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Perl looks down at Kerik. He has kicked off the thin blanket and is sprawled there in only the sleeping shirt. Perl lets his gaze slide along Kerik’s body. His bare legs are quite muscular. He is built like a warrior. Almost as big as Damon. A warrior magician. Whoever heard of such a thing?

But perhaps a warrior magician is what is required to defeat Ur-Durik.

Magic requires power to work.

In the faerie realm such power is easily available, crackling in the air. When fae lived all across the lands of Ismagaar, Azuria and beyond the power was there too. But when the Bellator sunk Pia and Prim they destroyed much of the magical power in what became the mortal realm. Now it is only present in a few pockets. In the Amber Forest and on the remaining Islands of Klish. In those places it is possible for mortals to harness it, in some weak forms, if they are adept or if they have fae blood.

But there is an alternative to pulling magic from the air. Magic can be done by pulling power from oneself. It’s an exhausting practice, one Perl only does when he is forced to by circumstance. But if the magician himself were strong, physically, and could use that strength… Perl wonders if that is the key to defeating Ur-Durik. If that is the power Kerik will wield. Magic driven from his own strength.

“I was thinking,” Kerik says, breaking into Perl’s thoughts.

Hearing Kerik speak makes Perl notice how strange it is, to have someone here, simply here with him all the time. Here when he wakes. Talking.

“Thinking? Really?” Perl says. It comes out harsher than he means it.

But Kerik does not notice or does not care. “Vane’s thralls all dress in hip cloths and you did say I would have to wear thrall clothing. I don’t want to show you up in those shabby breeches. What would you have me wear, Master?”

“It would be best if you wore a hip cloth while you are here. I have some.”

“You mean the ones in your dressing chamber?” Kerik says with a smug expression. Clearly he is enjoying revealing that he examined that room too while Perl slept. “I think all of those would be far too small to cover my cock. Although,” Kerik’s smirk grows wider, “I think they would fit you very well.”

“Those hip cloths aren’t mine, they’re for thralls. When I lived here before I took thralls like any other noble fae.”

“Like Seridil? Vane told me he used to be yours.”

This revelation causes a small stab of shame as Perl wonders exactly how much Vane told Kerik last night. It can’t have been all of it. Kerik would never be silent if he knew everything. “I can change the size of the hip cloth to fit your cock if it is of such a size you require it. Go and fetch one. Choose the one you’d most like to wear.”

Kerik says nothing. He climbs from the bed in his sleeping shirt and trips off to the dressing chamber, returning with a fabric scrap in his hand. He shakes it out. It is indeed very small. Perl had always liked that. The most humiliating, revealing hip cloths. So excruciatingly mortifying to be ordered to wear one to serve. Tiny garments that make it clear the wearer’s purpose is the pleasure of another. More degrading somehow than being naked. He finds himself sucking his lower lip to think of it.

But that had been long ago.

“You know,” Kerik says, turning the fabric around as if inspecting it from all angles, “I don’t think this would fit around Seridil’s hips either. It would only fit someone very slender.” He gives Perl a pointed look.

“Then it’s a good job I can do this,” Perl says, casting idly, doubling the fabric’s size.

It’s quite satisfying the way Kerik gasps and marvels at the newly enhanced cloth. “You can just do that,” he says. All his cocky smugness is gone. He is looking at Perl wide-eyed.

“Yes. It’s a simple matter. And it’s easy here as the power in the air is so strong. I barely need to expend any of my own.”

Kerik is clearly fascinated. “Can you show me how to do that? Make a piece of fabric double in size.”

Perl looks at Kerik. Perhaps… “I don’t need to show you. Just do it.”

“Just…?” Kerik looks at Perl. “But I can’t.”

“Can’t you? Change it. Use your will and make it different.”

Kerik looks quite amazed at the suggestion, but he holds up the cloth and shakes it, face tight with concentration. Then he gasps. He feels it. And the cloth in his hands turns from white to black.

“Oh,” Perl exclaims in genuine surprise. “That is very neat. I’m not sure if a thrall can wear a black hip cloth though. It’s quite unusual. The are usually white or gold”

“It’s your colour,” Kerik says, clearly still thrilled by what he’s just done. “It matches your clothing,” he grins. “And my collar.”

Before Perl can say another word, Kerik pulls off his sleeping shirt. Perl does not turn away, although he ought to. Instead he watches Kerik’s muscular, well-shaped body move as he ties on the hip cloth. He allows himself the briefest glance at Kerik’s cock. It’s soft, but it has a sweet weight to it. He feels a distinct heat between his legs at the sight.

Kerik has barely finished adjusting the hip cloth when there is a sharp knock on the door. Perl removes the wards and calls out, “Come in.” He is grateful that they switched places last night and he is already in the correct bed.

A page stands in the doorway, holding a chest of pale wood with silver fittings. She looks at Perl, addressing only him. “Her Grand Majesty, Exeinil-Que-zeren-ai had this prepared,” she says. “To ensure your thrall is correctly dressed for the Silver Ball.”