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The whore looks over at Damon, eyes wide with fear. He is pleading. He knows Damon can stop this.

Damon stands up.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. I’ll take him.” And then he’s said it. “Don’t kill him.” The words are out of his mouth and he can’t take them back. The men whoop and cheer and whistle.

Atticul turns to Damon with an amused expression. “I knew you would, you sly whore’s son,” he says softly.

Damon can’t move as he watches the whore being helped to his feet and brought over to where Damon stands. He tries to look placid, simple and stern, but his gut is churning.

He doesn’t know what’s got into him, really.

What’s one more dead whore?

Why should he care?

The whore kneels at Damon’s feet. “Thank you, Sire,” he says.

Damon looks down into those big eyes and his breath catches. Close up, the whore is even more beautiful. There’s no denying it. Damon can see the sweet lines of his face. His wide eyes are bright blue. His dark hair vivid against his pale gold skin. There is a light shading of stubble over his jaw. His colouring and bone structure do not look Juran. Where is he from? “What’s your name?” Damon says in Juran.

“Lyr,” says the whore, voice quavering. And he smiles a smile that makes Damon’s stomach flutter.

Most of the whore’s body is covered by the torn robe he holds around himself, but Damon can see the scars on his upper arms more clearly. Intricate swirls that must have been placed deliberately, ritualistically.

The swirls vanish under his robe.

Damon would like to see how far those scars go. Do they extend to his shoulders? Further? He’d like to find out. He’d like to strip this whore of that tattered robe. He’d like to see every part of his skin. And more than that. He’d like to see how those rose-petal lips look stretched around his cock. Heat pools low in his belly at the thought.

For a moment, Damon seems to forget where he is.

“As you have chosen your whore from the selection, brother,” Atticul calls, startling Damon out of his thoughts. “Why don’t you take him?”

Damon looks over Lyr’s head at Atticul. “What?”

“We are men of war, celebrating our victory. A General should show his men how that is done. Take him now. Enjoy our victory and cover him. Prove to me you truly want him.”

“I will do no such thing,” Damon says tightly.

“Oh, come now,” Atticul says in a sweet, playful tone. “Why be so reticent? You have already declared your desire to all present. You want him over all the women on offer. Take him now. Enjoy our victory and cover him.”

“I took him simply to prevent more needless bloodshed,” Damon says, “Jur-Mattan is ours.”

Atticul laughs. “Oh, please. Come on, Bastard. Put your cock in his mouth. Or in his shit hole or whatever your sort likes to do. You need not fear the wrath of Zai. We are not on Azurian soil. The things men do in war are no sin.”

Damon looks at his brother. “I will do no such thing,” he growls. “How dare you make such a command of me.”

“Oh, but I do command it,” says Atticul in a low, dangerous tone. “This is a celebration. We will all be taking pleasure to mark our victory. Why should you be any exception? I command that you fuck your new whore. Here. Now. Before all. Every man here knows what you are. Luxorite.”

“No,” says Damon. Ignoring the sea of expectant eyes in the hall.

Atticul stands up from his throne. “Don’t be so churlish,” he says, walking towards him. “Damon Darekul. Brother. Bastard. You will do as I command or I will charge you with oathbreaking. I will sentence you to a flogging and dishonourable discharge. You will lose all your spoils from this campaign, perhaps more.” He reaches Damon and stands before him.

Atticul is half a head shorter than Damon and probably not much more than half his weight. But legally all the power in this room is his. If he ordered it, the men in here, even those who called Damon their General, would be bound to obey.

Atticul’s hand is on the hilt of his sword. “Well? What is it to be? You will entertain us one way or another. Fuck your new whore, something we all know you are desperate to do. Or lose your skin and more besides?”

Damon looks Atticul in the eye and says, “When my sentence of indenture ended two years ago, I made a promise to Emperor Selim. That promise was to serve in the Imperial Army until Pellex fell. Pellex is fallen.” He reaches up to the front of his leather jerkin. Above his breastplate he wears the badge he’s worn almost daily for twenty-two years. The badge he was given when he took his oath at fourteen. The twelve-pointed mark of Zai, gold in a silver circle. Every man in the room wears one the same. He tears it off, the pin ripping through the black leather of his jerkin. Above it sits the curved General’s badge, three connected gold circles. He pulls that away too. He drops both badges on the floor between his boots and Atticul’s. “Pellex is fallen,” he says. “And I am done. I am discharged by the Emperor’s command, a free man and I will be taking my spoils from this campaign home to Azuria at first light.”

He doesn’t look at Atticul. He doesn’t wait for a reply. He turns and walks from the room. Pausing only to say, “You, come with me,” to the whore, still kneeling on the floor.