Chapter 3 - Bedwhore

Aven had prepared himself for a night dedicated to pleasuring the Prince. Physically and mentally. After all - that was what he was purchased for, yes? As Lucian bathed, Aven drew himself and the Prince a glass of wine - he sure as hell would need it. His fingers drew off his clothes, letting them flutter to the floor and positioned himself on the bed.

He swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat. After all. He’s done this before. Fuck him. Or perhaps be fucked. Whichever the Prince desired. Shut down until it was over. Sleep.

Repeat.

He felt the lurch in his stomach as the door opened. Silver silks dripped down the Prince’s body as he slid the door closed behind him, candlelight lifting up off of fair skin. Water still clung to the ends of his hair, and every step he took, it splashed across the marble floor as he approached, wringing the moisture out of blonde locks.

He paused halfway to the bed, eyes locked on Aven.

“….what are you doing.”

Aven blinked, bewildered. He slowly sat up. “…presenting myself to you, your highness.”

“I did not ask you to.”

Confusion swelled. Aven hesitated. Was this… perhaps a test? He chose his words carefully. “You purchased me to pleasure you,” he says. “Here I am.”

“Tsch.” Lucian approached. He folded his arms, eyes drawing up and down Aven’s figure. “Here you are. All limp and prettied up like some Zakharan doll.” He pushed fingers tiredly through his hair. “You don’t interest me right now.”

Relief flooded through him. But he didn’t show it. Aven swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I understand. I’ll ah…show myself out. If you could have your guards show me-”

“No.”

“No?”

Lucian sat down beside him. “I don’t remember excusing you. I may not be using you tonight, but you are still mine. You will sleep beside me.”

Aven didn’t complain. While sleeping beside the Prince certainly wasn’t ideal - it was better than the alternative. Aven spread himself out over the bed as Lucian retrieved the glass of wine that Aven had poured, considering it a moment before tilting it down his throat.

He didn’t come to bed for a long while. Lucian sat at his desk, pouring over scrolls and missives and maps, eyes drawing over the words. Aven had tried to peek at them once. His head swam. The words practically floated off the page.

Sleep didn’t come. He lay on his side, watching Lucian work in the candlelight. Finally, curiosity got the best of him. “I don’t know how you can make sense of those scribbles,” he muttered.

“Those scribbles hold more value than any spoken word,” Lucian promised.

“What are you doing?”

Lucian leaned back. As he rubbed his tired eyes, Aven was sure he was going to leave the question unanswered. But he heaved a breath. “I’m studying the customs of Amn. For the voyage.”

The diplomatic mission to Amn. Aven had heard much about it, from passing nobles and soldiers. “And you’re sure I’m to accompany you?”

“Yes. And as such… I should probably educate you.” He leans back, turning now to face Aven fully. “Have you ever heard of Amn.”

“No.”

“Amn is also known as the Merchant’s Domain. It’s a country on the Sword Coast - which is the western coast of Faerun. It’s perhaps one of the wealthiest nations in all of Toril. And perhaps one of the most ignorant.”

“How so?”

“They scorn magic. Even in their capital of Athkatla, magic is forbidden. It’s ruled by an Oligarchy-”

“A what?”

Lucian flashed him an irritated look. “Oligarchy,” he repeated, slowly. “It means a nation ruled by a small amount of people. In this case, the Council of Five.”

Aven’s head was swimming. “And you can learn all of this from scribbles on parchment?”

“Not scribbles. Script. But yes. Perhaps one day I’ll even have my mentor teach you some simple phrases. You’d be much more useful.”

Aven grimaced. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Lucian continued. About the structure of their government. Their imports. Their exports. And Aven found himself falling asleep halfway through, passing out on the lush, soft pillows.

When he woke up several hours later, the candles were snuffed out. Silver starlight glowed through the balcony curtains, illuminating the lithe figure in front of him.

Aven found himself staring. At the softness of fair skin. At the length of golden blonde hair that fell around his sleeping shoulders. The shape of his body. Heat rose up onto his cheeks. He grunted, rolling over so that his back was to the Prince’s.

No. None of that. He was here to survive, not coddle the priss Prince.

He had to stay focused.

——————————————–

When Aven woke that morning, an outfit was laid out for him on the bed - more opulent than anything he’d ever worn. A beautiful ensemble of a crimson tunic with a golden belt, buttons and stitching. He scarcely knew how to put the thing on, wrestling it over his head. It strategically showed off his great assets - sleeveless and showing his chest. Aven grimaced and sighed, pushing up off the bed… and looked about the room.

Lucian was gone.

Was he expected to just…. Wait around for him to return? Is that what slaves did? No. Aven wasn’t going to be cooped up in this room like some glamored up pet.

If this was his new home - he was going to take the time to explore it.

He edged the door open and poked his head out. The hallway was clear. He sucked in a breath and parted from the Prince’s room into the expanse of the castle.

It was utterly massive. Aven could imagine how easy it would be to get lost. There were countless numbers of twisting passages and stairways. He passed by an exquisite library filled with thousands upon thousands of books, the bed chambers of lesser nobles who’d taken up residence in the castle, kitchens and storages.

He ran into a number of servants and guards and nobles. The guards stuck their noses at him with sneers and grimaces, and the courtiers ignored him as though he weren’t even there. That, he was used to.

It was the servants that had Aven’s head spinning.

As he was walking down the hallway, distracted by the weaponry and suits of armor that decorated the edges, his shoulder crashed against a young elven woman who carried a bundle of supplies. They went crashing to the floor, and he had only just begun to lower down to help when she fell to her knees, swiftly gathering them into her arms. “Apologies, my lord! I’ll clean this right up, my lord!” She stammered.

Aven’s mouth floundered. He hadn’t yet even managed a word before she was rushing off down the hall and disappearing around the corner.

It seems even pleasure slaves held status above others here. Aven wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. He’d never been ‘above’ anyone in his life.

And it seemed here, the elves only held positions of squalor within the castle. Servants. Cooking assistants. Aven knew that elves were considered to be of ‘lower class,’ but he’d never seen the discrimination so rampant until he witnessed it first hand in the castle.

Eventually, Aven found himself out on the battlements. It was a fine day, the sun a comfortable glow in the sky warming his skin. He breathed in the fresh air, brown eyes sweeping out over the palace grounds as calloused fingers curved around the battlements.

The palace from above was perhaps even more exquisite than down below. Aven could see everything. He could see the balcony walking aisles curving around the castle for nobles to take their stroll and enjoy views fit for a King. He could see the ivory white towers piercing into the low hanging, lazy clouds. He could see the lush green gardens sweeping out over the courtyard, bursting and blooming with flowers of every shape, size and colour. And he could see…

Aven’s heart surged with excitement as he leaned forward. A training ground. It was in an expanse of grass behind the castle. Perhaps Aven could get his hands on a weapon down there, spar away some of the anger that lingered suppressed in his chest.

And afterwards - perhaps he could find Kion.

Aven navigated the castle down to the grounds. The training field seemed to be divided by division. The soldiers trained in a mass, lines upon lines of them mimicking the stances and maneuvers of their captain. He shouted orders, naming off stances which they followed clumsily. It was immediately apparent that these men were nothing more than farmhands plucked from their homes to serve in the military. They couldn’t handle a weapon to save their lives. Further towards the back however, was another group.

They didn’t wear the standard leather garb of the common soldier. Elven chain was draped over their athletic frames, wielding all manners of weapons. But their stances…. Aven had never seen anything like it. In the arena - you were simply thrown a weapon, taught a couple stances and thrown into the jaws of the wolf. But this - this was different.

Curiously, he approached. The captain seemed to be calling out orders in another language… elven? Every motion they took, mimicking his were fluid, controlled, precise. And before Aven’s eyes, after a single command from their superior, they threw their weapons into the air with a twirl and upon grasping them again, the blades were lit up with flame.

Aven gave a low whistle, settling down to watch as the captain paired up a couple of his men to fight. He knew that the Aelorian militia frequently used magic in battle - but this technique seemed to perfectly combine the arcane and combat. Fluid. Graceful. As their swords clashed it was more like a dance than a battle and Aven found himself mesmerized.

He pushed up and made his way over.

“Excuse me,” he called out as he approached the captain. “I’d like to ask a question.”

The captain tore his eyes away from his men and drew off his helmet. His face reminded Aven like that of a bulldog’s. Squashed, with harsh brown eyes underneath bushy dark brows.

“What.”

“Can’t help but notice all of your men are well trained,” Aven began. “Surely there’s an arena or a place to spar? Could you direct me?”

The captain didn’t respond. He drew his eyes up and down Aven’s features, still wearing his expensive if revealing silks. He barked a laugh that held no humor. “Is the Prince putting real spears in the hands of his sluts now?” He sneered. He turned his gaze away. “This isn’t the place for you. Return to your master’s bed, dog.”

Aven’s jaw slid forward. “I am no slut,” he said. His voice was low and he took a swift bold step towards the captain. “Put a sword in my hands and you’ll see for yourself how quickly you will drop.”

The threat had several of the soldiers glancing over in curiosity. Something that did not go unnoticed by the captain. After all - he had an image to maintain.

“As if I’d waste time trading blows with bed whores,” he snapped.

“Why.” Aven smirked. A glint of challenge glowed in his gaze. “Are you afraid to embarrass yourself in front of your men?”

The pair had everyone’s immediate attention. The captain’s jaw twitched. “The Prince will have to forgive me,” he growled, drawing his blade. Aven’s stomach flared with excitement. “For teaching his whore a lesson about manners. Let’s see what this Beast Tamer is made of.”

He expected for a weapon to be placed in his hands. This man was a soldier of Aeliorn, like his father. Surely he wouldn’t- the breath was knocked from his lungs as the flat of the blade slammed into his chest, sending him staggering back. The men gathered hollered, laughing as the captain approached again, his grip on his blade tight.

No. Aven had forgotten.

His father had been the only man of honor among the soldiers of Aeliorn.

Another swing towards his shoulder. Aven braced himself, twisting away to dull the impact of the strike to his shoulder. An ache blossomed in his arm.

Not yet.

Another blow to his side, sending him nearly tumbling backwards onto the grass. The captain’s face was lit up with glee.

Not yet.

Another swing. This time towards his neck. Hard enough to potentially break it if it struck.

Play time’s over, mother fucker.

Aven’s fist shot upwards and crashed into the captain’s jaw. Blood spattered. A tooth went flying. The sword passed a hairwidth over Aven’s head. The captain reeled back in shock and Aven’s other fist grasped his wrist and with a painful twist there was a snap and his sword went flying.

The captain hadn’t even hit the ground before Aven’s fingers snatched the sword in midair. Then Aven was down on his knees.

His fist slammed into the captain’s jaw. More blood burst from his mouth. Aven couldn’t hear the sounds of the soldiers standing around them, shouting at him. Red. Another punch into his stomach, sending the captain lurching forward with a choked gasp. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t hear it. Red. Another punch to his face, snapping his head to the side. RED.

There was nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears.

“Stop it, that’s enough!”

Arms wrapped around Aven’s waist and struggled to heave him away. Aven’s head pounded. His muscles were tight, like the string of a bow pulled back to the ear. As he was pulled away - he was reclaimed by his senses. The dull throb of split knuckles. The sounds of the soldiers fussing over their captain who lay a bloody pulp on the ground, cursing up a storm.

“You done yet?” A voice whispered in his ear.

Aven didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Not yet. His attention was stolen by the captain staggering up to his feet, swiping the back of his hand across his bloodied mouth. “I’ll fucking kill that whoreson!” He snarled, and with a hiss of steel, pulled a sword from the belt of a nearby soldier.

He approached. Aven braced himself, lips pulled back in a snarl - when the soldier who pulled him back stepped forward, removing his helm to stare down the captain. “No, you won’t.”

Young. Several years younger than himself, with fair skin, light blue eyes and mousy brown hair. Certainly the youngest of the men here. Lucian's age.

Not that the captain seemed to mind. His expression held an intent to kill as he stormed up to him. “Out of my way,” he spat out. “You saw what he did. To strike a captain is a-”

“Against the law,” the boy nodded. “An unarmed slave overwhelmed the captain of the Duskblades in less than ten seconds. Whatever would the Prince say about this? In fact…”

The boy glanced over his shoulder at Aven. “Are you not the property of the Prince?”

Property. Deciding he’d stretched his luck far enough today, he merely grit his teeth and nodded. “I thought so. And you, Captain Vros were threatening to damage the Prince’s property, which I believe is an act of treason.”

The man’s face paled. “How dare you, you little wretch-”

“Of course, I could always just alert my father. I’m sure he could sort all of this-”

Captain Vros waved his hand. “No,” he growled with a stumble. “He’s been taught his lesson.”

The boy nodded. “A lesson has most definitely been learned. Shall I call you a medic?”

Captain Vros gave no response. Merely glowered at the two before limping towards the rest of his men.

The boy sighed and turned towards Aven. “Ah…sorry about him,” he responded with a smile, sending fingers through his hair. “He can be…. A bit stubborn.”

“That’s something he and I have in common,” Aven grunted. He was coming to. “Thank you…?”

“Icarus. Icarus Tevellion. Your name is Aven, right?”

Trevellion. Aven had heard the name when listening to Lucian’s rambles. “That’s right. Well thanks, Icarus, but your help wasn’t really needed.”

“Oh, yes it was.” A brow arched and Icarus folded his arms. “You were gone. If I’d just stood by - you would have killed him. And the last thing you need is to kill someone on your first day here. Even if you are the Prince’s new bedwhore.”

“I’m not a whore,” Aven snapped.

Icarus lifted his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Glorified servant. Either way - if you’re going to survive here, you can’t just be knocking out every fool who looks at you the wrong way. That might have been how things worked in the arena, but the palace requires a bit more tact.”

“All I wanted was to just find the sparring ring,” Aven said, massaging his temple. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to do that to him, it just..happened.”

“You could fight me.”

Aven’s gaze snapped up. “…really?”

“Sure.” Icarus flushed. He stepped forward and beamed. “I’ve actually watched you in the arena before. You were always my favorite, I was excited when I heard Luci-” he flushed. “I mean, the Prince bought you. You’re basically free now, right?”

Aven snorted. “Sure, if you consider being everyone’s eye candy, being called a whore, having to rely on everything being provided to me and having to follow the prince around like a dog then sure, I’m living the life.”

“But you’re here,” Icarus reminded. “Fed, in clean clothes and outside in the fresh air by your own choice. Something tells me that’s better than rotting away in some cell eating scraps.” He was right. But Aven would never admit it. “Maybe you can show me some of the things you’ve learned, and I can teach you some duskblade magic.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to learn the magic,” Aven said. “But… those stances you held out there were impressive. Sounds like a fair trade to me.”

————————————————-

The training room of the Ivory Palace wasn’t anything like the one back at the arena. Back in the bloodpens, the floor had been stained red. The weapons were rusted, and hung from crude racks on the walls. The floor here was pristine. Made of marble, an elven man was mopping it up when Aven and Icarus entered, a quick snap of fingers sending him away. “Take your pick!” Icarus said with a smile, motioning to the numerous weapons hung up on the weapon racks. “I favor the glaive, myself. You’ll probably pick the axes, right? That’s like your signature weapon.”

The kid sure did talk a lot. Aven plucked a pair of twin axes off the wall. “That’s right. So this technique… what did you call it? Duskblade?”

"A duskblade,” Icarus explained. “Blurs the line between spellcaster and warrior. We’re students of ancient elven spellcasting techniques.” He ran his hand over the blade of his glaive and it erupted into red hot flame. “It requires constant training. We have to simultaneously be a swords master and a spellcaster.”

“You study ancient elven spellcasting,” Aven noted. “And yet keep the elves locked up as glorified slaves.”

“A lot’s happened over a thousand years,” Icarus said. “While times have changed, we can at the very least take advantage of what the elven empires left behind.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me.”

“Why don’t you talk less with your mouth and come at me,” Icarus challenged with a grin, twirling his glaive.

Aven didn’t hesitate. Gripping his axes tight, he flung himself forward, his teeth vibrating as his axe slammed against the glaive’s hilt. The second axe came swinging in from the side - and Icarus was gone. Dancing to the side, his feet ever moving, he dodged out of the way, glaive striking out towards Aven’s hip before being deflected away with an axe.

“Pretty good,” Aven grunted. “You sure do skip around a lot.”

“Not everyone has your build. Some of us have to compensate,” Icarus panted. He curved his glaive around to try and jab it into Aven’s shoulder and he was side stepping.

“So your father,” Aven said. “Who is he? He sounds important.” Conversing even in the midst of battle, he side stepped and masterfully deflected blows - and Icarus kept up, sidestepping Aven’s powerful attacks.

“Ceril Trevellion,” he panted. “Advisor to King Darrien.”

“Keep hearing a lot about this King Darrien. Haven’t seen him yet.”

“You probably wouldn’t. He doesn’t show himself often.” He was getting distracted. Too comfortable with talking. Aven took the chance. He ducked down low, catching Icarus’ legs with the flat of his blades and with a wrench to the side, they flew out from under him. He landed hard on his back with a grunt as Aven snatched his glaive and leaned on it idly.

“Damn,” Icarus hissed, rubbing his bum. “You are good.”

“You really thought after watching me cut off the heads of chimeras, griffins and who knows what else that you could take me down?”

“No,” Icarus admitted, grasping Aven’s hand as he pulled him to his feet. “I just wanted to check you out for myself.” He grinned. “I’m not disappointed. How about this time, I teach you some magic?”

Aven hesitated. “…I don’t think so.”

“What? Come on. Everyone knows magic.”

“Not me.”

Icarus scoffed. He retrieved his glaive. “Aven, kids can perform magic. It wouldn’t take long. I bet I’d have you casting at least something in-”

“No. Icarus, I mean I actually can’t.”

Icarus’ reaction was the same as all the others. Confusion. His brows furrowed. “What do you mean you can’t? Everyone has mana.”

“No. Not me… not my family.” Aven heaved a sigh. He prepared himself for the onslaught of insults as he retreated back towards one of the tables along the wall to pour himself a glass of water from a pitcher. “My family has never had mana. Not even a single drop. Not me. Not my sister. Not my dad. The entire Kheistan family..” he paused. “My father thinks it was a curse from ages ago. And now…”

“Now you can’t use it… at all? Is that why you’re such a good warrior? Because you had to…compensate?”

Aven’s smile was more of a grimace. “I think I’m just such a good fighter because I had to be in order to survive.”

“You don’t have to do that anymore.” Icarus leaned against the table, eyes searching him. “You don’t have to fight anymore.”

Aven didn’t answer for a long while. Finally, he pushed out a sigh, a tired smile clinging to his lip. “…I always have to fight.” He glanced over. “Come on. Why don’t I show you a few moves.”

—————————————–

It was in the late evening when Aven finally parted from Icarus to find Lucian. Icarus was surprisingly enjoyable to spend time with. He gave Aven a tour of the stables to show him his favourite horse, he brought him to the menagerie to see Kion and ensure he was being cared for. When it was finally time to locate the Prince, Icarus told him he would be in his private training quarters being tutored by his mentor, Caesar.

The day had taken pounds of stress off of his shoulders. He felt lighter. Calmer. Maybe the palace wouldn’t be so bad. He could make a friend here. He could-

He turned the corner. A group of guards were standing about, smoking cigars and muttering to one another.

Aven’s stomach immediately twisted at the sight of them.

They glowered at him, muttering to one another, uttering slurs under their breath as he passed. “Bedwhore,” one grunted and Aven slammed his eyes closed, seizing control of his temper.

No. He wouldn’t ever be at home here.

He followed Icarus’ instruction. Or, at least tried to. Down the corridor, two rights, then a left, then up two flights of stairs, another left and… or was it… right? No. Left…right? He was hopelessly lost when he heard it.

A thunderous boom that shook the palace. Then another. And another.

Aven started in that direction.

The sounds were echoing from behind a door, a sigil carved on the front. It could have been a Symbol of Paralysis. An alarm rune. Aven - as ignorant as he was with magic - simply passed through.

He’d entered into a massive room. Like an arena - but there were no spectators, no stands. There were only two people in the room. Lucian - and a man. He wore a brown coat that went down to his knees, sandy blonde hair pushed back and groomed with a stubbled jaw. He must be the tutor - Caesar.

Lucian had discarded his jacket in favor of a white tunic and trousers - allowing for mobility as he stared the man down. Neither of them moved. Yet their muscles were tense. Ready to spring.

Lucian broke first. He threw out his hand, a spear of ice conjuring in his grip and hurled it towards Caesar. The man threw out his hand, a ward materializing and the ice spear shattered against the magical shield. “Branch out!” Caesar shouted. “You have more in your arsenal than ice. Step outside your boundary.”

“What’s the point?” Lucian hissed, bending over to press his hands on his knees. Aven could see the sweat dripping from his brow. “You’ll just deflect it.”

“Try. Your life is on the line.”

Aven watched as Caesar threw out his hand. He could hear the crackle of electricity, the clap of thunder that splintered in his ears and a lightning bolt exploded from his palm towards Lucian. It hit him square in the chest, sending him off his feet and rolling onto the ground.

Instinct tore at Aven to propel himself forward. He had taken three steps towards Lucian when the Prince began to push himself up with a stagger, gritting his teeth and threw out his hand. A wad of slimy grease spat from his fingertips, spraying the ground at Caesar’s feet. The man slipped and slid, and before he could reclaim his balance, Lucian leveled both palms at his mentor. Brilliant ribbons of light were conjured from midair, entangling around Caesar’s wrists and pinning him down until he fell to his knees.

Caesar nodded. “Very good,” he grunted, flexing his wrists. “But you forget - mages are not helpless, even when restrained.” His pupils glowed red hot. He opened his mouth and a ray of fire shot from between his teeth towards Lucian who dove to the side, his shirt catching.

A breath of icy mist expelled from between Lucian’s lips, putting the flames out and he ground his teeth, glowering at his mentor. “You’re going down, old man,” he hissed, pushing back up to his feet, throwing out his hand.

Magic charged down his fingers. A spark of brilliant purple erupted - and there’s a symphony of clucks and coos as two dozen chickens materialized from thin air, raining down on the two spellcasters.

Lucian cursed, ripping his fingers through his hair. “You’re shitting me, now?!” He snarled, nudging a chicken away from his boots as it tugged at his pant leg. “This keeps happening to me. Last time, I made the trees start singing. The time before that - I turned my arm invisible. It won’t simply do as I bid.”

“You’re still trying too hard,” he eased. “Magic requires utter concentration and peace of mind. If you doubt yourself, it’s more likely to go wild.”

“I don’t doubt myself.”

“I think perhaps you should take a-” Caesar trailed off as Aven entered into the room - holding one of the chickens in his arms.

“Caught one.”

“Slave,” the Prince said, stepping forward. “Caesar, this is-”

“I know who this is.” Caesar swept forward, putting out his hand. “Aven Kheistan. It’s good to meet you. Lucian told me about you.”

Lucian. It seems these two were on a first name basis. Aven took the hand. “Nothing too terrible, I hope.”

“Only that you’re an intolerable brute. But don’t worry.” Caesar winked. “He finds everyone other than himself intolerable brutes. Lucian.” He turned to the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll leave you with him. We’re done for today.”

“But we-”

“We will not stretch you beyond your limits. The harder you push yourself, the more the chance of you losing control. And that can prove deadly.”

Lucian grit his teeth and tore his gaze away. “…fine.”

Caesar’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before pulling his hand away. He nodded to Aven and departed through the doors.

Lucian watched where he vanished for a second too long. He caught Aven staring and he scowled, folding his arms. “What.”

“I suppose you didn’t mean to summon chickens.”

“Your skills of deduction are ever astounding. Of course I didn’t.”

“So why did you-”

Lucian waved his hand impatiently. “Magic is difficult. Far more difficult than you could possibly understand. And sometimes, it simply goes wrong.”

“It seems as though it goes wrong for you often, though.”

Lucian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Careful,” he warned. “Give me the chicken. I’ll dispel along with the others, and we will leave to eat dinner.”

Aven, who had been stroking the chicken’s feathers, settling it in his arms, glanced up. “I think I’ll be skipping dinner. And as for the chicken - I’m keeping it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I want it.”

Lucian arched a brow. “…very well. So long as its new home isn’t our room.” He brushed past Aven, fastening his jacket back onto his figure. “I heard what happened in the training arena.”

Aven’s blood went cold. Still clutching onto the chicken, he spun to face him. “I didn’t attack first,” he said. “I thought it would be a spar, and he-”

“I know what that man is like. You did this castle a favor. I’ll see you in our room.”

Lucian made for the door. Aven paused for only a moment before turning to face him, chicken still in his arms.

“Tonight… will you want me to..?”

Lucian paused, fingers on the handle. “…no. You’re relieved of your duties for tonight.” He passed through the door and slammed it behind him.