They said the emperor of Asarrah no longer saw the world as men do. His eyes—clouded by age, power, and a hunger that had outlived his sense of restraint—looked not to borders, but to beauty. To possession.

So when the northern kingdom of Khaireth fell, when its banners burned and its princes lay in the dust, the emperor asked for no tribute of gold, nor oaths of submission. He asked for a gift.

Lioren—the second son, barely nineteen, unblooded by war, untrained for court—was known only for his stillness and his strange, ice-born grace. He had never held a blade. But he had silenced rooms.

The emperor saw him once—from afar—and decided.

—This one will be mine.

Not a political hostage. Not a guest. A future consort. A pet.

No one objected—not the viziers, not the generals, not even the emperor’s son. The prince of Asarrah, who was commanded to keep the boy close, feed him, clothe him, display him. Prepare him.

In the quiet garden beyond the western wing, far from the gazes of courtiers and the drone of instruments, Lioren sat on soft grass, bathed in light.

He wore turquoise and gold, fabric thinner than dignity. His arms were sheathed in translucent sleeves that glowed like vapor in the sun. The belt at his waist, the bands on his thighs—delicate things of ornament, not defense. This was not princely garb. It was the attire of a concubine, tailored not for seduction but submission.

He had not protested.

To protest would have meant acknowledging the rules of this game. And Lioren had chosen to play without speaking.

A figure stood just beyond the marble archway. Still. Watching.

Lioren did not turn to face him. His voice, when it came, was low and silken. It did not tremble.

_“He hasn’t touched me. Not yet.” A pause. —“But that is only because he wants the illusion of restraint. A man like him enjoys the waiting.”

He plucked a blade of grass and rolled it between pale fingers.

—“I wonder,” he continued, —“does he speak of it in your presence? What he intends to do with me once I’m... broken in?”

Silence...

Lioren let the question hang.

—“I’m nineteen. In Khaireth, that’s old enough to command men. Here, it’s young enough to be draped in silk and called ‘gift’.”

He turned slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder. Light kissed his features like paint on porcelain—too composed for innocence, too poised for comfort.

—“You don’t answer.”

Unreadable eyes held him like dusk before a storm.

—“That’s fine,” Lioren said. “Perhaps that’s why your father keeps you near me. To see how long silence can endure before it begins to cut.”And it did. It cut, even in the stillness.