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LYR

Lyr stands and follows this big man they call Bastard and Damon out of the Grand Hall. He can’t be sure exactly what just happened, but he knows this: they were going to kill him. They were going to kill him and this man saved him.

His new Master. Damon.

When they are out in the stone yard at the front of Blackstone Castle, Lyr looks around. He can’t remember the last time he was outside. He turns to gaze up at it. Huge and built exclusively from the rough black stone that gives the place its name. Some say Blackstone Castle is over a thousand years old. Some say it was built by the Jura-il before men ever came this far north from The Cradle.

Damon grabs Lyr by the arm. “Come on. Now. We go,” he says in clumsy Juran. His grip is strong. His hand is so big it almost encircles Lyr’s upper arm.

His black leather jerkin is sleeveless. Lyr can see the shapes and swell of the muscles in his arms. His shoulders are broad. His face is bluntly handsome. Strong, stubbled jaw. His green eyes are flecked with silver.

“Where are we going?” Lyr asks, speaking Juran. It seems easier than explaining he speaks Artemian. He tries not to sound fearful.

Damon looks at him as if surprised to be asked a question. “My camp,” he says after a pause, in his own stilted Juran. “You will be safe there. Nothing will happen to you. You belong to me.”

Lyr nods. He understands. Damon might have refused to use Lyr in the Great Hall of Blackstone Castle, but surely Damon must want a pleasure slave for bed warming.

And that must be where they are going now. To a tent, a private place where Damon will make use of him. But it is strange, Lyr thinks, that Damon took the time to tell him that he would be safe. Perhaps he simply means safe from death.

They leave the castle yard and emerge through the broken gates onto a street. It's mostly deserted. Lyr looks around wide-eyed at the destruction. Buildings are on fire, doors are broken in. The only people anywhere are the ones lying on the ground. Dead. Or too injured to take shelter.

It’s almost sunset. The air is heavy, still holding on to the heat of the day. Even half-ruined like this, Pellex is a city designed for the heat. There are wide awnings and stone balconies on the buildings still standing. Trees planted to provide shade.

As they walk on, the air grows a little fresher and the scent of salt grows sharp.

They reach the walls where another gate is broken to pieces, hanging open like the mouth of a great monster. Damon leads Lyr through it and onto a dirt road. In the dusty valley below he can see a vast encampment. Rows and rows of green tents. Green flags flying a gold sigil. A twelve-pointed star inside a circle. The Azurian Army.

They walk down the hill to the camp. When they reach it, Damon leads Lyr on, past the neat tents. As he passes soldiers salute him. He ignores them.

Eventually, they reach a tent four times the size of the others around it. Damon pulls the tent flap aside and lets Lyr walk in ahead of him.

Inside the tent is very fine. It is tall enough to stand up in, even for Damon who is a head taller than Lyr. A brazier burns in the centre. The floor is covered in thick rugs. There's a table and chairs and, behind a curtain, Lyr can see a glimpse of a wide bed covered in furs.

But Damon does not order Lyr to the bed. He points to a corner. “There,” he says in his oddly accented Juran. “Sit there. Stay there.”

Lyr looks at the corner. There’s a small rug. Some kind of animal skin. “There?”

Damon nods. “You will stay there tonight. You will be safe.”

“Just here?” Lyr is still puzzled. “What if I try to run away in the night?”

“No. Do not,” Damon pauses, struggling for the words. “This camp is full of men with wild blood. They won’t care if you're man or woman or fine pig. Half naked. Don’t.” His Juran is much worse when he tries to talk in full sentences. But Lyr understands what he is trying to say. Damon is telling Lyr he looks like a whore.

Lyr looks down at himself. He’s so used to being naked he’d barely noticed he was only wearing his torn alit. The white robe of a Juran pleasure slave. It’s filthy now and barely covers his body.

Damon looks at him for a moment, assessing. He turns to a trunk and pulls something out. “Take this. Nights get cold.”

Damon throws a cloak at Lyr. A huge thing of black wool lined with fur. It must be his. It smells nice. Of sweat and smoke.

Lyr wraps himself in it. He supposed he ought to simply ask. He takes a breath and says, “Do you want me to do anything?” he says, adding, “Master.” The word seems to shiver over his tongue. He realises that somewhere deep inside, somewhere dark, he likes it. He likes that this man is his master.

He owns me, Lyr thinks. I’m his. It’s strange how pleasant that thought is. His new Master.

“Do something?” Damon says. “Like what?”

Lyr holds his gaze. “I’m your pleasure slave, Master.”