Prologue — Thirty Lashes

Thirty lashes were what the king originally ordered for the boy's crimes against the monarchy. Florence could not deny what he was painting. He knew what was depicted with every stroke of his brush, knew exactly what each starving face represented, which villages had been emptied by hunger, which granaries had been locked while children begged outside them, which soldiers had carried the king's orders into the countryside. He had painted it all.

The painting itself had been destroyed three days before the sentence was passed. Though, it did not matter. By then, copies of it had traveled farther than the boy ever had. One hung inside a tavern in the eastern quarter. Another had been nailed to the wall of a baker's shop. Children had begun drawing its figures in charcoal upon alley walls. Someone had even painted the king's face over with black ink.

Caro stood next to the man with a whip in his hand, wishing to pry it away. Instead, he stayed utterly silent, his gaze focused anywhere but on the knelt omega before the court.

Thirty lashes, the king had ordered, and so his men would follow through. That was protocol. That was law. One did not go against the king—not his people, not his men, not even his wife. So of course, Caro also did not go against him.

However, watching that whip rise knowing what he knew now, Caro found his heart felt suddenly heavy. As though it was sinking to his stomach where it stayed lodged in his intestines like a rock he could not move if he'd tried.

"Wait." He breathed, his hands shook. "Wait." His voice louder now, and the crowd utterly stilled. Silence tightened the air, as though it were something that could be pulled taut.

Caro stared at the ground. What was he to do now? Plead the king for the boy’s mercy? “Why is it that you wish to punish him for his paintings?” Caro’s voice trembled. Still, he continued, “I have ventured near and far and seen artwork aplenty that depict nudity, war, bloodshed, and so on. Why is it that his paintings specifically anger you so?”

When no answer came, Caro sighed, his speech suddenly eerily steady. “Or is it perhaps you are scared of who may see them?”

Of course, King Sciero did not immediately reason with this claim nor allow Florence to stand, but his hand did raise to halt the man next to Caro.

“I want them destroyed. Each and every one of those paintings. You have ventured near and far, so prove it. Cross the globe if you must, but the boy shall remain in my possession until they are no more.”

Caro’s heart sank. The boy had already suffered so terribly, why must he continue to do so? Was the world truly that cruel? 

Florence’s paintings said yes.