“How can I let my husband be humiliated so? It looks bad for me, too,” Leksa murmured, caressing Demyan’s cheek.

Leksa’s hand seared hot on the skin. His thumb studied Demyan’s face as if tracing the outlines of his domain on a plan, mapping and marking. Over the cheekbone, then dipping under his eye, down to the corner of Demyan’s mouth, trailing under the lip. Demyan could barely stay unmoving. Not a flinch, and definitely not leaning in. 

That touch was as gentle as molten gold poured over failed usurpers—a rare symbolic punishment. It was an ugly sight. Demyan had seen it carried out once; the stench of burned flesh had prickled at his eyes, disgustingly potent. 

But Leksa’s scent was fresh. Alluring. Urging him to commit crimes grand enough to be worthy of that punishment, no matter how ugly it was. 

Wine, apple blossoms, and a hint of mint. 

The smell of steppe and river could hardly mask the Korvak Water Leksa always used, a scent Demyan could track like a dog. The scent that always reminded him of apple gardens by the distant river. 

They had blossomed in spring, snowy white with the gentlest hues of pink. He remembered watching them. He remembered the jar of wine he had once sipped by mistake, how he had barely held back tears before the booming laughter gave way to a loving scolding.

“You brute, who leaves wine open with children around?”

“Ouch! What are you hitting me for!? Maybe the kid will never drink now! You should thank me, my dear wife, but you’re so cruel!”

“Idiot! Demyan, come here, don’t cry.”

 

The scent that addled him with memories. 

“You fucking brute, get off me!”

“Ouch! What are you hitting me for!? You challenged me to a spar yourself, and I won fairly!”

“Moron! I’m hitting you because you’re squashing me, you weigh like a horse, get off!”

Even if he could ignore the flashes of the past, the mocking words said so tenderly made it close to impossible. They echoed through his mind, dragging to the forefront the countless times he heard that same “husband”—said in jest, in rage, in confusion, sensually. Loudly. Silently. Yelled for all to hear on the battlefield and whispered in confidence, like just now. The immature joke they both should’ve grown out of years ago clawed at his sanity, forcing him to think foolish, absurd things.

And that pretty face—the face that had been haunting his dreams for years—was finally so close. Real flesh instead of a mirage. It didn’t help at all. So close, Demyan counted the eyelashes, found a new tiny scar under the brow, lamented the way Leksa’s freckles faded with age. He committed each new detail to memory.

Foolish, absurd things kept racing through his mind. Rotten, awful feelings roared in his chest.

But, gods, how Demyan longed to see him. To observe what became of him. To get the chance to, at last, torture him the way he deserved to.

“My dear wife, your selfish love knows no bounds,” Demyan retorted, smirking so his golden fang grazed his lower lip.

A gentle caress on his cheek became two light slaps as Leksa snatched back his hand.

“Right? And you wanted a divorce.” He stepped back and stretched out his hand, palm open in an offering of mock truce.

Shaking his head, Demyan snorted and took the hand, using it to pull himself up.

“Well,” he said louder, so Stephan and the brooding Kost could hear him, “now that we’re done with the boring stuff, let’s feast and drink!”

His announcement was not met with much excitement. Stephan truly looked like he could faint at any moment now, and Kost would definitely require more coddling to return to himself. Ah, Leksa always made such messes for Demyan to clean up.

“Before you invite your drunkards here—don’t protest, naming your host ‘the Pouring Knights’ is not as clever as you think—I need to change clothes and wash up after the road—” Leksa grimaced mid-rant—“I smell disgusting. Only a dog like you would sniff me so happily.”

Did he sniff Leksa?... Demyan wouldn’t put it past himself, but still, what an unbecoming revelation. Oh, well.

“You do smell terrible,” Demyan lied. “So, yeah, you should go change before my Knights see the High Warlord in such a state.”

Seething underneath but hiding it well enough, Leksa huffed and scowled. It was still so easy to rile him up with jabs at his appearance. How endearing. Cute, even. Why did the gods bestow this face upon the most vicious scum Demyan ever knew?

“Stephan!” Leksa barked, no doubt diverting his irritation. “Escort me to my chambers. Did the Knights who came with me get lodged?”

Stephan, still confused by the shift in allegiance that happened without much of his consideration, looked at Demyan. Expecting his command above anyone else’s, Stephan searched Demyan’s face for the slightest tell of what to do.

Loyal to Demyan to his very core, he was a good captain. Stephan led his people not with an iron fist but with an earnest heart. Each one in Stephan’s Hundred followed him because they knew—he always had their best interests in mind. He would never risk their lives for his own glory; never place material gains over their well-being. Those who were younger saw him as their doting big brother, those who were older protected him like a son. There was a quiet understanding among all of the Pouring Knights—Stephan was a brave soul, one of the few true knights among them.

To Demyan, he was a counterweight. A shred of humanity the Pouring Knights needed to remember they, too, were more than mindless beasts slashing and burning enemies.

Though he kept his distance, never fraternizing enough to allow Stephan to believe they were closer than a warlord and his captain, Stephan was perceptive. Sometimes, Demyan was afraid he saw through him. Noticed the wistful way Demyan watched him.

It was all the more disgusting—using him like this. But he would never trust this to anyone else.

Raising his eyebrows, Demyan motioned for Stephan to get going.

“What are you looking at me for? You heard Leksa, go on. Your dagger is now his.” Demyan stared at Stephan long enough until he saw realization fully settling in the other’s eyes.

Stumbling over his own feet, Stephan came up closer to them.

“Um, High Warlord,” he bowed his head to Leksa. And still, he peeked at Demyan for confirmation.

Demyan rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Your dagger.” Leksa presented his palm expectantly. Now, he wasn’t offering truce, he was waiting for allegiance.

Stephan dutifully unclasped the sheath from his belt and placed it in Leksa’s hand.

“Here, High Warlord, it’s yours now,” Stephan swallowed. “As surely as this blade is in your hand, I will serve you well too,” he pledged, loud and resolved.

With a curt nod, Leksa accepted his new weapons.

He hadn’t grown out of his petty competitiveness; Demyan had been afraid he would outdo him here. But, alas, he had no reason to worry. Leksa jumped on an opportunity to steal away his shiniest dagger as quickly as a golden jackal would pounce on a chital.

“So?” Impatient, Leksa nudged Stephan.

Quickly finding his bearings, Stephan reported, “Your Knights should be lodged in the fortress’s northern wing. I’ll escort you to the chambers prepared for you.”

On their way out, as he held the door for Leksa, Stephan sent one last look at Demyan.

With an unabashed smile, Demyan spread his arms and shrugged.

He wasn’t particularly proud of how he handled it, but he had done a lot of unpleasant things; his skin had grown thick enough. Rewarding blind loyalty with the worst trials was a vicious cycle he didn’t merely break, but perfected.

With a shadow crossing his face, Stephan gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white.

The doors closed with a quiet thud.

With them shut, Demyan slumped his shoulders, breathing out a long, heavy sigh. The weight of what transpired fell onto him without much warning. No matter how thick his skin was, he himself was still human—flesh and bones.

“You think he can handle it?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Demyan met Kost’s gruff stare.

“Probably not, but he will learn. Still brooding?”

With hands crossed on his chest, Kost buried himself deeper into the corner.

“Don’t I have the right to? All your humiliation is mine tenfold,” he muttered.

Under the bleak light of the candles, Demyan’s eyes sparked vermilion.

“I had to repay the debt no matter what,” Demyan said, resolute. “Leksa just happened to be the one to collect it.”

Though he framed it like that, the toll of Leksa actually being the one he ended up settling with took its due. He felt tired. The relief he had hoped to feel once he answered for his wrongs never came. If anything, he felt disappointed. Through all this time, he, albeit naively, believed there was a way to lessen this feeling gnawing at his chest, to wash just a bit of blood off his hands. What a foolish hope. Nothing changed much.

Kost snorted.

“Happened? More like he did everything to be the one to collect it.”

Slumping into the throne, Demyan shook his head ruefully.

“And wouldn’t that be nice?”