It was dark when the Queen's Paladins sighted the place Aurpius should call home.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the forty-metre-tall sculpture before the city gates: the eagles. Beaks down. Locked in their death spiral. The archway into Sunsdom.

  Beyond the gates, moonlight bled across the white marble. Almost celestial above the northern sea.

  The Mont Marblastion. The heroes' bridge. The arena.

  Beneath it, the cliff dropped sheer into the Blood's Bay and the vast northern sea that cradled Sunsdom Port.

  He was late. He'd told the Queen he would arrive a full day before they did. The old tide of failure rose in his chest. He had broken his mother's rule—be there as she determines, no matter what.

  Unreasonable as his whole life.

  "You should talk to her…" Caellum's whisper pulled him back. Almost as if he could read his mind.

  Aurpius's throat tightened around a laugh he refused to release. The others glanced back. He dismissed them all.

  "About what? Feelings?" Aurpius let out a humourless laugh.

  Caellum swallowed and diverted his gaze—Aurpius could tell there was something lodged in his throat. He didn’t pressure him.

  "We rather focus on indulgence tonight." The prince's voice grew louder as he snapped the reins harder than necessary.

  "Count me in!" A deep, gravelly voice cut the quiet of the night. A voice from outside their company.

  "Rysun!" Aurpius called, grinning wide as he opened his arms from atop Equesta.

  His cousin Warrol Rysun. A muscled man, long orange hair, piercing green eyes, and a disarmingly warm smile. Syr Finthor and Syr Epstel rode behind him, their armour marked with the same eagles on the gates.

  "I imagine you're tired and hungry. We can take it from here, can we not, Syr Warrol?" Syr Epstel asked — more order than question.

  The Commander of the Sunsguard had always been the only soul who taught Aurpius what care felt like—though not a soul who shared the majority's hatred of Magicals.

  "Much appreciated, Syr Epstel," he said, smiling behind the mask. "You coming with us, Warrol?"

  "Your mother will be enraged enough when she finds out the first thing you did wasn’t seeing her." Warrol's smirk made it all sound almost affectionate.

  Aurpius waved his hand over his head and signalled for his paladins to move.

  They followed him through the gates.

  All near in age—Caellum and Garreth the same as Aurpius, eighteen. Rowan, twenty-three, the oldest. Lyall, couldn't be more than sixteen. Bryn and Quinn, somewhere near their twenties.

  Boys wearing men like borrowed armour.

  "All I need after this shitty road is a juicy cunt dripping in my face," said Lyall out of nowhere, prompting all the Paladins to laugh.

  "Shut up, Lyall!" Garreth called from the flank as their horses trotted along the city's street. "You've never fucked someone or something."

  The group burst into another round of laughter, loud enough to wake the crows nesting in the battlements.

  Aurpius wished he could freeze that moment in his mind, just to hold onto it when everything inevitably fell apart.

  "Garreth, you're not the only man in the world who's seen a pussy," Lyall shot back—the youngest and, somehow, the boldest.

  "Stop babbling," Rowan cut in, serious as ever. "If I don't eat, I'll pass out before I can get hard."

  "Myrthe's will hardly be open." Quinn Duskhorn added.

  "I'm the Crown Prince, Duskhorn—the woman would open her house if I asked for anything…" he paused, arrogance sliding back, "even her daughter."

  The men didn't seem able to stop laughing as Aurpius motioned them to a narrow passage in the suburbs to pull their masks. One by one, they followed, hiding them in their saddles.

  Aurpius’s crow mask was gone; the other one stayed.

  The cold kissed his skin—the first real breath he’d taken since entering that village.

  "By the Holies, as good as taking a shit," Garreth groaned in satisfaction.

  "Goddess, Garreth!" Quinn muttered, shaking his head. "Your mouth's filthier than a latrine."

  Laughter rolled through them again. For a brief moment, they were just boys. Boys who'd been gone too long. Boys returning home. Hungry boys with tired hearts.

  They spurred the horses faster.

  The first district—Aurelian's Quarter. Named after Qarth Aurelian, a deceased Sunsguard Commander who gave his life to defend the civilians against Thar Hounds.

  As they passed from the leaning buildings to wide streets and grand houses with open atriums, the smell of cooked meat drifted down to the riders.

  At the city centre, the tavern's wooden sign swung in the air.

  As he hitched Equesta, he saw Myrthe's silver hair behind the counter, pouring drinks for peasants, traders, and noblemen.

  He took a deep breath before opening the heavy iron door.

  He took his hood off and stepped inside. The clink of glass, the laughter, the chatter—all fell away.

  His hair arrived before him. Platinum as first morning lights. Sides shaved close, top long enough to fall over his forehead.

  Every head turned before everyone stood.

  He ducked to pass through, nodding before waving for them to resume whatever they were doing.

  "I was sure my prince would come!" Myrthe cheerfully said, already setting a row of plates over the counter. "You must be starving."

  She ladled steaming stew into bowls while they sprawled aside.

  The smell of stew, ale, and burning wood blended into him, warming his body, taking away the knot in his stomach.

  He smiled at Myrthe's laugh as she bustled between pots and mugs. He wondered what it would have been like to grow up with that kind of warmth—bread rising, fire that didn't burn.

  Impossible to tell if her care was genuine or came with his royalness. Tonight, he didn't care.

  "She told you, didn't she?" Aurpius didn't accuse, realising Auryna was behind it. "Of course she did."

  Myrthe's quick drying of her hands on the apron confirmed it. "Syr Epstel will make sure the officer at the kitchen door sleeps past first light, every day you're in Sunsdom."

  "Well, Myrthe," Garreth cut the tension between mouthfuls, "when are you opening a tavern that serves in the vampire hour?"

  "I am afraid that's more of a pleasure house, dear!" Myrthe shot back. The entire saloon roared.

  "Oh, you know exactly what I meant!" He laughed, amused. "Let your poor boy have some fun and open a kitchen with Beyr!"

  The crowd banged their mugs on the tables, chanting in unison:

  "Myrthe's boy! Myrthe's boy! Myrthe's boy!"

  "Quiet, you filthy men, or no more ale for you!" Myrthe warned, swatting a towel towards them.

  "Come on, Myrthe!" Caellum grinned, draping an arm around Aurpius's shoulders. "His royal highness here might just spare a few quilverns."

  "He already spared a lot of quilverns for this poor lady, dear," Myrthe said, looking at Aurpius with a blink.

  He didn't know how he would ever repay her for the secret they shared—the refuge she'd given him, invisible to the queen.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He ate his lamb and stew in silence, letting his men enjoy Myrthe's attention while he allowed himself to breathe.

  "My Prince, give me the honour?" He hadn't seen her turn around, but there she was, by his side.

  He followed her to the door.

  The streets were almost empty save for the flicker of torches and distant laughter spilling from nearby inns.

  "Pytor has talked about a licence to operate in the arena…" she said once they'd stepped into the quiet.

  Her words took Aurpius by surprise. He knew the cook's son was ambitious. It would give him power among the richest people in Sunsdom.

  He knew only one person was within Pytor's reach for that. His mother. And the Queen would never grant such a licence without something in return

  His gaze steady on hers, after a beat. "Good. It will keep him away from here—it's what he wants."

  "Why can't Pytor know? It's been a while…" Myrthe asked, scrubbing her hands.

  Aurpius took a slow breath, his gaze flicking towards the Paladins who were leaving sacks of quilverns over the counter.

  "Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to, Myrthe." His tone wasn't cruel—she'd be too hurt by the truth.

  She didn't reply—only bowed.

  He gave a small nod in return as his companions passed by, heading straight towards the House of Beyr.

  On the left corner of the tavern, the eye-shaped golden handle gleamed invitingly. It took only a knock before a woman appeared—her body exposed beneath the sheer fabric, leaving little to the imagination.

  She guided them through intricate arches, around an atrium. Perforated walls filtered the torchlight into patterns across the soft couches. Beautiful naked women lay amidst it—some pleasuring themselves, others lost in each other's arms.

  Across the hall, a group of young men mirrored the scene. Though forbidden in Sunsdom, the pleasure houses had become their own kind of sanctuary—where law was blind and shame lost its tongue.

  "Exactly what I needed!" Lyall shouted, eyes wide.

  "Your cock is not big enough for that, kid," Garreth snorted.

  The hostess smiled. "Be our guests, gentlemen. You may choose your girl… or boy…" She gestured towards the cushions before turning to Aurpius. "As for you, Your Highness…" she purred, her hand sliding up his shoulder.

  "Don't." Aurpius shoved her touch, stopping her mid-laugh.

  The Paladins were already too busy joining the women on the couches.

  "Nadin… please!" a hoarse voice called from the end of the hall. "I'll take it from here."

  Moving with the grace of a stalking cat, Beyr Hengo came for him.

  "Good evening, Your Highness," said the woman with a measured bow. She gestured for the younger girl to leave them alone. "I hope you're doing just fine."

  "Could be better." The sharpness in his voice returned instantly.

  "My apologies." Her tone dropped—the practised sensual tone meant to calm men.

  Aurpius didn't respond. His attention had already drifted past her—Rowan sat alone, two girls hovering near him. He didn't even breathe.

  Aurpius exhaled and walked into the hedonistic yard.

  "Rowan." He called. "I know." His voice was as empathetic as he knew how to be.

  The boy—charcoal hair, honey-eyed—tensed. His jaw set. His eyes darted like a hare's at the sound of hounds.

  "How could you?" Rowan gave up when he saw no way out but the truth. "You were born perfect."

  "Stop acting as if you're not." Aurpius nudged his shoulder, just enough to make him look up. "I don't care if you fuck a girl, a cow, or a priest, as long as the other side agrees to it." He moved his chin towards the doorway. "You already have too much to hide from everyone else. No need to hide from me."

  "If they find out…" Rowan dragged a trembling hand through his hair.

  "They won't." Aurpius's tone was protective. "Beyr brought me into this world. If the King trusted her enough for that, we're safe.　Be the last to find a room. The first to come out. Next time — book in advance."

  He waited until Rowan nodded.

  "You know what I like." Aurpius's voice dropped. The knot returning to his stomach. "Disgusting."

  "It's different, Aurpius… it's still the right way." The pain in Rowan's voice was almost physical.

  "There's no such thing as right. Can you choose differently?"

  Rowan shook his head.

  "Me? I can—but I don't want to."

  The hardest admission he'd ever made aloud. He had never spoken of it. He felt dirty.

  Rowan's lips curved into a small, genuine smile before he stood and walked towards the men's wing.

  Aurpius watched him go—envied him, almost. At least Rowan wasn’t a crow that craves the carrion it curses. His desires weren't contradictory.

  As Aurpius turned back towards Beyr, his voice hardened. "If I hear a soul even thought—"

  "I wouldn't be standing here if I saw things. I see none. I hear none." Beyr assured him.

  Aurpius's violet eyes caught hers—bright, cold, and dangerous.

  "As an apology from before, I'll let you have the main ro—" Beyr's hands fluttered in the air, playful.

  "I'd have it anyway." Anger crawled through him—not at her, just a weight inside him.

  The impatience to have what he wanted so badly, not being able to stop himself, and the disgust that came after having it.

  "The new girl is inside," Beyr continued carefully. "I'll send you more if you wish—"

  "I don't." His gaze fixed on the door like a predator. "You know what I like."

  "She arrived from Yar'sha yesterday. Short, tiny waist, long and dark hair, voluptuous breasts, and the principal—"

  "Got it," he cut her off.

  Aurpius pushed past her and entered the room. He shut the door in her face. Lust swallowed him whole.

  The candles flickered, painting the curtains with shadows. The scent of spiced oils was heavy enough to drown in.

  When he looked at her, he felt the tension coil low in his belly.

  She was a beauty made to order. Made to please. Made to forget. Her hair fell in caramel curls, her eyes honey-bright even in the dimness.

  She couldn't have been much older than him.

  Aurpius stood there for a brief moment, breathing her in.

  He took the first layer of clothes off slowly and stepped closer.

  He didn't ask her name. He never did.

  He grabbed her following his number one rule: never kissing a whore's mouth. Aiming for her breasts, palming them through the transparent white dress.

  She began moaning—half-truth, half-act.

  His mouth found her other nipple. The act loosened with each pass, and louder sounds escaped her throat. A pattern he loved to control.

  Anxious for what she could provide, he tore the dress down. He didn't need to touch her to know she was ready to please him.

  He pushed down his trousers and lay back, hauling her upward, guiding her small body where he wanted it. He dragged her lower until her mouth met his hardness—halfway down, she coughed.

  "Do your thing," he ordered. "And don't stop."

  At once, blueish soft lighting glimmered through the room, the air growing warm as her movements quickened. He neared the edge of releasing his tension but held back—the real release always came after the silence.

  No longer. It hit. Her mouth still on him, his mind went still as water.

  No anger, no knot in his guts any longer.

  Only stillness, peace, and pulse.

  This time, she wasn't the one moaning.

  Each movement grew harder to endure. When he finally lost control, he spilled into her mouth—the same hollow ecstasy.

  Before she could recover, he seized her by the waist and turned her on all fours.

  "Keep doing your magic," he commanded.

  "I need to touch you," she whispered.

  "You'll find a way."

  His hand slid between her legs. Still wet. All he needed. He pressed two fingers inside to be sure, then pushed into her without hesitation.

  She cried out. He paused—maybe too forceful. But when she rocked back towards him, doubt vanished. She was the one pulling him deeper now.

  He moved, slow at first, then faster, her moans keeping tempo. On the fourth thrust, she clutched his leg and dragged him closer. He started sensing it all over, wishing he could feel it forever.

  A calm only a Magical could give him—opium for his soul, poison for his conscience.

  Gripping her hair, he drove harder—not out of cruelty but to chase more of that impossible quiet. A silence that felt like salvation.

  It was a drug. He'd stopped pretending otherwise.

  Just before the end, he pulled out, finishing in his hand. Quickly he crossed to the water bowl and washed himself harshly.

  "You could've finished inside," the girl's voice came soft as a feather.

  Aurpius laughed—a hollow sound that didn't match her tone.

  He cleaned his hand. "Fucking you is my lowest. Filthy enough. I'd never have a child."

  He tried not to look, but he caught her face—devastated, pulling the sheet to cover herself.

  He felt nothing. Not because of what she was but because of what he'd become. Because somewhere between entering the room and where he stood, he’d hollowed himself out completely.

  Before leaving, he left three golden quilverns for the girl—he'd been charged only one.

  The hall of indulgence was quieter now. His paladins, fools enough to sleep with whores in their arms.

  Nobody noticed him slipping away—a relief, since he had no strength to explain why he was entering Myrthe's tavern backdoor instead of walking through the Marbl's main gates.

  Even though it was home, he never felt more uncomfortable in a place.

  He sprinted to the cook's place. It wasn't their home; Aurpius had managed to fetch a place for her family in the upper neighbourhood, near his father's mont.

  After they were set, he'd restored the back of the old tavern, built an atrium, a few rooms, and made that small place his home in Sunsdom.

  The corridors still smelled of smoke, boiled onions, and dried alcohol.

  Halfway through, he placed the red feather beneath a tin pot and wrote Myrthe a note. He wanted her to observe the Faith's steps from now on, mainly their connections with the crown.

  He stripped off his boots, sword, and cape in the narrow corridor to his bedroom, then slipped inside, letting his tired body collapse over the mattress.

  His eyes were barely shut when a familiar voice sliced through the dark.

  "This way, no girl will be left in town for the rest of us poor mortals," it said, amused.

  Aurpius sat up in a hurry. "How do you know about this place? If you tell the Queen—"

  Torvam lounged against the wall, arms crossed, wearing the smug ease of someone who'd never tell everything that was in his head.

  Almost the same height. Skinnier, and where Aurpius's hair caught every light like frost, Torvam's fell dark as their father's.

  "I heard the maids talking about your… elves," his twin said, pushing off the wall and walking closer. "And decided to follow our beloved Commander. Syr Epstel."

  Aurpius's jaw clenched. He loved Torvam—the only one in his family who still looked at him like a person—but oftentimes his brother could be a liability. His tongue, too loose.

  "I won't tell her…" The youngest prince said with the compassion he reserved for no one but his brother.

  Aurpius waited. "If…"

  There it was.

  "Convince Beyr to let the girls come home again," Torvam begged, almost whining.

  "I don't know what's worse," Aurpius passed his hand through his hair. "You taking them there or the reason Beyr won't let them go."

  Torvam's eyes widened as his brows arched down—a far too practised expression.

  "You're sick." Aurpius shot. "I don't know why I keep blind to your…" He couldn't finish.

  "No idea what you're talking about," Torvam deflected, turning his back to him.

  "I'll talk to her…" With a sigh, Aurpius dragged himself upright, stripped off his clothes.

  "Virgins," Torvam said from the doorway, casual as if asking for wine at supper.

  The word hung in the dark.

  Aurpius's head snapped up. His brother's face was half-shadow, half-smirk—the expression of a winner.

  "What the fuck, Torvam?"

  “You—you out of anyone are going to judge me?" Torvam scoffed. "At least mine don't glow while I'm inside them."

  Aurpius's mouth became a thin line. He told himself there was a difference. His sins weren't harmful—the women were paid, it was their choice.

  He crushed the thought before it became something bigger.

  "Shave your hair…" Torvam's words slid into his ears like a knife. "He doesn't want to see it."

  Aurpius sat on the bed. He remembered the last time he'd arrived late-

  He decided he wasn’t going to make it matter, not before he crossed the Marbl’s threshold.

  He still felt his brother's presence.

  "Sleep in the other room. We can practise tomorrow." He finally offered.

  "Promise me?" Torvam Scaster asked with a rarely heard joy in his tone.

  "Just leave before I change my mind," Aurpius said, half-order, half-laugh.

  He knew how much his brother loved to train. How much he wanted to fight. To be there with Aurpius and Athler.

  Athler. If he closed his eyes and drove his mind back there he could still feel his brother’s weight over his arms. The light evaded his eyes before any help could reach them.

  He took a deep breath, wondering why he bothered living when his whole life had been one long attempt to break him.

  He waved away the memory as quickly as it came and threw himself back onto the bed, letting the mattress claim what was left of him.

  The last thing he noticed before falling asleep was that the sun seemed far from rising, and for that, he was grateful.

  He'd take what silence he could steal. More hours before dawn. More hours before his mother.

  More peace — the opposite of home.