. What a lovely dance. More impressive than any Shield I know. Tell me. Where did you learn it?"

Clive was saved from answering when a quiet voice interrupted them, asking, "I would prefer to know what is going on in here. You are early, Joshua." Dion's gaze swept over Clive's furrowed brows, drenched in sweat, and rested on the way he was holding the hairpin. "Did you …?"

"I wouldn't start without you," dismissed Joshua. "Rise, Rosen. You are giving the prince the wrong impression."

Pushing to his feet, Clive had to bite his tongue, wanting to demand whose fault that was. He stomped down on the reaction, smoothing his expression to one of demure compliance. "What did you have in mind for tonight, Your Highness? You do not often have guests." Or at all. Dion preferred to spend his nights coveting Terence like the dragon beneath his breast.

The prince glanced between them, frowning. "Terence, the cards."

"Ah, a game." Joshua plopped gracelessly back on the bed, patting the space beside him. "Let us play in pairs then. Anyone for a wager?" Clive took the expected seat, tensing when Joshua wrapped an arm around his waist. There was nothing but teeth in his brother's smile as he directed it to the prince and his knight. "Winner may ask anything of the loser. How does that sound?"

"As you wish," permitted Dion. With Terence's help, they arranged the daybed near the bed itself, placing the bedside table between them. They had cleared it of oil, only the candle alight in the middle as Dion shuffled the cards and dealt them to all parties. "Shall we play to a hundred?"

"I will keep score," Clive offered after Joshua agreed to the rules. His brother patted him on the hip before removing his hand, checking his cards. Clive copied him, albeit after he scooted just the tiniest bit away. Joshua didn't seem to notice, rearranging his cards. "Sir Terence, if you would."

Terence discarded a card with little value and gestured for Joshua to go next. Clive tried not to think of how much that imitated his own worth. He didn't have time for such thoughts, too exhausted to wallow and appease guests. That would have to wait, as it always did.

Bit by bit, the prince and his squire pulled ahead with every round. He glanced at Joshua, unnerved by the lack of his brother attempting to win. For someone who had suggested it, he was content to let the other two compete against each other. The brother he had known hated losing.

Clive gave up in the end, resigning himself to the role of loser. His luck wasn't good on the best of days. All that was left was to finish tallying the points and see who had won. It was Dion, the prince lighting up as soon as Clive announced the results.

"What are the rules for what I may ask of you?" Dion said, always so proper even when addressing someone who should have been lower in status than him. The paragon of virtue, if he didn't know what the prince sounded like while being thoroughly debauched.

Leaning back on the bed, Clive intentionally revealed his throat, hair falling to the side. He hadn't bothered putting it back up, leaving it a mess as he tucked the hairpin into the sash around his tunic. Even now, the pin bumped against his thigh, thin and pointed. "Ask anything. I am here to serve you, my prince."

Terence was the one who reacted to that, knee bumping into the bedside table. "Ah, sorry. Don't mind me. Continue."

Tossing his knight an amused glance before meeting Clive's gaze, Dion was giving it too much consideration. Joshua snaked an arm around him again, tugging him back up with a scowl. "Must you drag it out?" his brother said. "Fine, you want rules? Nothing obscene."

Dion colored and looked away. "I wasn't …"

Joshua returned an unimpressed look. "Sure. You talked about him non-stop in your letters. I thought you had already -" Making a noise in surprise, all eyes went to Clive. And he hadn't meant to bury his face against his brother, but Joshua allowed it, tightening his hold as he said, "Hurry and decide, or Sir Terence can have the honors."

In a rush, Dion blurted, "Take off your tunic" Relieved, Clive untied his sash. The hairpin dropped to the floor and Dion picked it up, insisting, "And allow me to fix your hair." The prince kneeled on the bed, carding his fingers through Clive's hair before he started braiding a few strands. Attention fixated on his task as he spun it into place, slipped the ornament in the middle to keep it up. "There." He let his hand trail along Clive's neck, stopping on his shoulder. "Would you like me to help with the rest?"

Brushing the prince's hand away with a deliberate smile, he lifted his tunic up, careful of his hair - unprepared for the poke at his side as a bony finger sank in. "You're too skinny," grouched Joshua, "what are they feeding? It can't be enough, surely."

Gritting his teeth behind the shirt, he reminded himself to have patience before discarding it to the floor. "Are we to play again, my lords?"

"Yes," Terence was quick to answer, "that sounds like a fantastic idea."

It continued like that. Clive suffering loss after loss and removing one piece of clothing at a time. It was one of the least embarrassing things he had ever been asked to do, and for that, he was thankful. "Last round," Clive declared. From the burning of the candle, time was almost up. They used them to measure sessions, allowing the patron to determine when they started by lighting it. Admittedly, Joshua had lit the candle early today, but Clive was tired. Even more so after that deliberate controlling of his fire. He would have to show Dion his appreciation later, for the lessons.

"Then a different wager," Joshua mused, "if this is to be the last." His gaze was scalding as it settled on Clive. "Winner is to have Rosen for the night."

"You speak as if it's decided that Rosen will lose," Terence pointed out, "but what happens if he wins?"

Joshua held up a finger to his lips, grinning. "Well, we all three get a free show then, hm?"

Dion spluttered. "That's …"

It was Joshua's turn to deal the cards, accepting the deck that Clive handed him. His brother shuffled the cards and then dealt them, one by one. And Clive recognized what he was doing immediately: He was cheating. Byron had taught Clive that same trick in his youth, but not once had Clive ever succeeded in tricking someone with it.

Nevertheless, Dion and Terence seemed none the wiser, playing as they always had. Clive lost, unable to focus on the game, all too aware of his lack of clothes. And while that hadn't been a problem before, the current context was making him uneasy. Was Joshua planning …? His brother provided an innocent smile when he caught Clive staring.

The winner was not who he was expecting. It was Dion. Even the prince seemed surprised, bouncing his knee before Terence stilled it with a squeeze. "Well," Joshua said airily as they began to clean up the cards, "let us leave and give them some privacy, Sir Terence."

The knight agreed, muscle jumping in his jaw as he looked from Dion to Clive. He swiped his tongue over his lips before turning away, holding the door open for Joshua as they took their leave for the night.

"There isn't much time left," Clive acknowledged. He straightened the bedside table and searched through the drawers for a bottle of oil, settling on one of the more relaxing scents. After placing it down, he kicked off his braies and climbed on the bed. "What would you have of me?" He spread his legs invitingly, cock twitching as he took it in hand and pumped.

Dion swallowed and walked over, catching Clive's hand, long fingers sliding over red satin as the prince stilled his movements. "I will pay to extend the night then. If I am to have you, it will not be quick."

"Are you sure?" Clive asked, bemused. "You will keep Terence waiting."

Smirking, Dion said, "Let him wait," and untied the satin to loop around his own eyes instead of Clive's. "Ah, so this is what you see each night. You will have to guide me, I can see very little."

Biting at his lip to hold back a laugh, Clive told him, "That is the purpose, yes. Your knight wanted to keep you all to himself. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"We've talked," admitted Dion, "and we have reached an agreement: if it is with you, we can share."

"Oh." Falling silent, Clive wasn't sure what to say to that. The implication was spurring him on, making him bold as he took Dion's hand and ran it up his chest. Dion mapped the planes of his body, digging his knuckles in when Clive let slip little noises that had the prince hardening in his trousers. "Do you want to … or should I prepare myself?"

Dion kissed his jaw, most likely aiming for his lips as he was pouting against Clive's skin now, nipping there as he felt him laugh. "Allow me. You pour the oil." Clive obeyed, applying the oil to the hand that the prince held out. Dion teased him at first, skirting those long fingers along the entrance before rolling Clive's balls in his hand. Acting fascinated at their weight.

Clive bit the back of his hand, thrashing his head to the side as he squirmed. "You're awfully quiet," commented Dion, giving them a playful squeeze. "Am I doing something wrong?"

With a pant, Clive admitted, "It feels good."

"Then tell me that. I want to hear you," Dion instructed, "how else am I to know if you are enjoying yourself?" Releasing his hand, Clive fisted at the blankets to prevent himself from covering anything up. Dion couldn't see, but he could hear and that was making him hard at the thought. In response to feeling Clive against his stomach, the prince grinded them together for a moment, clothed cock brushing Clive's bare one. "Ah, so you are enjoying yourself."

He pushed one of Clive's legs back and left him gasping, the angle sending tingles down his spine with each shallow thrust. Dion peppered kisses down his face and neck, beginning to pant as he met Clive's chest. His fingers were losing their wet though, sliding against a perked nipple, catching it between his index and middle, working it to a firm peak.

"How many have you been with?" Dion suddenly asked, a rumble coming from his chest that caught Clive off guard, the resonating feeling of aether bubbled in Clive's own breast in answer. "Answer me."

"I …" Clive shuddered and pressed his hands to Dion's chest, gently trying to push him away. "That's not a question you ask courtesans."

Dion hummed in thought, regaining control of himself, easing back. He worked the belt from his trousers and dropped it to the floor. Loosening his own laces in slow, deliberate motions, Dion wondered, "What can you tell me then, if it's been too many to count?"

Clive flushed and averted his gaze when Dion revealed his cock. It wasn't his first time seeing such a thing, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but it was the first time that his body hadn't filled with fire. There was no immediate threat of molten heat consuming him from the inside out, daring someone to put that anywhere near him. "I … never … I usually have to stop before they can put it in," he admitted. Dion swelled in his own hand, pre-cum dribbling over his fingers. Clive wet his lips. "They usually are scared off after a burn or two."

Scoffing, Dion shuffled back to search for Clive's cock, pressing their lengths together, weight heavy as he bent down. He breathed out against Clive's neck, "Scared of that? You could light me aflame and I would still go as far as you would have me."

Back arched, Clive said, "Then do it. Make me bloom. Make me yours, Dion."

Dion fumbled for the bottle, soaking his hand without Clive's help, and then inserted two fingers as far as they could go. Clive grasped on his shirt for leverage, rutting up on Dion's stomach. The prince's cock pulsed under his as Dion thrust his fingers from behind. "Greagor, you are warm. Open up a little more for me, Rosen. Give me some space to carve out every flame you claim to possess."

Wrapping his legs around Dion's waist, mind in a haze, he concentrated on breathing out and back in. Just as Isabelle had taught him when it came to relaxing and loosening his walls, letting them in deep. Dion moaned at his neck, peppering desperate kisses there as he slipped an extra finger in with a squelch. Clive yipped and tossed his head back as Dion pressed against his prostrate, intentional and measured as the prince kept hitting that spot. Over and over until Clive was whimpering.

"Ah, there's that fire," Dion mused, retrieving his hand with a look of awe on his face. He caught Clive's chin with wet fingers, lining up to kiss him, slow and languid. "But as you can see, I am not burned."

Tears sprung to his eyes, coaxing Dion with his tongue, moaning, "Want you."

"I know," Dion acknowledged, "and you will have me." The prince took himself in hand, easing Clive back to the bed. "Spread wide, Rosen." And he did, trembling with want, nerves sparking with noticeable fire now. Dion placed his hands on Clive's thighs, keeping him locked in that position as fire coiled around his wrists. "Oh, that's a nice feeling. Who would be scared of a flame so docile, licking at me like dog?"

In a swift motion, Dion pressed in, taking time to adjust before sinking all the way to the balls. "I … don't think I can go slow," the prince told him, voice strained. "Forgive me."

Clive didn't have time to catch his breath before Dion pulled out and thrust back in. But he was content to let the prince steal everything. His breath, his flame, his body. Something in his chest rejoicing at the overwhelming sting of aether as Dion's skin danced with light. Like calling to like.

A spiney tail wrapped around his ankle, coiling possessively, and Clive gasped out, "Hurts," as he registered the pain. Those spines would leave a mark with how snug they were sinking in. Dion kissed him again, meeting his lips like he could see, and a numbing light was exchanged between their tongues. Clive was overcome with too much sensation, digging his nails into Dion's back and dragging them down to cup the prince by the ass. "More," he decided as the tears fell down his cheeks, lifting up as Dion thrust with abandon, forcing them closer. It hit deeper and Dion unraveled inside him, coating his walls with pleasant warmth.

He followed not long after, spilling across the prince's tunic. He hurried to apologize before it had even cooled, but Dion sealed their lips back together, rutting through the last of his climax and taking the chance to slide more easily inside him. Clive let his mind go blank, relishing the tingles and overriding flashes of light. Even the tail at his ankle hadn't let go, keeping them joined.

When he finally had the presence of mind, his eyes went wide, staring up at Dion. "Why are …. when did you semi-prime?"

He ran his hand over glittering scales and Dion shivered, rumbling in an echoey voice, "Careful or I may take that as an invitation." From the swelling of his cock still nestled inside, he already had. A third eye had seen everything from where his horns spiraled outward, leaving Dion to pull the blindfold free to watch as Clive marveled at his everything. "I was uncertain if Terence would like this form, but you seem to enjoy it at least."

"Yes," Clive breathed, "I like it because it's you."

Dion caught in him a slow kiss, the base of his horns knocking against Clive's forehead. "I won't let you take those words back."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

The prince was in a daze the following day. And the day after. And the day after that. It was starting to annoy Terence, as he had been covering for Dion too many times now. Not to mention, Joshua had been frequenting the Veil, tying up Rosen's hours so he couldn't ask the courtier what had happened. That annoyed him for a different reason: The young prince from Rosaria seemed to think that his plan was working. Distracting them both with Dion's nonsense. Even more frustrating, it was working.

"Was he that good?" Terence demanded. He couldn't tell if he was angry that Dion had gotten to have him first or if he was upset that Dion had slept with someone else. A little bit of both maybe, but that last one he deserved. Many a time, Dion had known about his adventures after dark. But this was different. They were meant to be together now. Confiding in each other when and where it mattered. He would say this mattered quite a bit. "What has you so far gone that you can't even pay attention to the commander?"

"I'm going to buy his debt," decided Dion, eyes going sharp and nostrils flaring. "The idea of anyone else having him is …" He glanced at Terence, softening at the edges. "Except you. I want to watch you have him one day."

That melted Terence's resolve instantly. "Then we will pool our allowances. I have a bit left." Not much, after the frequent trips to the Veil. His father would kill him if he asked for more. But he would manage, if it was for his prince. "It would be wise to talk to Isabelle soon. That friend of yours seems to have similar ideas."

"Joshua?" Dion clasped his hands together, much as he would in prayer. "He wouldn't dare."

Dion returned that night to the barracks with a snarl on his lips. "He dared!" Oddly, his prince was missing his earrings. "I bought him on the spot. Isabelle said if I waited any longer, he would be gone."

"Of course she did," Terence told him wryly. The madame wasn't one to be underestimated. "Has he been informed?" They were due to move out to the frontlines, headed for the coastal fort in a week. That meant Rosen would need to pack and go with them on short notice too. He couldn't be left on his own here. Someone would take advantage of a prince's kept man.

Dion toed at the ground, not meeting his gaze. "He, uh, he said he was sore and wasn't taking guests of that nature. Isabelle said she would let him know."

Terence gaped at him. "How much did you …?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Why's he still indulging the Phoenix then, if they aren't having sex?"

Restless, Dion tapped at the ground with his foot, folding his arms over his chest. "Rosen hasn't told me that. But I am sure when he feels comfortable, he will start to share what he holds so close to his chest."

With a shrug, Terence had to agree. They had plenty of time, if Rosen would be joining them on the battlefield. Waloed had made a move recently; it was only a matter of time before everything unfolded.

"I have decided," Elwin spoke, directing his gaze to the flute of the glass in his hands. The party around them was in full swing. An arrangement by the king's council, vying for the land across the sea. The nobles of Stonhyrr were eager to see their king return to madness, basking in blood. Not while Elwin yet breathed.

"What is it you have decided, dearest?" Barnabas asked, distracted as his eyes scanned the room.

"I must resume my duties as Archduke."

Those blazing eyes were on him at once, narrowing to a fine point. "Pardon? I must have misheard. You are my -"

"I remembered a while ago," Elwin continued as if he didn't hear Barnabas at all. "It was when Cid rescued that girl from the brigands. The fierce way she picked herself back up reminded me of someone. My son." He tightened his lips, worrying at his bottom lip as Barnabas glanced down and back up. "Then I learned he was dead. Do you know how much that hurt? To remember him and lose him in the same breath? But there is another son I mustn't keep waiting. If you allow this of me ... in my return, I will bestow an alliance to Ash. Is that not a strategic -"

Barnabas covered his mouth, grimacing. "You must be drunk. Let you go? When war is on the horizon? You will be caught in the crossfire."

Elwin clawed at his hand, sinking his nails in, words muffled as he told him, "Then I will be caught, but I will fight until there is nothing left of me."

Expression shuttering, Barnabas asked, "Must you?"

"My son needs me." From the reports he had received, Joshua had begun to lose himself in excess. Frequenting a notorious whorehouse while in Sanbreque. Turning to alcohol upon his return to Rosaria. His son wasn't faring well. And he was furious with Anabella for allowing it to happen. She hadn't lifted a finger in response. Too busy arranging her eventual remarriage. He was going to take great pains to ruin that.

"Then leave me with a promise." Barnabas removed his hand, snaking it to the back of Elwin's neck and drawing him closer. He brushed gentle lips over Elwin's cheek as he said, "Promise me you will marry me when the dust settles."

Raising his eyebrows, Elwin mocked, "I thought we were already married, dearest."

Barnabas gave him a wolfish grin. "Ah, I must have forgotten. Then an amendment. I would like a reminder of the honeymoon."

In return, Elwin tipped up Barnabas's chin and kissed under it, humming a vow of, "That can be arranged. Wait for me."

"Father!" Joshua crashed into Elwin's arms, sobbing. "Is it really you? There was someone who looked like brother too, but it wasn't. It couldn't be him." Horrid, traitorous tears ran down to his chin, dampening his father's doublet. The man looked so much like the portraits of long ago. Perhaps a bit more gray in the hair, more laugh lines at his mouth. But it had to be his father. No one comforted him quite so much as Elwin, as the man swept him up in strong arms that swaddled him like a babe. As if he weighed nothing.

"My boy," Elwin's voice hadn't changed either, a warm hand cupping the back of his head and pressing him closer. "How I have missed you so."

"Why did you take so long?" demanded Joshua, hitting his chest with a weak fist. His mind was a mess, spiraling as he thought: could Clive be alive too? Did I make a mistake? "Brother is …! I can't. Why did you both leave me?"

"Oh, my boy," Elwin soothed, stroking his hair. "It is a long story, but from now, I will make it up to you. To you both. Where is your brother's grave?"

Joshua pushed back, lips pulled back in a snarl. "She didn't give him one," he seethed. "She said his sickness would spread. Mother burned his body. There is nothing left."

"I see," Elwin said, voice going carefully controlled. Flat. A touch cold. "I must have a word with her then. No son of mine will go without."

Terence flipped through the missives, worry etched on his brows. "The Eternal King has been sighted on the plains," relayed Terence to his prince. Dion placed a piece resembling a horse on the hills to the north, flattening his palms on the war table. "Is that not odd?"

"Much is odd as of late," conceded Dion. "The Archduke of Rosaria yet lives. The Phoenix threatens me daily. What next?"

Rosen walked into the tent, drying his hair, tunic damp and sticking to his skin. The white left nothing to the imagination. Dion looked away with a hearty swallow and Terence smirked. "Lovely to see you, Rosen. What brings you here?"

"The dragoons said you needed a distraction, my prince. Has something happened?" Rosen rested his hip against the war table, scanning it with shrewd calculation in those too bright eyes. "The King slumbers no more," mused their lover. He moved a piece to the front, knocking over the horse. "But Bahamut's wings will not be clipped. Not while I am with you."

Dion ran a hand through his hair, swearing to Greagor that he was the luckiest man alive. "What did you have in mind?"

Rosen smirked, hopping up on the table and spreading his legs. The pieces fell over, one by one, as the prince planted his hands on the man's thighs. As if they were made to fit there. Terence walked to the other side of the table and tipped his head back, kissing with the deserved ardor that shameless display had earned from him. "Use me, my lords. Light my flames."

"That … is too dangerous," dismissed Dion, removing his hands. "Give me time to consider it." The prince ducked out of the tent, needing to cool his head.

Terence commended his willpower. He circled around to settle between Rosen's thighs in his prince's stead, rubbing at the man's waist in apology. "Do not let that dishearten you. He thinks of nothing but your safety. As do I."

"I suppose," allowed Rosen. "But I … there is something that I need to tell you both."

"Can it wait?"

Rosen shook his head. "With the revival of the ducal household of Rosaria, there is something I must confess."

Terence held his breath. Not more than three moons and yet Rosen was willing to confide in him - in them. "Yes, what is it?"

"I … my real name is Clive." That name sounded familiar. "Clive Rosfield."

Something clattered at the tent entrance. They turned to watch a flustered Dion fix the weapon rack to the best of his abilities.

"You don't say," a dry voice joined them, an unexpected guest ducking into the tent. Stone cold blue eyes swept over Terence holding onto Clive and then crinkled at the edges despite his expression not changing at all. "Kids these days. What ever will his father say when he finds out Sanbreque stole his son?"

"Stealing is a strong word," Clive bit out, pressing Terence protectively to his chest, "when they have done nothing but give. What brings the King of Waloed to this humble place?"

"Clive, Terence, desist," ordered Dion on a choked voice. "Now isn't the time."

Barnabas Tharmr held up a hand, a smirk cracking through his distant demeanor. "Now, now. How fascinating. You remind me of your father, boy. Tell me, does it have to be these two?"

Without hesitating, Clive told him, "No one else would do."

On a laugh, Barnabas allowed, "Fine. I came to negotiate with an insufferable prince, but I am willing to be lenient if that is what my son demands."

All three of them asked, stunned: "Son?"

"Yes. It must have been a difficult delivery for Elwin dearest. But truly, our son has grown into quite the man. Why, my forces tell me that anyone who gets too close to this camp is likely to be burned. Care to share what that is about, boys?"

Guilty faces turned red, one after the other.