Through his tossing and turning in the heat of the night, his friend comes to shape in front of him. Smiling with that pink mouth of his, squinting with those yellow eyes of his. His curls mussed, as if freshly awoken, a big handful of gold thread waiting to be sewn. Erasmus lounges on a chair of Veretian brocade, the red of King Damianos’ cloak, half-asleep and happy. To Kallias’ shame, as it still curls inside of him despite of how fate has twisted, Erasmus appears in front of him naked, as Kallias would watch him during their training. Skin the color of limestone, soft as the silk underneath his body, and entirely bare but for his golden collar. And in this dream that comes to Kallias through open eyelids, a gold chain is clasped to that golden collar, and that gold chain is fisted by the Patran prince, His Highness, the second son Torveld, for he is Erasmus’ master.