Izara didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say, anyway? He just forced himself to look at the serpent king, who had slid into the water, then dropped his gaze to the edge of the pool. He could vaguely imagine what the serpent king wanted with him here; he was already naked, after all. He tried not to think about it too hard. His whole body already hurt. Maybe the guard, still holding him, would get a turn too.

He tried not to think about it.

The guard marched him over to the edge of the pool, and the serpent king moved over to look up at him. It was the smallest comfort, looking down on him like this, but he knew it wouldn’t last.

»Come join me.« The softness of the serpent king’s voice couldn’t conceal that this was an order.

Izara didn’t want to move. He knew what was going to happen. It would be worse if he disobeyed, too.

There was no way out.

His eyes drifted to the windows again. Freedom was so close, and yet utterly unreachable.

»Come, sweet thing. You can let him go,« he added at the guard, and then added something in their language. Izara could imagine his punishment, should he disobey, being outlined to be carried out by the guard at the first wrong move.

For now, the guard let go of his arm again and positioned themself between him and the windows.

Izara’s hands—his newly freed hands, for whatever reason—curled into fists again. Of course.

The serpent king still looked up at him, quizzically. »Don’t you want a bath?«

Izara could have screamed at the duplicity. Of course he wanted a bath. He was desperate for a bath, even if he doubted he would ever feel actually clean again. What he didn’t want was for another master to toy with him, make it worse, and least of all he wanted for it to be disguised as some sort of mercy.

He could see what would happen if he refused, as clear as day. He would probably be locked up somewhere in a cell, or perhaps made to do the dirtiest work the king could think of, without the slightest opportunity of washing himself, and then he would be told it was him who chose this. He had been offered a bath, after all.

He ground his teeth, swallowing down tears. »I do.«

»Good. I want you to bathe as well.« The serpent king stretched out an arm, as if offering to help him into the pool.

»I don’t want to take a bath with you.« He was furious enough he barely felt fear at the impossible thing he was saying.

»I’m afraid that is not a choice I am offering you,« the serpent king said softly. »I want to get to know your body.«

Of course. Of course that was what he wanted. Izara felt sick.

»I won’t hurt you.«

Izara didn’t believe that for a second. A good bedslave would pretend not to be hurt far beyond the threshold of what counted as pain for real people, and that was probably the serpent king’s reference point, if he wasn’t straight-up lying.

He was not a good slave. He would forever refuse to be.

For as long as he could.

For as long as his waning strength lasted him.

He couldn’t fight the tears forever, and now they were welling up. »Come on, little thing,« the serpent king said, even softer. »It’s alright. Come on in.«

He reached further and took Izara by the hand, only grabbing on tight when Izara tried to pull away. »Come on.«

There was no way out.

"Come in, Mirai." The serpent king was lounging on his bed, his eyes hungrily fixed on him. It still felt sweet, finally being called by his real name--and sweeter to hear his master doing it, not just his peers. But it wasn't enough to offset the fear clawing up his throat.

Nonetheless, he obeyed; the door quietly closed behind him, and he approached the bed.

"You know what I have called you for, of course." The serpent king reached out a hand and, like in that first night, pulled him onto the bed when he took it.

If it weren't for his words, Mirai almost could have fooled himself that nothing more would happen than then.

"Yes, Master. I'm yours." Mirai's hands were cold with anxiety.

The serpent king smiled, and very softly replied, "You are." He put his arms around him and pulled him up against his chest, his tongue flickering at him briefly, then he leant in to touch his forehead to Mirai's.

Mirai, of course, let it happen, following the guidance of the strong arms which were now, when he was sufficiently close, sliding down and down his back. He let his head drop forward against his master's.

He was being good, and that was how to earn what little mercy there was to go around. He had learned that lesson all too well.

"I let each one of my sweets ask for one thing I shall never do to them, within reason." The serpent king's golden eyes seemed to smile, even if it was impossible to read his whole expression from this close up. His hands cupped Mirai's ass firmly, keeping him close.

Mirai didn't have to think twice, not even on whether there was anything specific the serpent king was expecting. "Please- please don't strangle me, Master."

If Mirai wasn't mistaken, the serpent king's eyes softened at that. "I shall not, Mirai. You have my word," and then he closed the hair's breadth left between them and kissed Mirai fully on the mouth.

Mirai didn't for a second consider resisting; much less when the serpent king's hand came up to cup his head. He simply closed his eyes, tilting his head the way that seemed most conducive to what the serpent king wanted, and let it happen. When the serpent king's long tongue pushed forward against his lips, he opened his mouth and let it enter him, exploring wherever it wished.

The serpent king's body shifted around him, and his other hand slid around his hip, reaching, ever so gently, between his legs.

When he ran his warm fingers along Mirai's length, his body responded, in spite of all the worries in his mind. The kiss and the gentle invasive touches preceding it had already put his nerves at the ready more than he realized.

The caress, if such it could be called, wasn't fully unexpected. Many of his masters had figured out how sensitive he became after coming, and had gleefully taken advantage of it. You make such pretty sounds, pigeon.

He didn't bother to hold back a whimper. The serpent king probably wanted to hear him, anyway.

The serpent king's hand stilled, warm over Mirai's cock, and he pulled their lips apart, only to trace more kisses down his cheek and the side of his neck. "Are you alright?" he muttered as he went.

That was unexpected.

"Yes, Master," Mirai replied before he had thought it through; but it was probably the safest answer to give, anyway.

The serpent king resumed; but his touch remained light and slow, enough for Mirai to breathe through it, to focus his thoughts on how to best please his master, to remain just half-hard--uncomfortable, moreso knowing what the future might bring, but far preferable to the alternative.

"Lovely." The serpent king's other hand now ran through his hair, slowly undoing his braids. He leaned over to bury his face in it, and Mirai thought he heard, from there at the nape of his neck, a little hiss, like an animal.

The serpent king's body shifted, and--

The traders had been at it for hours, passing Mirai back and forth between them. Mirai was too exhausted to beg anymore; he had stopped screaming, his throat aching, even after the trader who had decided he was fed up with it had withdrawn from his mouth again.

"You’ll remember this fondly," the one currently on top of him told him, grinning, while Mirai could only cry weakly. "They say snakes have two dicks, and given you only have one little hole down there, guess where both of them are going?"

It had been true. Far down the serpent king's body--right at the base of his tail, Mirai realized, although he had previously struggled to determine where that would have been--not one, but two members had emerged, each of them big enough on its own to make Mirai cry if the serpent king so desired.

Or even if he didn't.

They were crowned with spikes.

What arousal the serpent king had coaxed from him was gone in an instant. Mirai froze, and then he cursed himself for it, because he knew the serpent king had noticed--he drew back from him slightly, returning to him forehead to forehead, his hand slipping up to his hip again.

"Oh, don't be afraid, little one. I won't hurt you tonight."

How, Mirai wanted to scream. But of course he kept quiet. It was enough work to keep breathing.

"And I'll never ask you to take more than you can."

But Mirai knew the serpent king, not he, would be the judge of that.

He still couldn't bring himself to move. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The serpent king put his arms around him, pulling him into a hug, gently guiding his face with one hand to look at his instead. "Shhh, little one. Don't be afraid."

He rubbed the nape of Mirai's neck, his scalp, and Mirai tried his hardest to relax. He didn't look again. It was no use. But then, his imagination surely made things worse-

He stole another glimpse past the serpent king's arms.

"Don't worry, little one." The serpent king stroked down his spine, then let him go. "Bring me that bottle over there."

There was a glass jar sitting on a low shelf by the bed, easily within reach of the latter without an excuse to leave it. He crawled over, all too aware of how he was presenting his behind, and picked it up. Some thick liquid sloshed inside. It had a strange scent--almost as if of... magic?

"Apply it to me," the serpent king said softly, his eyes filled with a hunger Mirai was all too familiar with.

Mirai was simply grateful there should be oil, no matter how little of a difference it might make given the serpent king's equipment.

But it was something more than simple oil; his nose had been right. The thick liquid that poured into his hand had a shimmer to it that could only tell of magic.

He very carefully closed his oiled-up hand around the first shaft. He had never liked handling his masters this way, far too anxious of doing something wrong, far too nervous at the wrongness of their most vulnerable parts in his hands; he should be the one vulnerable to their actions, as much as he feared it, and upsetting that order only brought more pain.

The serpent king hissed when he ran his hand up his hot cock, and Mirai was glad his hands, even with their claws filed down, weren't now holding him from the way they grabbed into the sheets.

That was good. His master was enjoying himself, and he was learning.

He cupped the tip of the cock in his hand, running the liquid over it, and--as it covered the spikes, it seemed to aggregate around them, turning their sharpness into mere knobs and bumps.

He would still feel them, and keenly. But at least he need no longer worry to have his insides wholly cut to ribbons.

The member in his hand bounced at his touch, and the serpent king made a sound that could no longer be even called a hiss, deep and throaty and beastly.

"See? I told you not to worry." He grabbed Mirai around the waist before he could approach the other cock, leaning back and pulling him, with force, on top of himself; he just caught the jar out of Mirai's hand before it could spill.

Mirai gasped with fright, catching himself with his arms on the serpent king's chest.

"Shh, Mirai. It's alright." The serpent king made an obvious effort to look him frankly in the face. "I won't hurt you. Try to relax."

His hands returned to uncanny gentleness when he grabbed Mirai's thighs, making him straddle his body, spreading his legs. Mirai was pulled down until he lay on the serpent king's chest, wholly exposed to the long, flexible body that would allow the serpent king to come at him from whatever angle he pleased.

There was nothing he could do but obey. Breathe. He rested his head in the crook of the serpent king's neck, his entire body over-attentive to every touch placed upon it. The warm skin and smooth scales beneath him. The way his hair was being ever so lightly tugged as the serpent king arranged it however he pleased, before his hands returned to running along his back, rubbing gentle circles like they had that first night.

»Come in, little one. Don’t be nervous,« the serpent king added, again with that little smile. »I won’t fuck you here.«

Mirai could feel his cheeks redden, somehow as embarrassed as he was confused. It should be reassuring, shouldn't it? Or it might be a lie.

He still braced himself before he approached the basin, and lowered himself on the edge, when he realized a logistical problem. He couldn’t simply—

»You may step over me,« the serpent king said, a flash of amusement in his eyes when he noticed Mirai’s hesitation.

Somehow Mirai managed to half-hop over the king’s serpent body into the center of the basin. The lukewarm water was pleasant on his feet, hurting from the days of hurried travel, and he immediately felt cleaner, too; now, surrounded by his master, he tried to keep his thoughts focused on what little mercies he could find. It would help him when the time came, here after a lie or anywhere. He needed to avoid tensing up.

The serpent king had lowered his upper body into the water until it was almost up to his neck, and looking down on him felt wrong, so Mirai moved to kneel before him.

The serpent king eyed him up. »What is your name?«

So much for not tensing up. What answer would be safe to give? Of course, his master could call him whatever he wanted. He had worn many names, most of them degrading or falsely sweet, since he had been first sold. The slavers who had brought him here hadn’t even bothered—

»Don’t be afraid, little one. I am not in the habit of tricking those who are already at my mercy.«

»I—my mother called me Mirai,« but then he couldn’t help himself but add, »but of course it is your right to call me by whatever name you please, Master.«

»Mirai is pleasing enough. Sit.«

And indeed, there was a stool submerged in the center of the basin Mirai hadn’t even noticed, so preoccupied had he been with observing his master and keeping him pleased as best as he knew how.

Mirai is pleasing enough. He swallowed down an odd lump in his throat.

When he sat, the serpent king moved behind him, taking with him the sponge. A hand slipped under his hair at the nape of his neck, moving it over his shoulder, and that was when Mirai realized he didn’t feel the bite of claws. When he quickly reached to hold the mass of hair out of his master’s way, he caught a glimpse of the hand, and indeed, the serpent king’s claws were clipped and filed down to be short and round and harmless.

Mirai didn’t know what to make of it, but he was willing to hold on to it, especially while feeling as exposed as he did now, not even his hair left between his master and himself.

But all that happened was that a flowery fragrance he couldn’t quite pinpoint reached his nose, moments before a warm hand ran over his back with the tell-tale slickness of soap. Then the sponge, now soaked, touched, scrubbing in gentle circles. He was being cleaned by the serpent king himself.

It was a little odd, sure; this task could have been accomplished or even just overseen by a loyal servant; but he wasn’t going to question his master’s whims. It felt nice, really, being gently touched without being fucked, even if he knew it couldn’t last.

When finished with his back, the serpent king moved on to his arms, going even lighter over the bruises the traders had left when pulling him along. It was kind, and it made it easier to relax a little, even as the serpent king moved to his front, never hesitating, fully secure—as he had every reason to be—in his right to touch wherever he wanted.

»I’ll lift you,« the serpent king warned quietly after finishing with his chest, then he picked him up and draped him across the coils of his body. The warning was kind, too, and Mirai tried to focus on the feeling of the smooth scales on his back as he was reclined, his hips and thighs raised to be more accessible to his master.

Once again, he was suprised; the serpent king simply continued cleaning him, lingering, sure, on his ass, and stroking, with feather-light fingers, once or twice more often than was strictly necessary over the insides of his thighs still bruised from the trader’s escapades, and watching his face for a reaction when reaching all the way between his legs, but after all he just continued on, moving down his legs as gently as before.

Mirai simply tried to squirm as little as possible. Looking up at the ceiling, he could see the same beautiful, intricate patterns inlaid as there had been in the throne room, blue and mossy green and white.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Finally, the serpent king was done. Mirai was clean. It felt nice; it had been a while since his last proper bath. It had been gentle, and kind. He couldn’t trust the kindness to last yet, but if things would continue on in this vein…

»Thank you, Master.«

The serpent king smiled, flushing Mirai with relief. It had been the right thing to say. He wasn’t used to speaking out loud, but even when he had been expressly ordered not to, he had always felt it put him at a disadvantage—not being able to plead and express respect and, yes, gratitude out loud meant they were more easily overlooked, or underappreciated.

He hated the sound of his voice, but maybe he could get used to speaking more quickly than he had thought.

»Did anything happen with your voice?« The question hit him unprepared. The serpent king soaked the sponge once more and easily placed him back onto the stool with a fluid shift of his body, moving behind him again.

»Yes, Master.« He avoided thinking about it when he could, and not just because of the devastation it had caused him in the long run - the disgust or outright punishment he was met with whenever he opened his mouth, until speaking filled him with dread. The event itself had been horrifying enough. »One of my old masters liked to choke me when he took me. One time, he - it was more than my throat could take. It never recovered.«

He shouldn't have said that. The serpent king's face was a quiet sort, but he had long since learned to read the smallest expressions, and he saw the anger flaring up.

His master must have noticed his worry. »I am not angry with you, Mirai. I am angry that someone would recklessly endanger the life of a slave they're responsible for like this. And with those who sold you to me, for trying to scam me by hiding it.

»Does it hurt?«

Mirai shook his head before he caught himself; his master wanted him to speak, so he would speak; his apprehension didn’t matter.

»No, Master.« The pain had faded eventually, after weeks of every breath feeling like a stab, every swallow feeling like dying over again - like he had felt there under his master, passing out with the pain in his throat his final sensation, certain he would not wake up that time. He was sold soon after that, when his voice wouldn't recover. He was worthless to his master without it.

»Good.« The serpent king squeezed the water from the sponge out over Mirai’s head, letting it trickle down his hair.

Mirai remained still as he repeated the process a few times until his hair was sufficiently watered, again trying not to overthink. It didn’t really matter whether it was good or bad that speaking didn’t hurt, he’d have to do as he was asked regardless, but it was nice that his master thought it was good. Right?

The serpent king reached for one of the jars, and soon Mirai felt another liquid drip onto his scalp, thicker than the water before. It smelled—not bad, a little tart, herbal—and was then brushed into his hair.

»I’ll want you to do this yourself, every week,« the serpent king said as he gently—yes, still so gently, much more so than the traders or anyone else had ever been—worked through Mirai’s hair.

»Yes, Master.« Mirai had to trust he’d be given the means to. It wasn’t always so, he knew that, and he would still be blamed if he wasn’t; but there was nothing else he could do.

After he put the brush aside, the serpent king ran his hands through his hair several times, never catching on the slightest remaining tangle. Mirai was used to his masters playing with his hair, and he just was grateful it was this light.

When he knocked on the door and asked, »I’m going to the gardens, do you wish to join me?«, he kept his eyes on Mirai as stealthily as he could. The little thing was sitting next to Aravia, playing cards with her and her usual group, and gave them an insecure look; they reassured him quickly, Aravia taking him by the hand. It was charming to see.

He led the way outside, Izara skipping along next to him, a mode of locomotion as foreign and delightful to Eshihir as a little bird hopping. He was, it seemed, barely containing himself not to run ahead.

They went down to the swimming pool, and spread out over the grass and in the water. Eshihir lounged half in, half out of the water, in the sun, resting his head on his body and watching his beauties.

Aravia’s blue-black skin and Shasha’s dark, iridescent scales right next to each other where they played in the water made a gorgeous picture; he liked having them both together, superficial as it was. Hishil, as usual, had gone for a lazy soak, his powerful body half-submerged and quiet. Udelfyr stayed in the shade, his pale skin sensitive to the sun, but marched around the pool as far as the trees would allow him. Dasshila climbed a tree, twisting playfully between the branches, and Ikkira raced around the pool before splashing into it, laughing.

Mirai, though, had paused shyly at the edge of the pool, clearly uncertain, like he always was. There were braids in his hair, now, five of them coming together at the back. Someone must have told him it was alright to do them—Eshihir regretted not having remembered it himself—he probably wouldn’t have dared without command or reassurance.

»Mirai, little one,« he softly called. »Come sit with me.«

Mirai flinched, just a little, gave him a fearful look and came over.

»Sit,« Eshihir repeated when he simply stood there, eyes cast down.

Mirai hastily sat down on the water’s edge, then hesitantly dipped his legs into the water. The bruises on his arms and thighs had started to fade, and Eshihir had to stop himself from examining them. They were going to be alright, and he didn’t want to frighten the little one.

»How have you been?«

»Well, Master. Thank you, Master.«

Eshihir smiled. »Tell me more, little thing.«

Mirai seemed startled by the prospect. »You’ve been very generous.«

»I know. That’s not what I mean, though.« He looked Mirai earnestly in the face. »Are you comfortable? Are you getting along with the others?«

Mirai nodded eagerly. »They’ve been very kind. I, um… I’m well, I really am.« This time, he looked up and actually met Eshihir’s eye, if only for a moment. »It’s… different. I’m still getting used to it. I…« he hesitated, licked his lips, then quietly said, »I’m not used to everything being so nice. I’m still… my soul is still learning how to- how to handle it.«

He stared down into the water, and Eshihir watched him, touched. He liked making their lives better, and had succeeded practically every time—the bar was never high. Still, it was a pleasure every time. Mirai would be okay, despite his anxiety, despite the bruises on his thighs. He said it out loud, barely. »You’ll be okay.«

Mirai hugged himself, and nodded awkwardly into the pool. »Yes, Master.«

In the meantime, Izara had climbed onto one of the lower branches of Dasshila’s tree, where it reached into the sun, her arms hovering above him as if she didn’t trust his ability to hold himself up there (which Eshihir couldn’t fault her for; legs always seemed so awkward), and now started to sing. It was nothing in particular, just the almost bird-like song he broke into when he was, Eshihir had learned, at ease and happy. It warmed his heart.

Then his eyes returned to Mirai, only to see him shrunk together, almost doubled over, his eyes, too, fixed on Izara.

»Mirai?«

He flinched, and turned away as if scolded, and in the movement, Eshihir saw the wet spark in his eye.

»Does the singing bother you?«

»No! No, it’s—I’m glad for him.« His voice was thick with emotion, and then Eshihir realized.

»Oh. Oh, Mirai.« He reached out a hand and rubbed Mirai’s shoulders; Mirai briefly shrunk away fromt he touch before he stilled, and let it happened.

He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t know enough about elven culture and what all that singing really was about. »You’ll find other ways to express yourself,« he ventured, quietly.

»Yes, Master.« Mirai’s voice was barely more than a sob. He straightened himself, and then, to Eshihir’s great surprise, asked, »May I leave, Master?«

»Go.« He wasn’t going to be strict on the little thing when he was already so upset.

Mirai went and sat on the opposite side of the pond, all curled in; Eshihir was glad to see Aravia swim over and sit with him.

It took him several seconds after snapping back into his usual obedient, mercy-seeking mindset—with an aching sting through his chest from remembering something sweet and long-gone—before he remembered his new master wanted him to speak. »Good morning, Master.«

His voice was as wrecked as ever, and that fully grounded him back into reality.

»Have you slept well?« The serpent king’s fingers ran through his hair.

»Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.« It was true. He had been so exhausted that even surrounded by his terrifyingly overpowering and enigmatic master, he had slept deeply and dreamlessly.

And he was grateful for it.

»That’s good.« The serpent king cupped his cheek, kissed his forehead, and then got up out of the bed. »Get dressed. I will show you where you’ll live.«

Mirai was quick to obey, and while he closed the clasps of the excuse for clothing he had been given, the serpent king continued.

»There’s something important you need to know, Mirai. You will live with my other pretty things. You all are at liberty to interact with each other as each one involved pleases, but if someone hurts you in any way or makes you uncomfortable, you may tell me. If it cannot wait, you may tell the guards to tell me. I want all of you to be cared for and I will not tolerate bullying or petty games.«

Mirai looked up at him, a whole new world of worries suddenly opened up to him. »Th-thank you, Master.«

Once again, the serpent king must have sensed his fear. He smiled down at him. »Don’t worry, they’ll love you. But I want you to know you are not without recourse if anything happens.«

He led the way out of the room, and Mirai followed him, trying to shake his newfound anxieties.

»Further, if there is anything else you need or want, you may ask also. I may say no, but you will never be punished for inquiry.«

»Thank you, Master«, Mirai muttered, barely managing the words out loud. There was a lump in his throat. This all sounded so good.

There had to be a catch somewhere.

The serpent king brought him to a door flanked by two guards, who bowed their heads respectfully, but not without giving Mirai curious glances. One opened and let them in.

The room was large, the side opposite the door once more consisting of arched windows, framed with heavy curtains on either side. Multiple doors lined the other walls, some ajar, others closed. The room was furnished with several tables, couches both after the fashion of the legged folk Mirai was familiar with, and designed as oval-shaped platforms similar to the throne, as well as various seat cushions. Shelves held board games, books, and other knickknacks. Lamps hung on the walls between the doorframes, albeit currently extinguished.

More than the design of the room itself, though, what caught Mirai’s attention were its occupants.

They were all very beautiful. It was about a dozen, half serpentkind, ranging in colour and size from a slender, brown-patched woman to an olive-green man spotted in yellow and black and larger than the biggest guard Mirai had seen yet, half humans, from a woman as blue-black as night with long, neat locs to a fire-headed man as pale as birch bark. There was one slender-legged, shiny-coated bay centauress, and one other elf, bronze-skinned and curly-haired. His bright eyes found Mirai immediately, and Mirai could feel nothing but shame worse than the others put into him, even knowing they were in the same position.

Well, they weren’t, truly. This stranger, most likely, could sing.

All were dressed in attire somewhat similar to his, terribly exposed, but each different from one another, clearly designed to suit the person it adorned.

And all turned towards the opening door, looking curiously at the serpent king or the new slave he had brought.

Mirai felt awfully exposed; for a moment he had the childish impulse to hide behind his master. But that was as ridiculous as it was stupid. These people were likely much less of a threat to him. He had lived in households with several slaves before; even if they couldn’t do anything to help one another—sometimes banned from even touching, all touch belonging to their masters—it had been a bittersweet comfort not to be alone in his misery.

Yet, that all meant he was even more worried about making a bad impression.

The serpent king did loop around Mirai once more. »This is Mirai, sweets. Rizi, will you show him around?«

A tawny-skinned human with soft black waves on their head nodded. »Of course, Master.« The fiery-coloured silk bands of their decor, Mirai noticed, framed a pair of fine scars crossing their chest; delicate enough to have been masterfully made without resistance, but not wholly removed by magic, the way the dog bites on Mirai’s skin had been. They smiled at Mirai, and Mirai felt a spark of comfort.

The serpent king moved away from around Mirai, then paused. »One more thing. You will have Hishissa lessons every day. This is your home now; I want you to learn the language. Do you know how to read and write?«

»Only… only Nirezali, Master.« He had not, when he was receiving what little education he got, expected to leave the country he had been born in. No one in his family had. How and why would they?

»Then you will have lessons in that also. Make yourself at home,« he added, smiling at him one last time. »Have a good day, sweets.«

The only flaws to his beauty, really, were that he was rather too thin, and banged up badly—bruises all over in different shades that suggested multiple beatings over time, raised welts of varied thickness. His wrists, tied together with what seemed an excessive amount of rough rope, were rubbed raw on both sides. Nothing that wouldn’t heal with time, though; his captors had wanted to preserve his beauty.

Eshihir didn’t have to guess at how the slave had ended up in this state. Even as they walked up through the throne room, his keepers had to drag him by the arm, fingers digging hard into what little flesh there was on it as he pulled back, away from his fate.

His face had been, by the looks of it, carefully spared from the ruin, but it was wearing a teeth-bare scowl almost enough to distract from the tears in his eyes. The elf wasn’t looking at Eshihir, eyes fixed somewhere on the stairs leading up to him.

The slavers bowed to him, and yanked the slave down so hard that his skinny knees hit the floor with a thunk audible even from up here.

»Your Majesty! Greetings! We bring you a rare beauty from the West, if you would be so kind as to consider him. He has, unfortunately, not yet learned his manners, but this face is unmatched.« He grabbed the elf by the jaw and forced him to look up, pulling him back onto his feet. Eshihir didn’t fail to notice the elf’s attempt at pulling away, stayed by an even harder grab and hissed words that must have been a threat.

Poor manners, indeed. Eshihir was not normally in the habit of training unruly slaves, but the elf was very pretty, aside from the bones and the bruises.

»I will consider him,« he graciously conceded. »Let him come forward.«

The slaver bent over and urgently whispered into the slave’s ear before letting go of his face. He nodded at his comrade, who was still holding the slave by the arm, and they reluctantly let go. The one who had done the talking gave him a rough shove forward.

The elf, suddenly free from restraint, stumbled, barely keeping himself from falling. He didn’t move to come up to Eshihir; instead, his eyes flickered across the room, across the guards—a wild animal desperately looking for an escape.

»Move, you useless whore,« the slaver hissed; the elf threw a glance at him, his hands balling into fists, but didn’t obey.

Poor manners.

»Fine, I’ll take you up personally.« He grabbed the elf by the arm again—he tried to evade, but not fast or decisive enough—and added something in a threatening whisper before speaking up again in the slimy tone he had used before. »With your permission, of course, your Majesty.«

Eshihir simply nodded, and the slaver dragged the elf up the dais.

Up close, the elf looked even more miserable, but the face the slaver had praised did hold up to the first impression. His hair was about chin-length, but irregular, as if it had been chopped off at some point without much skill or care. His eyes were red from crying, but otherwise a beautiful muddy green. Eshihir could only imagine the possibilities.

The elf had pressed his lips into a thin line, and from the smell of naked fear and the defiance he had made a point of displaying so far, Eshihir was certain it was to hide trembling.

»Let me see him,« Eshihir said, gesturing at the loincloth, and the slaver obeyed with one rough, swift motion.

The elf flinched, blinking away fresh tears; his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Eshihir almost felt bad, but he wasn’t going to buy without properly inspecting the wares.

»Turn around.«

The elf didn’t move an inch, instead venturing a brief, but withering glare at him that sparked something almost playful in Eshishir; if the slave wanted to defy him, he could try. It was the slaver who pulled him around, the elf’s bare feet squeaking softly on the smooth floor. There was nothing unexpected, more bruising and even more welts crisscrossing the elf’s back and absolutely covering an ass that would, Eshihir was certain, look divine healed up and properly fed.

He gestured for the elf to be turned back around. »Open your mouth.«

At this point, he was expecting the response he got, more or less: the elf threw a bitter, defiant glare at him, his jaw muscle merely twitching.

The slaver groaned, grabbed his chin and dug his thumb into the jaw muscle until the elf’s mouth popped open with a pained yelp.

He must have let loose, because when Eshihir raised a hand to turn the slave’s head himself, he snapped at his fingers.

The slaver cursed in a language Eshihir didn’t know and yanked on the slave’s collar, hard enough Eshihir was worried there might be some serious damage. But the elf came back up and only gasped for breath for a few moments while the slaver blubbered apologies, which Eshihir ignored.

»My, my,« he said, not trying to fight the small smile breaking across his lips. »You are quite the brat, aren’t you?«

The elf glared at him, silently. Tears had welled up in his eyes again, whether from the punishment or from fear of more to come, Eshihir couldn’t tell.

This could certainly be interesting.

The slave was very pretty. Even from this distance, he could tell as much. He was an elf, wearing nothing but a short linen tunic, just soft enough around the edges to not be off-puttingly skeletal— his keepers must have seen to it that he kept his weight—, his golden hair falling down to his waist in soft waves—they, too, must have been somewhat maintained—, and his face gave a general air of sweetness, although Eshihir couldn't make out its details.

»Let him come forward, I will inspect him,« and when the slaver holding the slave stepped forward, chain in hand, he sharply added, »Just him.«

The slaver glanced up at him and wisely decided not to argue. They unhooked the chain from the collar and gave the slave a shove forward.

The slave hesitantly climbed the stairs until he stood at the edge of the dais; Eshihir leant forward curiously. He could smell the little thing’s fear. His face was very charming indeed, full lips and soft cheeks and large, liquid eyes so dark it was impossible to tell the colour, cast down under long lashes.

His hair, although shimmering, was not as well-kept as it could be, tangled here and there, dry with a promise of greater shine, and Eshihir caught himself already imagining how it would look with proper maintenance. They had him; he would buy the elf; even telling himself he wouldn't if grievous faults yet came to light was a lie. But of course, he wouldn't show them that.

»Undress,« he commanded softly, and the elf pulled his tunic off without hesitation, making no move to cover himself. He must have been through this before, likely many times.

His figure was what his uncovered legs and arms had promised; what Eshihir took note of now, however, were the bruises on his arms, and even more on his thighs. For some reason or another, wanton cruelty or disobedience, his masters had been rough on him.

The terror seeping off the elf seemed to offer an answer; and at any rate, Eshihir had no reason to worry he couldn't overpower the slave, gently even, if need be.

»Are you in pain?« he asked, quiet enough for the slavers not to understand.

The slave winced and glimpsed back at his owners, rather than lie or answer truly, and that immediately raised Eshihir's suspicion.

»Can he not speak?«

»Oh,« one of the slavers replied. »Ah. No, he can, but, you see, he is very good at keeping quiet also which is preferable. But of course,« they added hastily in response to his piercing look, »answer his Majesty, slave.«

Eshihir looked at the slave questioningly.

»I'm well, Master. I-I'm a little sore but nothing to worry about.« He even attempted a smile, which would have been cute if it wasn't so clearly a grimace hiding fear, but Eshihir was too preoccupied with his voice to dwell on it.

High-end elven slaves were prized for their singing voices as much, if not more, as for their beauty; but the elf's voice had come out a rasp, rough like unpolished stone, broken.

No wonder the traders had tried to conceal it. They must have instructed the slave not to speak.

It didn’t really matter, of course, knowing himself well enough to recognize his mind was made up, but knowing they had tried to deceive him did not endear the lot to him.

»Turn around.«

The elf turned, parting his hair and pulling it forward over his shoulders to reveal his back, with a routine that betrayed how well he knew what was expected of him.

Two brands were seared into his back, carefully centered not to mar his beauty more than necessary. They were foreign, of course, but being as he was in the habit of buying foreign slaves on occasion, he had studied the brands used throughout the realms. The upper was elven, marking the little thing a poacher; likely the reason he had been sold into slavery, by his own people then. The lower was the mark of a prestigious auction house in Illodea, famous for selling rare and exquisite goods. The slave had travelled far.

Beyond that, he continued to be a delight to the eye. The roundness of his curves on top of the golden shimmer of his velvet skin tested Ehishir’s resolve to save the pleasure of touching the beautiful little thing for later, but he persevered.

»Back to me. Open your mouth.«

The elf presented his teeth with the same rote with which he had endured the rest of the exam; they were fine, and Eshihir decided to leave it at that.

He leant back, giving the slave a quiet, »You may re-dress.«

He affected some contemplation while the slave pulled his tunic back on, then stood there, his head demurely bowed. Eshihir had barely noticed himself moving a loop of his body around the slave’s feet, but he was glad for it to make it clear the little thing was not to leave, now that he was as good as his. He waited long enough to make the traders squirm, then he said, »I'll give you 250 gold pieces for him.« That should be enough to make them go away at haste.

The slavers looked appropriately shocked by this supremely generous offer; one, however, caught himself. »Make that 400.«

Eshihir rose until he was looking down at them from twice their height, moving forward fluidly, and bared his teeth; he kept his body looped around his new slave, only shifting the loop along his body. »I know your stories take me for a beast, but do not take me for a fool. I was not opening negotiations with the likes of you.«

»Yes, your Majesty,« one of the other traders replied hurriedly, pulling his partner back. »You are very generous. May he bring you much joy. Thank you muchly.«

Eshihir gestured for a guard to escort them out, not bothering to hide a snarl of disgust.

At least, not before he turned to his new slave. He smiled at the little elf—he was still terrified—then, on a playful whim, he asked, »What is the highest price you’ve fetched before? Do you know?«

The slave glimpsed up at him, the fear as clear in his face as it was in his scent. »I—I believe 140 gold.«

Eshihir chuckled. »Sounds about right.«

A part of him wished he could simply stop fighting back, insisting it would be easier; that things would get better then, even having seen slaves getting beaten for the smallest accidental infraction, getting raped with brutality regardless of how pliant they were trying to be. Another, though, feared that day more than anything: as long as he was fighting, he was alive. He was his own person, by some definition. He couldn’t give up, even as each day it became harder to remember what he was fighting for when there was no escape in this nightmare.

He was terrified he might have finally found a master who wouldn’t care about his resale value, who would leave scars and burns over his body, or… or worse. The serpent king’s blasé offer had proven that money was not an issue for him; after having been sold a dozen times, Izara was well aware what the value of an unruly beast like him was, and it was well below.

The serpent king was, currently, leading the way. Leaving the throne room, he had said something to the guard in their language, which Izara didn’t understand a word of, and he had little hope it had been merely to follow him.

They wound up in a relatively small room with doors on both sides, which Izara took to mean it was an antechamber of some sort. There was also a window high along one wall, narrow, but easily wide enough to let his skinny body through.

Not that he stood a chance to escape between the serpent king, the guard, and the servant who had been awaiting them here, or at least awaiting the king.

»You can let go of him now, I suppose,« the serpent king said softly, eyeing Izara up and down.

The guard, miraculously, let go of him, backing off towards the door they had entered through. For a moment Izara was tempted to make a dash for the window, no matter how hopeless it was, but the serpent king was almost right between him and the sweet air outside. He just dug his nails into his palms and waited.

The serpent king stretched out a hand to the guard, without taking his eyes off him. »Your dagger, Captain.«

And just like that, every thought that had fought its way through the pain and exhaustion and the hunger gnawing at Izara’s stomach was washed away, replaced with cold, glaring panic. A better slave, perhaps, would have fallen to his knees and begged for mercy. Izara though backed away so quickly his back slammed painfully into the piece of furniture behind him. It was a table of some sort, and he scrambled up onto it.

»Stay away from me!« The words went out without thought, and upon hearing them, he wished someone at some point would have sewn his mouth shut. That would never happen to an elven slave, of course, they were supposed to sing for their masters, not scramble through a room trying to escape whatever they had in store for them.

If he made it behind the servant snake, he might get through the other door.

The guard dashed at him faster than Izara could blink, and in a moment, he was being held by his arms again. Harder, this time, on account perhaps of him struggling to get away as hard as he could, kicking into the air until the guard wrapped his body around his legs, immobilizing them. Then, for some reason, they let go of his arms.

»Easy, little thing,« the serpent king said. »I will cut your ties.«

Izara stopped struggling, half out of surprise, half because there was nothing he could do anymore, anyway. Besides, at this point even the mere moments of panicked struggle were enough to exhaust him. The bruises on his arms throbbed where the guard had grabbed on to him.

»That’s better.« The serpent king approached calmly, and Izara bared his teeth. He could snap again. It would do him no good whatsoever, but it was the one thing he could. »Easy.«

The serpent king took the rope binding his hands together. On pure instinct, Izara yanked them away and regretted it immediately. Maybe the serpent king would have cut his ties, but not now-

The serpent king took the rope binding his hands together. When Izara, this time, held his breath and his arms, he hooked his fingers behind the knot, pulling it to the side enough to slide the dagger into the loop of rope chafing his skin.

The mere feeling of the cold metal against his skin made Izara bite his tongue against a whimper, but in a moment, it was over, his hand—suddenly, unexpectedly freed—falling limply to his side.

The raw skin on his wrist burned in the air.

He could have hit the serpent king, then.

The serpent king was still holding the rope and cut it loose from his other wrist as well.

Izara crossed his arms, half-hugged himself, glimpsing down on his damaged wrists. It had been a torment on its own, the rough ties scraping and chafing and biting into already rope-burned skin when he couldn’t simply hold his arms and hands still, and he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t.

Now it was gone, and there was nothing that wouldn’t heal with time. Of course not. He was too beautiful for scars.

He could have pushed the serpent king away. He would if he tried to touch him, he swore to himself.

But the serpent king merely tossed the cut rope to the servant, and then backed up all by himself.

»If I tell the Captain to let you go, will you follow me?« His golden eyes were still fixed on Izara.

It was a trick question. There was only one correct answer, and Izara didn’t even know whether it was true or not. He would try to escape given the chance.

But was this really a chance?