For three days, Rythe issued no new punishments.
Instead, he watched.
Aurean was given more visible duties—assigned to the center of drills, to serve in halls where other soldiers took their meals, and made to clean Rythe's private chambers under constant observation. The palace staff knew what it was: exposure meant humiliation. But Aurean never showed shame. Never once did his eyes lower in disgrace, nor did his hands tremble under the weight of sneers or whispers.
That irritated Rythe more than if he'd begged.
He doesn't fight, he doesn't yield. He just... endures.
"Perhaps," lareth said after Rythe voiced his frustration during a late-night sparring session, "that's how he fights."
Rythe grunted, disarmed Lareth with a twist of the wrist, and said nothing more.
The next morning, Aurean was summoned before dawn.
He found himself ushered into Rythe's private war chamber, but no scrolls or generals were present—only Rythe himself, seated, a glass of blackroot wine in hand.
"You'll no longer sleep in the outer cells," Rythe said simply. "You are to serve me directly now. Personal slave."
Aurean didn't blink. "Yes, my prince."
"You will wake me. Dress me. Report with my armor. Attend me at court. You'll clean my quarters and take all your meals in the servant alcove of this wing. When I dine, you wait. When I bathe, you stand within reach."
Another pause.
"You breathe when I allow it."
Aurean's posture didn't change. But Rythe saw it—the tightening around his eyes, the momentary flex in his jaw. A flicker of something. Not fear.
Disgust?
Resentment?
Perfect.
"I'm testing your usefulness," Rythe added, tone laced with threat. "Not your comfort."
"Understood."
Rythe stood and stepped closer until Aurean had to tilt his head to meet his gaze.
"You don't kneel."
Aurean looked him straight in the eye.
"You haven't asked me to."
Rythe's hand shot out, gripped his collar, yanked him close.
Aurean didn't flinch.
"Do you want me to break you?" Rythe growled.
Aurean's breath was steady, unwavering. "I think you want me to break myself."
Rythe stared into the boy's eyes, and for one unbearable moment, saw no fear. Just quiet defiance, tightly coiled like a spring inside his own skin.
He released him with a shove.
"Get to work," Rythe spat. "And try not to bleed on my floors."
Aurean bowed slightly—not too low. Just enough to be correct.
Then turned, and began stripping the bed for cleaning.
The first night passed without command, but not without weight.
Aurean stood in the antechamber, silent as the dusk bell rang across the distant towers. The fire in the hearth of Rythe's personal quarters cast long shadows over the walls, gold dancing against stone. The guards had long since withdrawn. Only the echo of armor remained, growing louder as Rythe entered.
His gait was steady, movements precise, though fatigue clung to him like a second skin. Dried blood streaked one forearm—a cut likely ignored during drills. Sweat clung to the hollow of his throat.
Aurean lowered his gaze as Rythe stepped past him without a word.
"Remove it," came the terse order.
Aurean stepped forward. His fingers were sure as he unfastened the clasps at Rythe's shoulders. The prince stood still, arms loose at his sides, silent except for the faint shift of breath. The chestplate was heavy; Aurean lifted it with practiced care and set it on the stand. One by one, he removed the bracers, the gloves, the shoulder guards.
When he reached the inner tunic, stained with effort and earth, he paused. A gash ran across Rythe's ribs—shallow, but red and fresh.
"Your side," Aurean said quietly.
Rythe looked down as if he'd forgotten. "Hm. Fix it."
Aurean moved to the cabinet, retrieved the salve and linen. The air between them thinned as he knelt beside the chair where Rythe had settled, fingers gentle but unhesitating as he cleaned the wound. His touch was practiced—he'd done this countless times before… but never like this.
He could feel Rythe watching him.
"You've done this before," Rythe said, voice low.
Aurean nodded once. "For my brothers. After hunts."
A pause.
"Were you close to them?"
Aurean's hands didn't falter, but the line of his mouth thinned. "They were close to each other."
Silence again. The salve was cold; Rythe didn't flinch. Aurean wrapped the cloth around his ribs and tied it, fingers brushing skin that tensed slightly.
When he finished, he didn't move. He remained kneeling, eyes lowered, waiting for the next command.
Instead, Rythe rose.
"Get up," he said.
Aurean obeyed.
Rythe looked at him for a long moment. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not enter my chambers unless I call. You'll sleep outside this door."
Aurean nodded.
Rythe began to unbutton the top of his undershirt, but paused. "You don't ask questions," he said suddenly.
Aurean met his gaze, quiet as ever. "You don't answer them."
Rythe let out something that might have been a laugh—but it held no warmth.
"Good. We understand each other."
Without another word, Rythe entered the bedchamber and closed the door.
Aurean sat in silence, spine straight against the cold stone wall outside the chamber. His hands still smelled of steel and salve.
He didn't sleep.
Not because he feared what was coming.
But because he wasn't sure what wasn't.
The morning sun bled gold through the high windows, casting fractured light across Rythe's private chamber. He stirred awake to the scent of steam and linen—not the usual harshness of metal and sweat that came from camp, but something calmer, domestic.
It unsettled him.
He rose, instinctively reaching for the dagger tucked beneath his pillow. Old habits. The silk sheets rustled as he sat up, expecting to find himself alone.
But the door opened just then—quietly, precisely—and Aurean stepped inside.
He carried a small basin of water, his movements measured to the point of choreography. Not a splash touched the polished floor. Behind him, the morning garments had already been set out. A towel was draped over one forearm. His eyes remained respectfully low.
"Water for your face, my prince," he said, voice neutral.
Rythe did not speak as Aurean set the basin down. He observed instead.
The way Aurean's hands moved—without hesitation, without waste. How his back remained straight even when kneeling. How his voice held neither venom nor submission, but something… hollow. Empty, like a vessel long drained and now simply following function.
Aurean helped him wash without a word. When Rythe moved to dry his own face, Aurean had already offered the towel. When Rythe turned to dress, Aurean was already holding the tunic at the right angle for his arm to slide through.
It was flawless. It was lifeless.
"You move like a servant," Rythe muttered, breaking the silence.
Aurean straightened. "That is what I am now."
Rythe's jaw tensed.
"No," he said after a moment. "Most servants mutter. They gossip. They steal glimpses when they think I'm not looking."
He stepped closer. Aurean remained still.
"But you—there's no curiosity. No defiance. Not even fear."
Aurean's expression didn't shift. "Would you prefer I perform emotion for your comfort?"
Rythe narrowed his eyes.
"That," he said coldly, "was sarcasm."
"I apologize," Aurean murmured, though there was no apology in his tone.
Rythe stared at him.
It should've pleased him. The precision. The discipline. The perfect subjugation. But something about it felt… wrong. Not because Aurean resisted, but because he didn't.
No emotion. No weakness. Just the ticking clockwork of someone stripped of everything and left to function.
And Rythe didn't know whether he hated that more than open rebellion.
"You'll follow me to council this morning," Rythe said finally.
Aurean bowed his head. "Yes, my prince."
As Rythe turned to leave, he caught his own reflection in the polished silver of a wall plate. For a flicker of a second, he didn't see a victorious prince.
He saw a captor studying a mirror that wouldn't break.
And he hated that it was his reflection that flinched