Egor was escorted by two guards down a long underground corridor.
Torches flickered along the walls, their light weak, uneven, barely holding back the dark.
Stone.
Doors.
Shadows.
That was all he could see.
They stopped at a massive iron door.
"We've brought a new slave," one of the guards called out.
A heavy bolt slid back.
The door opened.
They shoved him inside.
The chamber was large.
Too large.
Too bright.
Fireplaces burned along three walls.
The warmth should have felt comforting.
It didn't.
Chains lined the stone.
Hooks.
Iron rings.
And in the center—
a wooden frame.
Shaped like a cross.
Egor understood immediately what it was for.
Not everyone accepted their fate quietly.
His throat tightened.
Then he saw it.
A brazier.
Glowing.
And beside it—
a long iron rod.
For branding.
This was what he had agreed to.
But his body didn't care.
He stepped back—
—and hit someone behind him.
"Only one?" an old voice muttered.
A hunched man stood by the door.
Dull eyes.
Steady hands.
"This one is for Prince Klaus. Apply his personal mark."
"Bring him forward."
The old man didn't even look at Egor.
He adjusted the iron rod, then attached a smooth branding head.
Pressed a finger to it—
and a raised symbol formed out of nothing.
The guards grabbed Egor.
"No—wait!" he struggled. "There's no need—I agreed—"
"Boy," the old man said flatly, without turning, "they all say that."
They dragged him to the frame.
Cold iron.
Chains snapped shut around his wrists.
His ankles.
Too tight.
Too short.
He couldn't move.
Not even a fraction.
His pulse spiked.
Vision narrowing.
Breath shallow.
Run.
His body screamed it.
Run.
But there was nowhere to go.
The last thing he saw—
was the iron.
Glowing.
Then—
darkness.
He came back to himself seconds later.
Pain.
Not sharp.
Not clean.
Something worse.
Something total.
It devoured everything.
His wrist—
burning.
Hissing.
Then the smell.
Burnt flesh.
His flesh.
His body arched violently against the chains—
but they held.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't escape.
Couldn't even scream.
The pain swallowed every thought.
Every instinct.
Every breath.
Then—
it stopped.
The iron pulled away.
He collapsed forward, hanging in the restraints.
Gasping.
Shaking.
Empty.
It was over.
On his wrist—
a fresh brand.
A sun overlapping a half-full moon.
A lightning bolt cutting through both.
Three rings encircling them.
Not the mark of the royal house.
Personal.
Private.
A sign not of ownership by the crown—
but of belonging to one man.
Klaus.
The chains released.
Egor dropped to the floor.
He didn't even try to catch himself.
One of the guards yanked him up by the arm.
"I don't see why the prince would want something this weak," he muttered.
"He's pretty," the other said with a smirk. "Maybe that's enough."
"For that? He wouldn't need to make him a high-ranking slave."
"Take him to the baths," the old man snapped. "He goes to the prince—not to stand here while you gossip."
They dragged him out.
Back through the corridor.
Egor didn't care anymore.
Only one thought remained.
He would see Klaus.
They left him in another room.
Two boys.
Young.
Too young.
They worked quickly.
Efficiently.
Without hesitation.
They treated his wrist.
Wrapped it carefully.
Stripped him.
Washed him.
Dressed him.
Soft fabric.
Violet.
Clean.
Not like theirs.
Even slaves have ranks.
"Wait here," one of them said.
He didn't wait long.
Two women entered.
Their eyes swept over him.
Judging.
Measuring.
Unimpressed.
"The prince is waiting."
A pause.
"Why is he dressed like that?"
"He's high-ranking—"
"Is he?" one of them cut in sharply.
"If he's being taken to the prince's chambers, this is wrong."
Everything changed instantly.
They undressed him again.
Egor didn't resist.
Didn't ask.
Didn't understand.
New clothes.
Short.
Too short.
No undergarments.
Loose lacing at the chest.
Skin exposed.
The fabric—
deep red.
Like fresh blood.
"Better," one of the women said.
"Come."
They led him through corridors.
Upward.
Through hidden passages.
Then—
light.
A corridor.
Three slaves stood outside a door.
Holding trays.
Food.
Wine.
Small vessels.
"You may go," one of the women said.
Egor took the last tray.
They knocked.
"Enter," Klaus's voice said.
Egor smiled.
Without meaning to.
The room was vast.
Almost empty.
A massive bed at its center.
White fabric draped above it.
Firelight filled the space.
Egor flinched.
His hand went instinctively to his bandaged wrist.
The women moved gracefully.
Arranging food.
Positioning themselves.
One sat.
Crossed her legs.
The other touched Klaus.
Guided him.
Egor stood frozen.
Still holding the tray.
"That's enough," Klaus said.
Calm.
But absolute.
The women froze.
"We thought—"
"I said enough."
His gaze shifted.
To Egor.
Slow.
Sharp.
"Who told you to prepare him like this?"
Silence.
"My mistake," one of the women said, dropping to her knees.
Klaus studied Egor.
The too-short fabric.
The exposed skin.
The way he tried to cover himself.
A flicker of something—
hard to read.
"You may leave."
A pause.
"Tomorrow, he is dressed as a warrior."
"Not this."
They bowed.
Left quickly.
"Are you planning to stay there all night?" Klaus asked, more relaxed now.
"Are you hungry?"
Egor moved.
Sat.
Finally.
He ate.
Fast.
Like he hadn't eaten in days.
Klaus watched.
Amused.
After a while—
Egor picked up one of the small bottles.
"What's this?"
"Lubricant," Klaus said casually.
"That's oil."
"And that—an aphrodisiac."
Egor nearly dropped it.
"I—I didn't know—I didn't mean—"
Klaus laughed.
Not polite.
Not restrained.
Real.
"That was all brought for you," he said.
"…For me?"
"They assumed you were my bed slave."
A faint, crooked smirk.
"That's why they dressed you like that."
Egor covered his face.
Heat flooding his skin.
Sharp.
Burning embarrassment.
"I told you. Relax."
A pause.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"What part?" Klaus asked, genuinely puzzled.
"They think we—"
"It doesn't matter," Klaus said.
"Nobles can indulge in whatever they want."
"Men. Women."
A small shrug.
"It's not considered betrayal. Not among them."
Egor hesitated.
"So you don't care what your uncle thinks?"
"Not in the slightest."
A pause.
"Come. I'm tired."
Klaus dropped onto the bed.
Face into the pillow.
For a moment—
he looked almost—
human.
Egor hesitated.
Then lay beside him.
Turned away.
"Relax," Klaus said, a trace of amusement in his voice.
"I won't touch you."
A pause.
"…unless you ask."
Egor's face burned.
He closed his eyes.
Do I really not want that?
His heart pounded.
Images—
uninvited—
too vivid.
Klaus above him.
Watching.
Smiling.
Heat spread through his body.
His breath changed.
And then—
the realization.
Quiet.
Unavoidable.
He did want it.
More than he should.
And for the first time—
he wished—
Klaus would reach for one of those small bottles.