__________

As he woke up, Davir's yawn caused a near-tearing tug of the skin between his ears and jaw. "Vixens' arse," he grunted. Snores sounded from the top bed of the bunk.

A candle burned at the opposite wall of the guardschamber — He remembered putting it out before dozing off. He sighed. The troubles of sharing a chamber among recruits. . .With such light, no wonder his vessel stirred furiously, urging to spill out energy from his chest.

Davir asked no questions. He shielded his eyes from the sting of the flame with a hand and the flurry inside him lessened. . . inconveniently still coming to life when Davir dared use his hand for less important matters, as pulling trousers past his arse. He tackled his boots with narrowed eyes already burning.

In a fit of decisive rage against the candle, Davir stood, the brittle wood of his bunk shaking all over. The creaking and the shuffling from the motion didn't awake guard sleeping on the top bed. His sleep was heavy as his snoring spoke for.

Davir walked up to the light to put it out — clumsily, with a hand covering his eyes.

"Bloody useless thing." He extinguished the flame with a swift hand swipe. What was this blasphemous need these people had to go against the night's natural will for darkness and pollute it with firelight?

The inner tumult finally settled. The pain in his eyes subsided and they refocused. Distinct contours of boots and clothing hung on nails on the wall stood out like distinct landforms.

The bunk shook again, such decaying furniture. The guard atop the bunk called, "You alright there? I heard noises."

"Yes," Davir said. "Marvelous, actually." Marvelous until he thought of all the flame-lit paths of the domain ahead of him on his way to the heir. To pay back for his enlistment trial by playing escort while on a city tour.

When his timestick cylinder marked past deepnight hour, Davir was out of the barracks, his quarterstaff secure diagonally across his back.

Determined to keep a low profile in the city, Davir's blue uniform of the guard was replaced by hideous tight-fitting tunic and trousers — all hay-colored — typical of private guards and mercenaries hired by noble folks. The whole prescribed by the heir as a part of their transaction.

The heir had been the first to give: shelter, medical care — although dubious. All with a clear goal in mind after all, Davir realized now: to have a personal pawn in the guard. Wrongly believing he had found a suitable pawn, too. Out of spite, Davir was determined to win from the heir at his game.

For all the difficulties Davir had in controlling his vessel, the knack was a valuable tool. It had proved efficient against soldier Bjon during the trial. It would too against the heir's antics.

The way to the heir was a succession of cobblestone paths cornered with guards standing near sparse flame lights clinging on walls, finishing into a rough way of rocks that grated underfoot.

With his clothes and how severely pale his face was, the Ancients forbid he crossed someone. Else, he was sure to be mistaken as a haunting spirit of a long-dead relative.

Davir waited in the dark. At the base of the stairs that climbed to the entrance of the southernmost edifice of the domain until a cloaked figure sliced through the darkness. It stood still atop the stairs, holding a lantern whose light drew shadows bending on the walls, crawling up to the lowest windows of the edifice. Amid the hood of the cloak, the heir's brown face stuck out. Davir braced for the light and marched up the stairs.

He attempted a bow that was cut off.

"No need for that. Avoid calling attention to us." The heir removed the hood, revealing a stern, flushed face. "Amyra will soon be here." In a lazy spin, he bathed Davir in light, and noting his discomfort he asked, "You're well?"

No. Davir fought the short-lived urge to jam the accursed lantern against the wall. "Splendid," he said. He seized the heir up instead, his vessel stirring again, as though his innermost essence abhorred fire.

Escorting the heir to the city was inviting potential danger. The unknown could either reserve the best or the worst of outcomes. His survival depended on what little he could control. Or at least predict, as he had sense enough to know it would take him unfathomable devices to control the heir for now. Davir's presence there meant even the heir's superiors were failing at that.

Where to touch to best read into the heir's flesh? Close to his brain.

Davir reached inside his vessel. A contorting veil or shadows flashed before his eyes. Then the vessel expelled energy in waves sourced in his chest. They enveloped him whole. The strength of his limbs increased tenfold; his awareness expanded outside the limits of his physical form. All his senses were displaced. He now saw with his entire body, catching the full sight of the surroundings in all angles, smelled even with his fingers, heard with his skin.

What Davir did next could cost his head: he caressed the heir's cheek, pressing his fingers against his nape. Suddenly, Davir was acutely aware of everything inside him: his flesh, his nerves, above all. Countless threads snaking up his brain.

The heir exploded with fear, sorrow, doubt. None of the assumed ill intentions towards Davir.

The heir glared, bated Davir's hand away from him. Then recoiled with a hand pressed to his face as if he'd been slapped.

"Forgive me my indiscretion, Lord. I thought you'd called me here to—" Davir sighed, feigning regret. Swallowing back into the vessel all he had let out; he brought his awareness to normal. "I wasn't thinking properly. I misread your intentions for bringing me here, I believe." He had indeed misread his intentions.

"This is the worst possible occasion for erratic behavior."

Impressive. There was the self-assured tone again, drawing a clear contrast between the authoritative stance and the nervous turmoil Davir had seen in him. As if for a moment, the heir could split his will and his soul, and act solely on his will.

"Of course, Lord," Davir said.

"If you need reminding, we are leaving undercover," Heron sighed. "The entire court of Ceres is bent to keep me within the ramparts. Apparently, the popular union in the city is growing defiant against the Monarch."

"You believe the risk is worth it?"

The heir seemed taken aback by the question. He shrugged. "I was a boy the last time I set foot in the valley of Ceres. My young face has faded from the memory of the revolutionary by now." Heron inspected Davir for an uncomfortable moment as if he considered saying more. "Nurse Amyra leaves the capital in two days. We wish to see the taverns of the city together," he said. "This is a perk for you too. With bora in your cup, the night will be over before you realize. You'll ask for more, I bet."

Footfalls on the cobblestone sounded. From the entry of the building harboring the maid's chambers of the domain, came the nurse.

The metal gate rattled as she turned her keys to close it, then the silence was absolute until she spoke. "Lord," she bowed. She turned to Davir and regarded him with scrutiny. "He's the one you chose," she said. "For some reason, I expected we'd have your brother with us tonight." She turned to Davir again. "I heard of the trial combat." She smiled. "Follow me to the western gate. Make sure to keep a distance from me. The guards shouldn't notice we're together.

"When I put the lantern out, it means I'm close enough to the chariot that will take us to the city. In the dark portion of the gardens of the exterior courtyard, ten paces from the fountain. Don't lose sight of me to avoid losing time. Mount in the back wagon once you get there and hide under the blankets. I'll drive and handle the guards of the gates at the ramparts. Tell me if something isn't clear."

The heir hooded his head. The nurse grabbed the lantern off the heir's hand before she walked ahead.

"As my guard, you get behind me," the heir said once the nurse moved far enough.

Davir did as he ordered and they followed, taking a path around the eastern and northern palaces to avoid the servants and guards in the grand square courtyard the four main edifices of the domain enclosed.

They acted according to plan, mounted in the chariot, and trotted to the western entrance of the domain. The nurse drove and the two men hid in the wagon, among empty sacks that smelled of bitter herbs and hay. When the wagon halted, the night bell of the rampart sounded one time. "Amyra Hera Alerin," the nurse said after the strident sound of the bell ceased. The guards approached the chariot with unmatched steps on the ground.

After a long moment. The bell sounded two times. As the gate screeched open, the heir took the opportunity to exhale. He had been holding his breath, for the Ancients.

"You are free now," said Amyra once the chariot had crossed past the ramparts' gate. "That was pretty easy. Been a while I didn't test my charms. Turns out, it's still effective enough to allow me to cross the ramparts without having my chariot checked. Men are all the same. Tell me what a pretty face can't do?"

"What pretty face?" Heron asked, half-laughing, his voice raised enough to be heard through the trotting breaking twigs and moving rocks along the path.

"Dear, you're a gardener telling a blacksmith his swords are hideous because they don't have nice-colored petals," Amyra said.

"Of course, I am," he responded. "You have an answer for anything, don't you?"

"You know me."

The heir tucked himself against the wooden wall of the chariot, he was shivering. The deeper they entered the forest path the more the cold seemed to reach deeper inside his fine tunic beneath his light cloak. Davir was aware that his constantly looking at him didn't help the heir feel any more comfortable

"You still can't remember anything?" The heir asked.

"Still can't," Davir said. "Ever had fog inside your head?"

Heron grimaced.

"Exactly." Davir was sure the heir wouldn't want to hear any of the things he could see or hear: the fact that he could read on his body like a script, from the goosebumps to his erratic heartbeat. Or the fact that he was unenthusiastic about watching him get shit-faced as an act of rebellion against his father and mentor.

"I almost regretted putting you through that trial," the heir said. "Bjon's one of the best among the lowly guards. Captain Jallon is considering him for the superior ranks."

"Had I not been trialed, you would be spending the night in safety in your palace," Davir said. "I suppose that'd be a horrid prospect, Lord. If you allow me to be honest, Lord, I believe you could have left the domain without me." Davir didn't dare ask the question, he knew the answer to it: the heir was afraid of the menace of the rebels he seemed to downplay.

"You don't seem to be afraid of me to the slightest."

"Never, my Lord."

"Well, you should," the heir said. "You're quite odd, soldier Davir. I've been thinking about your trial a lot. You recovered faster than was normal, and attacked soldier Bjon quite brutally for someone who'd almost been subdued. Even the brigadier was impressed."

"Letting your opponent think he's won will earn you at least a few wins. Bear that in mind," Davir said: a better alternative to telling the heir he had predicted Bjon's body movements.

"Soldier Bjon is not just an opponent, he's one of the best."

"No wonder there's a rebellion if soldier Bjon's the best the royal guard can offer."

"You can be a butt sometimes, can't you?" the heir scoffed. "He's one of the best of among the inferior guards only. The superior guard can Stonefling, they'll blow your head before you can touch your stick."

The chariot took them to isolated roads bordering the tumultuous city Ceres in the northwest, far from the agglomeration of the boroughs. The final stop was a small flame-lit tavern, judging by the reddish glare coming from the window. Amyra ordered the two men down the wagon and looked down to them while they waited beside men heavily built and armed with swords standing in front of the door.

"Don't dare start the fun before I am back," she mused when Davir and Heron stood in front of the tavern, then drove away.

"We'll have a better chance having our horses back if we place them in a public stable," Heron said. "It's better we don't enter without her. Amyra knows things around here. I don't."

When the nurse returned, the first thing she did was tangle her arms with the heir. Amyra led Heron forward then turned to Davir, and said, "I believe it's better if you stayed outside. The Ceri taverns are not known for being decent. This is one of the worse. I have been to Anuteh before and I know how you think of decency and purity."

Davir kept his silence and watched the two disappear inside the tavern. The empty road of the dark rock ahead shone with a red glow of the tavern's light.

Rather than the indecency that he was not meant to witness as an Anutehi of origin, the light in the tavern was what made him consider not entering.

He cursed his sense of honor, squinted, and walked inside. His pupils burned increasingly until his eyes adjusted to the light, which did nothing about the pain, if not make it constant. If he could keep his mind busy, he could end up ignoring the pain, Davir told himself. He was wrong.

Five steps inside the tavern and Davir understood what the nurse meant by indecency. The workers walked around from table to table covering their bottoms only. Even the women. Though, strangely, some of them couldn't give up their corsets.

A long wooden counter full of men soliciting drinks stretched on his left. On his right lay round saturated tables. Davir walked through the gaps between them, diving into noise and an uncanny smell of perspire and alcohol to lean against a wooden column, where he was least exposed to the light. He closed his eyes to rest for a moment, then looked for the heir's dark head among the crowd.

Davir located him at the edge of the long counter, brushing a large cup above the wooden surface. Amyra stood beside him. Davir was unable to read them from the distance. But he noticed the nurse peering around them as she drank from a cup until her stare was fixated on the door. She nodded.

Davir traced her gaze to a semi-naked man with hard features and matte skin. Another night worker. He started towards them, along the narrow way enclosed by the counter and the first line of tables.

The male worker approached Heron directly, ignoring the nurse's presence. Soon he was touching him, running his hand along his shoulders back and forth. He spoke in the heir's ear and laughed. The heir gave his hand for the worker to grab before he was led out of sight, through a door the worker pushed open beside them.

Despite all the stubbornness he showed, it wasn't difficult to take him to bed, after all.

He considered the implications of his job as a guard as he debated if it was necessary to keep him at sight's reach. He came to a fair compromise: when he had the displeasure of hearing uncomfortable noises, that's when he had the right to leave privacy to the heir and spare himself the eye-torture induced by the tavern lights.

________

The hallway was dim, with one lantern spaced at every five doors, illuminating the portion of the corridor that stretched ahead.

His boy walked in front of him. Thick and long strands of hair flew down his head, brushing oiled skin that glimmered red. His back was drawn with soft muscles that appeared sculpted by a delicate hand, assorted with a gracious gait that moved square buttocks under trousers transparent due to a layer of oil.

The boy was a fair blend of the softness of his once habitual stable boys and the roughness of a hunter-athlete whose forms Heron both envied and ached to possess.

Heron felt warm with desire, only regretful he'd abandoned his unpaid boramug on the counter too soon. The horrid realization crushed against him like thunder. He was penniless. This was a night worker, not one of his stable boys.

He could evoke the subject after he'd finished pinning him on the mattress, his legs spread apart, mouth letting out his last moans - No.

"Wait." He was surprised he was already panting. "I apologize. I have no money with me." He had been so worried about getting caught by the guards keeping the entrance of the royal domain that he'd forgotten about this small detail.

As a response the boy smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth. He'd drunk a few cups too. "It's alright. I'm not letting you go. Just promise we'll see each other a second time." He spoke softly, pressing himself against Heron - entirely on purpose.

"At least a second time, yes," said Heron, then the boy was leading him forward again.

He stopped in front of a door above which a light shone. "Here," the boy murmured, "go ahead." He pushed the door open.

Heron walked inside, fingers already unbuttoning his tunic. The interior was as scarcely lit as the corridor and beside the only firelight in the room hovered a shadow, deeper than that engulfing the rest of the room.

Heron wanted to see the boy clearly. He advanced in the room, scanning for a lantern to add more light.

The shadow next to the light already burning gained shape and contours. The more he saw, the stiffer he got. Lust giving place to something less belly-warming inside him.

The light flickered. And he caught sight of a long cloak, a pearl-white fabric that stuck out of a collar, and above it, a face squared with a scowl and marred with wrinkles.

Next to the lantern's top rested a gloved hand with a red gem trapped between two fingers. The characteristic faint glow of the gem forced Heron into a halt, fingers still around a tunic button.

Although he was noble himself, he'd never been allowed to touch Flogos, the mineral being reserved for the superior ranks of the guards only.

Heron knew that if he dared something unwise, the man would tear him apart with that stone. His heartbeat began to sound in his ears. As he turned around to confirm his fears, Heron could feel his forehead dampen.

And there was the boy who had conducted him to the room. Unfazed, still docile-looking if not for the saber he was holding and the hatred. Hatred so deep in his eyes, it caused Heron to feel sick.

The boy spoke. "The end of your lineage has already begun, Or Lomeon. The Ancients are with us, The Real Owners of the Land. With Their help, our brothers killed Servyna Dan Lomeon two years ago," he gestured with his knife, "your turn today, tomorrow your father will face our blade of justice. One that will cast your souls in The Order of the Shadows where your putrid kind belongs for eternity."