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The raucous soldiers sound like a pack of dogs. The men in the hall are mostly Atticul’s but there are some of Endrew’s and Damon’s mixed amongst them. Damon knows all his men by sight, but even if he didn’t, he could pick them out here.

It’s no secret that Damon’s battalions are drilled harder than the others. Damon scans the room and notes his men standing straighter and behaving better in the noisy hall.

“These veiled creatures in white, brother,” says Atticul, pointing down at a group of women in fine robes and veils, “are King Ramel’s most favoured pleasure slaves. Shall we share them between us? The most succulent women of Pellex.”

Endrew takes a drink from his flask, “What will we do with them?” He sounds distinctly tipsy.

“These are the king’s women, too good for those dogs of soldiers. We will share them amongst us. I will even be generous. Bastard Damon, you can take one. Choose.”

Damon gives Atticul a sour look. “No, thank you. I don’t want any slave women from this place.”

“So noble,” Atticul says, hiding his anger with a nasty laugh. “Your own mother was an enslaved whore and yet you think you are too good to take one of these as part of your spoils from the fall of Pellex. But I will tempt you, Bastard.” He raises his voice and calls out to the men at the walls. “Shall we have them stripped so we can see what we have?”

Some of the men cheer. Damon lets out a huff of breath at the tedious display. The sight is sickening, but there’s nothing he can do for these women. Atticul outranks him as General Paramount. A title to reflect his status as second in line to the throne of the empire.

If Damon had any doubts about the sort of Emperor Atticul will be one day, this display makes it horribly clear. But here in the hall of Blackstone Castle, General Paramount Atticul’s word is law. Damon would risk his life by challenging him — no matter how personally revolting he finds his half-brother’s behaviour.

So Damon watches as Atticul’s men follow orders and begin to strip the women of their robes. Some of them bark out orders in sloppy Juran, most of them simply shout in Artemian, as if the women will understand them if they bellow. Damon insisted that all his men learn at least some words of Juran in preparation for their conquest of Jur-Mattan. But few of the other battalions know any words at all.

The women don’t resist. Some of them are sobbing, others are defiant, standing tall and not even trying to cover their bodies. A horrible spectacle. Around half the women are naked when one of the men cries, “This one’s a male.”

“It’s what?” says Atticul, standing up to get a better look. “Put him on his feet. Let me see.”

From the centre of the group of whimpering women, a whore stands up. His veil is gone and he’s holding a torn white robe around his body. But he is quite clearly a man. He has dark hair, long to his broad shoulders, and a pleasant face. Bright eyes and a soft mouth. A mouth that promises pleasure. He is slender, not very tall. The build of a male whore. His bare skin looks so delicate and unprotected in this room full of armed men. There are some strange scars on his arms and thighs.

He seems to shake a little as he glances at Damon with bright, white fear in his eyes, before looking at Atticul.

Beneath the fear, Damon thinks he can see something else in the man’s expression. A strange fire, a clear determination. He looks like no man Damon has ever seen before. Unusual. Beautiful.

Damon feels an unmistakable thump low in his body. A sick feeling. A feeling he loathes.

Desire.

Atticul looks the whore up and down. “So, King Ramel had male whores?” he says in Juran. Damon is no expert, but Atticul’s Juran, to his ear, is awkward and mispronounced.

“Just me, Sire,” the whore replies, voice shaky, but loud enough to be heard clearly in the room.

“Just you? And what did he want with you?” Atticul says, still stumbling to find the Juran words. “Did he suck your cock?” Most of the men in the hall might not speak Juran, but they seem to understand these crudities. They laugh at the suggestion.

The whore shakes his head. “No, Sire.” He still looks scared, but he’s answering clearly and as best he can. His eyes stay on Atticul’s. He has a little spark to him, this male whore. Damon has witnessed many heroic acts in his career as a soldier, but this…, this man, shaky and defenceless, standing half-naked in a room full of baying soldiers, with his back straight and his chin lifted, might be the bravest he has ever seen.

“Really,” Atticul drawls back at the man. He switches to Artemian. “Tell you what, Bastard, you said you didn’t want any women, so this one’s yours.”

The men in the hall break out into jeers and more mocking laughter.

Damon bristles, rising anger. He looks at Atticul. He’s smirking. “Fuck you,” he says, his voice a low growl. Another round of cackling and cat calls spread around the hall.

“Fine,” says Atticul, brightly. “Kill the sly whore. If even the bastard won’t take him, he’s useless to anyone else.”

Damon watches as two of Atticul’s men step up. The male whore is pulled from the group of half-naked women and dragged up before the dais. Damon stays where he is.

The whore is forced onto his knees. He’s shaking in the face of death.

He’s going to die right here.

Damon has seen so many men killed. He’s seen Atticul order casual executions like this so often. But this one makes Damon feel dizzy.

One of the men draws his sword.