“Follow me, High Warlord,” Stephan said cautiously.

Walking on eggshells, he led the way through the corridors of the Bishov Fortress. Their steps echoed—one of them distinctly softer than the other.

It was unnerving how quiet the High Warlord was unless he wanted to be noticed. His horse was silent, his gait soundless; he made no noise at all—no rasp of breath, no rustle of fabric or creak of leather, no clink of metal. It was so different from Demyan. Demyan never bothered concealing his presence—he laughed, popped his knuckles, grunted, cursed under his breath, strode with booming steps. He could go unnoticed only when masked by a louder ruckus, never in an empty silence.

“Leksa,” the High Warlord said.

Shaken, Stephan glanced behind him. “Hm?”

“Call me Leksa from now on. I don’t like the title much,” he explained, idly looking around.

Every time they passed a narrow window, he peeked outside, curious—and in those moments, the fading light of dusk fell over him. Warmly, it colored his delicate face, dusting his lips with peach and shading his hair into copper-gold. With his features relaxed and a trace of innocent curiosity in his eyes, he looked so young.

And he was young. Not even thirty.

It was one thing to gather your own host by your mid-twenties when you were the strongest fighter around, able to subdue anyone. It was another to be chosen—twice—by an established martial society to lead them. Looking like that, on top of it.

Stephan, like any boy in these lands, had worshipped and dreamed of the Kingless Knights as a child. Of course, he had imagined himself being chosen as High Warlord, beating down other kids for the role when they played. It used to be a nice dream. If he hadn’t joined the Pouring Knights, it would’ve been the greatest honor of his life—to make the acquaintance of the true leader of his childhood heroes.

The High Warlord he presently escorted—decidedly not a hero—ran a finger over the wall as if checking for dust.

What an unexpected request. Stephan could hardly imagine the title of High Warlord grating on Leksa’s ears—it was the highest honor one could achieve in Wildfields. And after witnessing what transpired in the dining hall, Stephan was sure Leksa enjoyed his position immensely.

Berating an overfamiliar form of address? That Stephan could’ve understood far more readily than the opposite.

Nevertheless, he nodded.

“Leksa,” he repeated. The name tasted on his tongue like a foreign fruit—too sour, jaw-clenching; something to try a few hundred times before learning to appreciate its richness and find its use.

A light chuckle echoed through the corridor. Sunlight flashed across Leksa and, for a moment, sparked warmth in his eyes.

“You don’t sound all that happy, Stephan,” Leksa probed—not a question, but still something Stephan had to answer.

But what was he supposed to say? No wonder he was not happy.

Some days ago, he was running around and completing Demyan’s frivolous tasks, as carefree as one could be in the current state of affairs. Just yesterday, laughing and gossiping, he drank beer with his fellow knights and listened to Demyan shamelessly talk about his “wife.”

How was Stephan supposed to suddenly make sense of his new role—his new master? The wife had turned out to be a vicious bastard, bringing Demyan himself to his knees.

Their cruel joke had landed perfectly.

Stephan had sincerely believed someone dear to Demyan was coming. Probably a girl somehow connected to the Kingless Knights, joining their party for a visit. He had been earnestly curious to see who had managed to catch Demyan—of all people—into such giddy affection. Someone selfless and hardworking? A peerless beauty with a heart of gold? A rich noble girl with a sharp tongue and immense family wealth to make her a worthy conquest?

Hell, he had been excited to meet her. Gossiping with Cyryll over countless scenarios as they shopped for new robes. He had even allowed Cyryll to pick a fashionable outfit for him—something he never did, despite the incessant nagging.

How foolish.

What in Demyan could have hinted he’d ever be tethered by romantic love? That blood-hungry ruffian only ever loved a good challenge. Of course, it had been a joke. His “wife” had turned out to be another warlord—another battlefield.

“I’m just—” Stephan glanced behind him. “I didn’t expect…” He stumbled over his words, failing to find the right ones.

Leksa smiled knowingly. “Someone like me?” he offered.

Frowning, Stephan wasn’t sure he was in a position to agree. His pace slowed, and Leksa fell into step beside him, as naturally as if they had always walked shoulder to shoulder.

“I get that a lot. Don’t worry,” Leksa assured him. His dark eyes were earnest, as amicable as when they’d first met under the scorching sun in the steppe. “If you ever manage to truly insult me, you’ll earn even more of my respect,” he added, a touch cheeky.

There was something carefree in his demeanor. His light steps, which now finally made a sound, and his easy smile almost fooled Stephan into a false sense of security. But the image of Demyan on his knees still burned behind Stephan’s eyelids.

“Does that mean you have some respect for me now?” Stephan asked, failing to hide the irritation in his tone. Rador was right. No amount of cursing would do Leksa justice.

The golden beads decorating Leksa’s dreadlock clinked as he twisted it around his fingers—clean, with perfectly trimmed nails. Though his hands weren’t those of a frail maiden, they were calloused like any swordsman’s. Leksa hummed, as if to demonstrate he was considering the question seriously. Biting his lip, he narrowed his eyes at Stephan.

That look was similar to how Cyryll had regarded fabrics in the tailor’s shop: evaluating, gauging, clearly experienced at distinguishing high-quality goods from cheap frauds. The kind of look that made merchants nervous. And if goods had feelings—they would’ve sweated, too.

Stephan, completely unaware of it, ended up staring back. Maybe he had been staring all along.

Scrutinizing every detail of Leksa’s appearance, Stephan realized he couldn’t tear his gaze away even if he wanted to. From the ancient protective runes carved into the beads to the way Leksa’s plush lower lip was caught between his teeth—every little thing made him look.

Some unknown force took over Stephan’s reason and denied him agency over his own body. His palms sweated.

“Of course,” Leksa replied at last. It felt like an eternity had passed before he did. The bite left a faint sheen of saliva on his lower lip. “Why else would I want you?” those lips asked.

Fucking hell. 

What the actual fuck? 

Stephan’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears; his cheeks burned.

Laughing, Leksa strode forward a few steps, then turned to face Stephan and walked backward. Clasping his hands behind his back, he leaned in and whispered, a playful smile on his lips:

“You’re cute when you’re blushing, by the way.”

Thud, thud, thud.

Hit with that smile like a well-balanced war hammer, Stephan stumbled, his legs turning to cotton. Gracelessly, stupidly, he almost fell right into Leksa. 

Almost. 

Warm, firm hands caught him, steadying him with a sure grip. That… That was pushing it too far. Stephan squeezed his eyes shut and drew a deep breath. He needed—vitally needed—to calm down. He didn’t want to be a field mouse. He had his pride.

The next moment, he opened his eyes with a new resolve.

“Leksa, you can’t—” Stephan began.

Two bottomless orbs filled Stephan’s vision, blinking at him. They dragged him into their void with terrifying ease. Invitingly, scarily welcoming. As if it wouldn’t be so bad—to simply give up and drown in them.

“Mn?” Leksa prompted softly. 

His eyelashes fluttered, measured, like wings of a butterfly finding its rest on a nice flower to suck it dry. His hands burned hot through all the fancy layers of Stephan’s new robes.

Again, the loose thread of Stephan’s thoughts went wild, refusing him coherence. What pride?

Sighing, Stephan admitted his crushing defeat.

“I get why Demyan is so obsessed with you,” he muttered.

The grip on his shoulders loosened. Leksa patted him like he was rewarding a puppy and took a step back. Suddenly, Stephan could breathe again.

“Exactly,” Leksa said flatly. His face relaxed into an unreadable expression. “Demyan is nothing but a dumb dog that I tamed long ago. And you’re not even one tenth of him.”

Even though Stephan knew that, the way it was flung at him still hurt. He wished he could be worth one damn pinky of Demyan’s. He worked hard, honed his skills, tried to be stoically fine with his own irrelevance.

“But you have your virtues, Stephan, and I respect that. You’re smart, loyal, valuable. That’s why I wanted you.”

Hot and cold—insulting him one moment, then, as if reading his thoughts, offering a compliment the next. Hitting right where it mattered. How could Leksa read him so well after mere hours?

“And of course, he gave you to me,” Leksa continued, “and I intend to make good use of you.” Casually, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re mine now, so learn where that virtuous loyalty of yours belongs.”

Dumbfounded, Stephan nodded.

“I… I understand,” he stammered. Wiping his sweaty palms on his robes, he swallowed loudly.

Satisfied, Leksa smiled, slipping into a friendly mood as if it were an outfit he changed depending on the weather.

“I can help you achieve far more than being a captain in a band of bandits and ruffians trying to pass for more than that. So cheer up, Kingless Knight.” Leksa grinned, and something in Stephan, selfishly, preened at the new title. That boy with his forgotten dream cautiously raised his head—desperate to believe what he’d heard.

Leaving Stephan to find his footing on his own, Leksa ambled down the corridor, stretching his arms overhead.

“Ah, man,” he sighed. “The road here was such a pain. Do I have nice chambers? You should’ve prepared something nice for me, right?”