Outer Court

by cjowofics

Summary:

After an abrupt dismissal from the Rear Palace, Gale finds himself adrift—until an unexpected opportunity leads him to the Outer Court and into the orbit of the enigmatic Astarion. Amid court intrigue, whispered secrets, and dangerous liaisons, Gale begins to carve out a new purpose. For now, he belongs again. But nothing in court lasts forever.

Chapter 1: Serving

“I was under the distinct impression that I would be going back to the rear palace,” Gale said.
He couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. It wasn’t quite anger—more bewilderment tinged with offense, the kind that came when plans changed without so much as asking his opinion. His current outfit was cotton, finely spun and warm against the morning chill. It was worlds above the scratchy hemp maid’s dress he’d worn before, yet it didn’t feel like a promotion.

“You were let go, I’m afraid,” Ulder said, entirely unruffled. “You can’t go traipsing right back in. No, this is where you’ll be working from now on.”

He gestured grandly toward the hallway ahead, and with a practiced air, resumed his tour. The aide was instructing him on the geography of the palace’s outer court—the complex sprawl of offices, archives, storerooms, and administrative halls that made up the governmental heart of the empire. If the rear palace had been a garden of silken secrets and scheming smiles, the outer court was a great machine of grinding gears and quiet, endless labor.

Compared to the whisper-soft corridors and jasmine-scented walkways he was used to, the outer court felt stark and unromantic. Sandstone courtyards instead of moonlit courtyards. Steady-footed clerks instead of soft-stepping eunuchs. The perfume of ink and parchment in place of incense and peach blossom.

“Over to the east from here you’ll find a great many soldiers and military types,” Ulder added, nodding toward a row of stout buildings trimmed in steel blue. “I’d suggest steering clear unless you have business.”

“Noted,” Gale muttered, but his eyes wandered anyway—not to the soldiers, but to the greenery. The landscaping here was far more practical than the curated beauty of the rear palace, but he could still make out familiar silhouettes: bitterroot, skullcap, even a few fragile threads of huánglìhua tucked beneath a window box.

Lots more ingredients back in the rear palace. He’d grown accustomed to stealing snips for her tinctures, convinced that his mother—Morena—must have had a hand in designing those little gardens. It would explain why every patch of decorative greenery had the hidden utility of a healer’s shelf.

As they walked, Ulder droning on about scheduling bureaus and the court calendar, Gale felt an odd prickling sensation creep up the back of his neck. He paused and threw a quick glance behind them.

Several omegas stood near a pillar across the courtyard, arms folded. They weren’t trying to be subtle. They weren’t smiling. They were sizing him up.

Taking stock.

Judging.

Just as alphas had their own coded rivalries, omegas used a different kind of weapon: silence, side-eyes, and smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. The omegas here weren’t cooing servants of noble consorts—they were bureaucratic aides, personal attendants to high ministers, or even clerks themselves. And Gale, with his unknown status and unfamiliar face, was already drawing attention.

Don’t like this one bit.

He stuck out his tongue at them and quickly turned away, jogging to catch up with Ulder before he noticed.

✧

His job, as it turned out, wasn’t particularly different from what he’d done before. He cleaned, fetched, ran errands, delivered documents, and occasionally ran messages between departments. His position was humble but stable. At least it paid. And at least no one had asked him to pour wine into strangers’ cups with his eyes lowered and his makeup perfect.

Still, he couldn’t shake the sting.

He hadn’t been fired because he’d failed the test—but it certainly hadn’t helped. Astarion, it seemed, had had grander designs for him. He was meant to have passed. He’d wanted to give him something better. He just never told him what.

“How could you have failed?!” he’d said, wide-eyed in disbelief.

Why should I have passed? he’d wanted to reply.

He had been raised in the red-light district, yes, but in a house that prized versatility: Gale could read, write, mix a poultice, and hold his own in a polite conversation. He’d been taught to perform, to serve tea gracefully, and to identify over fifty kinds of wine by scent alone. But dry memorization? The endless regulations of court conduct and shifting legal codes? Forget it.

The test hadn’t even been that hard, Ulder had said. Not like the civil service exam proper.

Gale had simply shrugged. Gee, excuse me for not living up to your expectations.

Now he was here, polishing the trim of a vermillion-lacquered window frame outside Astarion’s office. The walls were repainted yearly, and he’d been told to take care not to smudge them.

His cloth caught on the corner of a carved motif, and he sighed. Law and history just didn’t make sense to him. Why memorize the rules when they changed every other month? Why study the Emperors of old when none of them had ever given a damn about his family?

He liked things he could see. Touch. Use.

Leaves that stung. Oils that soothed. Formulas that worked. Not philosophies.

She wiped harder at the window, catching a glimpse of his own faint reflection in the glass—rosy cheeks, tight braid, furrowed brow. The boy in the glass looked tired, a little cross, and not at all like someone meant for court life.

Still, he was here, wasn’t he?

A second chance. Even if it wasn’t the one he wanted.

He had, at least, opened the study materials with every intention of reading them through. Truly, he had. He’d lit a lamp, stretched out the scrolls, and even brewed himself a bitter tea to sharpen his senses. But the next thing he knew, morning sunlight was bleeding in through the paper window. This happened several nights in a row.

So, Gale consoled himself that the outcome had been inevitable. “It’s fate,” he whispered to no one in particular, and nodded sagely to himself as if it were a lesson just learned.

Didn’t expect this place to be so dirty, he thought next.

On the one hand, the sheer size of the outer court meant plenty of tucked-away spots and forgotten corners. On the other hand, he suspected something else at play—slacking, plain and simple. The court omegas who worked here had earned their positions through education and testing, very unlike the maids who were bought, recruited, or born into service in the rear palace. These were proud omegas from merchant families or minor noble lines, polished like river stones in the current of privilege. He imagined many of them considered scrubbing a sill or polishing a latch an offense to their dignity.

To be fair, it’s not their job, Gale admitted. The government had outlawed the ownership of slaves in the former Emperor’s reign, and in their place arose the quiet service class: hired maids and manservants who handled the labor no one else wanted. Gale was now one of those—an assistant, a maidservant, a glorified errand-runner. And he served directly under Astarion himself.

In Gale’s experience, those who worked in the rear palace were often called palace omegas, while the educated, ambitious ones who operated in the bureaucratic wings were court omegas. It was a distinction Astarion himself used, though always in careful tones—as if the words carried invisible weight.

All right, what’s next? he wondered aloud, tucking his cleaning rag into his belt as he approached Astarion’s office.

The room itself was surprisingly austere. It was large, yes, but empty of unnecessary ornamentation. A practical man’s chamber: the scent of ink, lacquer, and faint musk. Once Astarion left his office, it could be hours before he returned, which suited Gale just fine—less interruption, more time to work undisturbed.

That was, until the disturbance came to him.

“Excuse me,” a clipped voice rang out, “but what precisely do you think you’re doing?”

Gale turned to find himself surrounded by a semi-circle of unfamiliar omegas, their brows arched in perfect synchrony. The speaker stood a full head taller than Gale, with a flawless chignon and brows sculpted to scorn. There was a sharp scent to her perfume—expensive, but overwhelming.

The better they eat, the bigger they get, Gale thought reflexively, his eyes flicking across bustlines, embroidered cuffs, and well-fed faces. These weren’t mere clerks. These were omega elites.

And they were glaring at him like he’d just trod mud across the Emperor’s favorite scroll.

“Are you listening?” the tall one repeated, folding her arms. “You seem quite casual about cleaning another person’s office.”

There was no mention of Astarion by name, but the implication was obvious. These omegas were livid that Gale had been placed in personal service to the most desirable alpha in the outer court—handsome, refined, untouchable Astarion. That spot was a coveted fantasy. And he—some scrawny thing with freckles and calloused hands—had gotten it?

If Gale had been foreign and mysterious like Consort Jenevelle, or sultry and bold like Lae’zel, or flirtatious like Dammon, they might’ve begrudgingly understood. But Gale? Gale looked like a work-in-progress someone had forgotten to finish.

Hrm, Gale thought. What to do now?

He knew he wasn’t a fast talker. In fact, most of the time his thoughts outpaced his mouth, leaving him to fumble or remain silent. But now, silence might be worse. It might be taken as arrogance.

So he blurted, “Do I understand correctly that what you’re saying is that you’re jealous of me?”

He regretted it almost immediately.

The slap came with the speed of a whip and the weight of years of cultivated sourness. Gale’s cheek exploded with heat, and the sharp scent of jasmine oil from the woman’s hand lingered even more bitterly than the sting itself.

He staggered a step back, blinking.

It was only then, in the shocked silence that followed, that he began to reflect: Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say.

There were five omegas around him now, hemming him in from every direction. Gale’s back met the cool stone wall, and he glanced behind him—no way out. His heart pounded. He hoped to avoid being torn limb from limb on the spot. His knees were locked, but his voice remained steady.

Talk. You still have your tongue. Talk fast.

“You can’t possibly think I’m getting special treatment somehow?” he began, his voice higher than intended.

The omegas’ faces twisted further, lips curling like cats cornering a rat. But they didn’t strike again, not yet. That was something.

Gale didn’t wait. “That’s absurd, and we all know it. What could a distasteful wretch like myself possibly have to do with a man who may well be one of the heavenly nymphs incarnate?”

He kept his gaze lowered, spine half-curved in the practiced posture of humility—but he didn’t miss the twitch at the corners of their mouths. Good. Keep going.

“Is this noble alpha you so admire—whose beauty rivals legend—truly the sort to have such poor taste?” His voice took on the lilting cadence of a storyteller now. “When fine abalone and boar’s meat are laid before him, who would deliberately gnaw on a discarded chicken bone instead? One would need a very... particular appetite.”

Another twitch. Then two.

“I myself wouldn’t know,” Gale added quickly. “But do you truly believe that someone like him, with his ethereal smile and princely bearing, harbors such proclivities?”

He pressed his hands together in front of his chest like a penitent monk. “Ah, so it must be true, then—his tastes are—”

“Nothing of the sort!” one of the omegas cried, his voice breaking.

“Yes! Ridiculous!” another barked, cheeks flushing.

A ripple of embarrassment ran through them, a discordant burst of sputtered denials and forced laughter. Gale stood still and let the storm roll past, though his heart continued to thump against his ribs like a war drum.

But the danger hadn’t passed.

“Yet none of that changes the fact that you were hired,” came a cooler voice—low, analytical, without the shrillness of the others.

It was the tall one. Gale looked at her more carefully now. While the others had been puffing and posturing, this one had stood still, observing. Her eyes were sharp, her posture relaxed—but not disengaged. A watcher, not a doer. She might not start the fire, but she’d surely measure its heat.

So. This is the one to worry about, Gale thought.

He drew in a steady breath. Time to go all in.

“This,” he said, and raised his left arm. The movement was slow, deliberate. “This is the reason.”

One of the omegas gasped. Gale unwrapped his sleeve to reveal the scarred skin beneath—raw, red, twisted in places like melted candle wax. The burns from his recent experiments had scabbed unevenly, leaving ugly ridges along his forearm.

Disgust rippled through the gathered omegas like a bad smell. One took a full step back. Another paled and covered his mouth.

“Unpleasant, isn’t it?” Gale asked softly, voice barely above a whisper. “But it is the truth of me.”

He began wrapping the bandage again, careful to draw each loop tight, his hands practiced. “The heart of that most beautiful object of your affections is as celestial and pure as his smile. I can attest to it, because even I—scarred, scrawny, detestable—was given food and board by him. Shelter. Dignity.”

His lashes fluttered downward, chin dipping with just the right hint of trembling restraint. His body gave the faintest shudder, a tremble any good omega would recognize—part fear, part shame, part unspoken pain.

“Let’s go,” one of the omegas murmured. The earlier fire in their eyes had dulled. No one wanted to beat a boy with burn scars.

They turned away, muttering among themselves, skirts brushing the corridor’s edge. Even the tall one gave a final glance over his shoulder, and though his expression remained unreadable, he followed the others.

The moment they vanished around the corner, Gale let his shoulders slump. His whole back ached with tension. He cracked his neck—pop, pop—and stretched his fingers with a sigh.

“Well, that’s one way to use my trauma,” he muttered dryly. “Thanks, scarring.”

He bent to retrieve his dusting rag from where he’d dropped it earlier. His hand had just wrapped around the cloth when a movement caught his eye.

A figure stood just ahead, half hidden in the next alcove.

A gorgeous eunuch—head pressed to the wall, shoulders trembling faintly, like he’d been stifling laughter for some time.

“…You,” Gale said flatly.

Astarion lifted his head, cheeks tinged a suspicious pink. “I was not eavesdropping.”

“You were pressed to the wall.”

“I was merely resting against the wall.”

Gale sighed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He gave him a look—one of those impossibly winsome ones, all angled lashes and coy smirk. “Immensely.”

“Might I inquire as to what you’re doing, Master Astarion?” Gale asked coolly, one brow arched.

“Nothing at all,” he replied, with the stiff dignity of someone very much caught in the act. His arms were crossed behind his back now, feet planted with exaggerated care. “And you—are they always after you? Those types?” he added, voice lowering in faux-casual curiosity. “Say, were you holding up your left arm?”

“It’s fine,” Gale replied, brushing off the question as he adjusted the strap of his pail. He knew he hadn’t seen everything from his corner. Good. There was no need for Astarion to dwell on the state of his arm—or the number of other marks he might not know about. He kept his face composed, pointedly ignoring the hint of concern in his voice.

“Frankly, they’re less trouble than the omegas of the rear palace,” he added briskly. “At least these ones don’t smile while they’re plotting how to have you sacked.”

“Incidentally, if I may ask,” he continued, “why are you standing like that?”

Astarion gave a short cough, clearly flustered. “No reason,” he muttered. Behind him, Ulder had adopted the expression of a man who’d just taken a bite of lemon, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Judging by how firmly Astarion had pressed his head against the wall earlier, Gale guessed he’d missed some minor dramatics.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be about my cleaning, sir.” he gave a polite bow and made to leave. With Astarion back again, it wasn’t proper to remain in the office anyway, and besides, he had work to do elsewhere.

As he padded away, pail in hand, he heard him murmur behind him, “Proclivities...”

I don’t think I said anything wrong, he reassured himself. If he’d overheard the tail end of his confrontation, that was his own fault for eavesdropping. He turned his attention to dust, a far less complicated opponent.

✧

Not much around here in winter, is there? Gale sat cross-legged on the floor of his quarters, arms folded, scowling at a nearly empty basket of clippings. He’d stolen a few precious minutes between chores earlier that day to gather herbs along the less-trod paths of the outer court, but winter was stingy. His collection was a paltry mix of dried moss, bark scrapings, and two half-frozen sprigs of something that might’ve once been mint.

With no better options, he cleaned the lot with a damp cloth, padded away as much water as he could with a fraying towel, and hung the fragments from hooks he’d hammered into the beams of his ceiling. He’d been doing this since his reassignment to the outer court, and now his room smelled like a half-finished apothecary—peppery roots, dried stems, the faint pungency of mold. Thin twine stretched overhead in zigzags, suspending clusters of leaves and curled pods that rustled gently whenever the window creaked open.

His quarters were tidy and decently sized for a live-in maid, though still smaller than he would’ve liked. Really, no more generous than the room he’d had at the rear palace, but it was his, and he could make of it what he pleased. That made all the difference. At the Jade Pavilion, he’d had better materials and freer use of the kitchen—especially useful when concocting decoctions that needed heat or slow cooking—but the space had never felt truly private.

Here, he had at least a door that locked.

What to do, what to do? he mused, rubbing his temple.

His eyes settled on the paulownia chest atop the wicker trunk, its lacquered wood glinting faintly in the lamplight. He reached for it reverently and loosened the silk cord, his fingers already tingling in anticipation.

Inside was the herb. Dong chong xia cao—winter worm, summer weed. A grotesquely elegant little thing, it looked like a pale caterpillar grown rigid with age, out of whose body had sprouted a slender, burnt-gold stalk. It was as precious as any gemstone and ten times more exciting. Grown from insect husks and mountain secrets, it was a miracle of nature and medicine alike.

Astarion had brought it with him that day in the pleasure district, nestled in its case beside the pouch of silver. Its presence had knocked all good sense from his mind—he’d signed the contract like a man spellbound.

Now, just seeing it again made a smile creep across his lips. A slow, twitching grin that pulled at his cheeks until they ached. His fingers itched to work with it, to grind it down and steep it, or preserve it in wine, or distill it into essence—or all three, just to compare results.

No, no. Calm down.

He closed the lid quickly, but not fast enough to stop the foolish little laugh that burst out of his throat. His neighbors two rooms over thudded once against the wall in warning. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

Allegedly, people needed to sleep in the middle of the night. Allegedly, not everyone found ancient insect-fungus hybrids quite so thrilling.

Gale slumped back against the wall and covered his face with both hands, still grinning under his palms.

It was the most amazing present anyone had ever given him. They hadn't mentioned that night, and while a kiss was nice, this was better.

Gale pressed his fingers gently into his cheeks, willing the faint smile to soften and relax. The muscles beneath his skin ached slightly from the tension, but he needed to steady himself. After a long day—or more precisely, a long night—a serving omega’s duties began well before dawn, long before the first cock’s crow echoed over the rooftops. His charge might have been missing something vital, some crucial spark of energy or joy, but he was still a noble, still breathtakingly regal. Displeasing him was never an option.

He tugged the thin cotton sheet closer, pulling along several layers of worn outer clothing that doubled as makeshift bedding in the chill of the room. Closing his eyes, he allowed the quiet hush of the early morning to wrap around him like a cloak.

✧

“Is your current room not somewhat small?” came the soft inquiry of a familiar voice over breakfast.

Gale blinked, caught off guard. “I dare say it’s more than generous for a serving omega like me.” His words were measured; he knew better than to reveal the cramped reality of his quarters. (Yes, it damn well is small. If possible, I’d like to request a room with a generous fireplace, located next to a well.)

The question hung in the air, and when he didn’t elaborate, the eunuch regarded him with a knowing look.

“You mean it?” he pressed.

This time, Gale remained silent, the truth lodged tight behind his lips.

The eunuch had just roused from sleep himself, his usual polished façade still absent. His tousled white hair was swept back loosely and tied with a simple leather tie, a casualness that somehow made him all the more magnetic—and more distractingly vivid. The curled locks caught the morning light, glinting almost with a hint of wildness, and Gale found himself involuntarily studying the way the soft strands framed his angular face. It was… problematic.

In the room were only a few allowed—Ulder, standing watchful and stern; Estra, an omega-in-waiting whose age showed in the soft creases at her eyes and the silver strands in her hair; and Gale himself. This select group made sense. An omega witnessing Astarion so unguarded might find themselves overcome, and even an alpha might be tempted to forget the strictest rules of decorum. Gale’s thoughts drifted as he studied him:

He’s like a bug in heat. Some female insects exuded exotic pheromones, intoxicating and impossible to resist, drawing mates in droves. Gale had used this biological fact to his advantage before, capturing such scents to coax out rare specimens for his concoctions.

Viewed through this lens, Astarion’s presence was a potent natural curiosity—an aroma subtle and utterly unique. If Gale could distill that essence into incense or potion, he mused, it would sell for a king’s ransom.

His mind wandered, as it often did when preoccupied with such scientific musings, and he found himself only half-following the breakfast conversation around him, nodding absently while lost in his thoughts.

“If you wish, I shall have a new room prepared for you.” Astarion’s voice cut through his reverie.

Huh?

Looking up, Gale caught Astarion’s pleased expression as he requested more porridge from Estra. The aged omega dished the steaming bowl with practiced efficiency, topping it with a careful splash of black vinegar. Estra’s face was unreadable, her demeanor always the calm eye in any storm.

Though Gale hadn’t followed every word, the message was clear enough: Astarion was offering him a better room, a chance at more comfort and space. Relief and gratitude mingled with surprise in Gale’s chest.

His glance flicked to Ulder, who sat nearby with his head in his hands once more. The familiar aide’s silent plea to Gale to read between the lines was unmistakable, yet he simply cocked a brow.

If they want to tell me something, they’ll have to say it out loud, he thought stubbornly. I’m not a mind reader. He held back the urge to say it aloud, mindful of his own frequent failures to express himself clearly.

“Perhaps a stable near a well, then,” Gale offered hesitantly, the words spilling out before he could second-guess himself. And just like that, his true desire was laid bare.

“A stable,” Astarion echoed, his tone flat but curious.

“Yes, sir. A stable,” he repeated, the hope trembling beneath his words. To him, a stable represented the one place where he might find peace and privacy—the few quiet corners least likely to invite intrusion while he brewed his delicate concoctions. Yet as his eyes flicked to Ulder, he caught the older man shaking his head emphatically, crossing his arms. A brief smirk tugged at Gale’s lips. So the gruff aide has a playful side, he mused.

“No stables,” Astarion declared flatly, a finality in his voice that brooked no argument.

Gale nodded, masking his disappointment behind a calm exterior. Yeah, uh, I guess that makes sense, he thought, though he said only, “Of course, sir.”

✧

After breakfast, Astarion departed for his daily duties, and Gale settled into the routine of cleaning his private quarters—a task that had become his primary responsibility.

“I am so very glad you came, my dear,” Estra said with a warm smile as she bustled about the room. “I start to feel my age when I have to clean this whole place by myself.”

Before Gale’s arrival, Estra had been the sole caretaker of the large residence, but at over fifty, her joints protested the constant labor.

“You’re not the first new omega we’ve had here, I might add,” Estra continued, a knowing twinkle in her eye. “But, well, you know. Things happen, and none of them have ever stayed. I think you’re going to be fine on that point, Gustling.” The nickname, clearly bestowed by Ulder, seemed to carry an affectionate edge.

Estra’s nimble fingers never paused; she polished a set of gleaming silver eating vessels in a flash, then moved on to the bedroom.

Gale started to object—surely cleaning the bedroom was a maid’s duty—but Estra waved her off with a knowing smile. “Well, but then we’d never have time for our afternoon tasks.”

That settled it. Estra had shouldered the entire cleaning burden since some unfortunate incidents involving prior maids and omegas-in-waiting.

Incidents of theft, maybe? Gale thought with a shiver. Likely not just of money, either. He imagined the kinds of personal items that might vanish—or, worse, appear unexpectedly.

Estra’s voice lowered, as if sharing a secret. “Sometimes I find things I don’t recognize in the dresser. Underwear made from human hair, no less, with a name embroidered on it.” She shuddered. “That was very difficult, ma’am. I tell you, I was traumatized!”

Gale felt a chill. This was far from the explanations he’d expected, and it deepened his appreciation for the delicate politics swirling beneath the palace’s glittering surface.

As he resumed polishing the window frame, Gale’s mind drifted to a fleeting thought: perhaps it would be better if that enigmatic eunuch wore a mask whenever he ventured outside. It would certainly save a lot of trouble.

✧

Finishing the private quarters, they sat down to a late meal before turning their attention to Astarion’s office. It was a simpler room—less ornate, easier to clean—but its significance demanded discretion. No wiping or polishing in plain sight when important visitors might arrive.

What should I do today? Gale wondered idly. When Astarion entertained guests, he often found himself with free time. During those moments, he liked to explore the outer court under some pretense of business.

I’ve covered the western side pretty thoroughly by now.

He pictured the sprawling grounds in his mind, a mental map unfolding. The eastern side beckoned, but something held him back. That’s where the military barracks were located. A serving omega poking about the bushes near their camp would not be welcomed—he could easily be mistaken for a spy and thrown in the dungeons. Besides, Ulder had expressly warned him to steer clear of that area.

Besides, he thought, speaking of the military... Involuntarily, every muscle in his face tightened into a scowl, betraying the depth of his unease. It was a clear measure of just how strong a reason he had to avoid that area. Yet, at the same time, the notion nagged at him—an unexplored corner of the grounds could still conceal rare herbs, untapped and waiting. The thought pulled at his curiosity like a stubborn whisper in the back of his mind.

Gale stood with arms crossed, deep in contemplation, his eyes tracing the far-off treetops swaying in the cold wind, when suddenly something struck the back of his head—a sharp tap, light but deliberate.

“The hell?” he muttered, rubbing the sore spot with a frown, turning sharply to face the culprit. There, a tall, refined omega of the outer court regarded him coolly. Gale’s eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. That face—it flickered into place. This was the same omega from the crowd that had accosted him days before. Now, up close, he saw the woman wore only the barest trace of makeup: thickly drawn eyebrows that framed her face like dark arches, and full, pouty lips with just a faint dab of rouge. The overall effect was tidy, but oddly uninspired.

She could do so much better, Gale thought, assessing her with the eye of a seasoned observer. The omega had perfect bone structure—a face that could have easily graced the halls of the rear palace. If only she were to thin those eyebrows, brighten her lips with a generous sweep of light rouge, and sweep her hair up into a lavish, ostentatious bun, she might be mistaken for one of the celebrated flowers of the rear palace. But most people, Gale knew, would see nothing beyond the plain surface. It takes a trained eye—like mine—to see the hidden beauty beneath.

“The likes of you aren’t supposed to go any farther,” the omega said bluntly, her tone heavy with tired resignation. Gale bit back a sharp retort—he wished the woman had chosen to speak before resorting to a knock on the head.

Without waiting for a response, the omega brushed past him, as if to declare that as a certified outer court omega, she had no more time or words for a lowly maid like Gale. Clutched protectively in her arms was a small package wrapped carefully in coarse cloth.

Curious, Gale took a slow breath, catching the faintest trace of sandalwood mingled with a bitter, unfamiliar tang drifting in the air. He cocked his head, eyes narrowing as he watched the omega disappear toward the direction of the military camp.

Maybe she serves one of the soldiers, Gale mused. If so, the modest makeup made sense. The camp might not have the rough dangers of the pleasure district’s back alleys, but it was no place for an omega to flaunt beauty. There were too many young—and fiercely territorial—alphas with blood hot as fire, and an attractive omega would be a target for unwanted attention.

But what truly occupied Gale’s thoughts was the strange scent. What was that bitter note? It lingered in his nostrils, elusive but distinct.

His reverie was broken abruptly by the sharp clang of a bell echoing through the courtyard.

Guess I’ll have to forget about it for today, he sighed, turning briskly on his heel and heading back toward Astarion’s office. He hoped, with a flicker of relief, that his master would be absent when he arrived—offering him a moment’s peace.

Chapter 2: The Pipe

Summary:

Gale help Rolan investigate a storehouse fire, Astarion’s possessiveness intensifies.

The gorgeous noble—that is, Astarion—was far busier than Gale had ever realized. As a eunuch, he’d assumed his duties were confined to the rear palace, but it quickly became clear that much of his work took place in the sprawling outer court as well. The vastness of the estate seemed to mirror the endless pile of tasks weighing on him.

At this moment, Astarion was hunched over a cluttered desk, making a face at some dense paperwork. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line of frustration. He’d already warned Gale they’d be trapped in his office the entire day, so he had resigned himself to working around him as best he could. Collecting scraps of paper in one corner, he noted their fine quality—heavy, creamy parchment that must have cost a small fortune. Unfortunately, it was covered in awful suggestions, poorly thought-out ideas that had been tossed in the trash for good reason.

No matter how worthless the scribbles and scrawled statutes might be, the paper itself couldn’t simply be recycled or reused. The proper course was to burn it, a rule that made Gale’s practical mind itch at the thought of all that wasted material.

Think of the tidy bit of pocket change I could get if I sold this, he mused silently. (Not exactly the noblest thought.) Still, he reminded himself firmly: this was his duty. The palace had its rules. He would burn the scraps, as he had been instructed. A fire pit sat in a shadowed corner of the palace grounds, near the military training yards and a cluster of dusty storehouses.

Ah, the military… Gale grimaced inwardly. He wasn’t eager to wander anywhere near those rough soldiers, but duty called. Just as he was straightening to leave, resigned, he felt something soft settle across his shoulders.

“It’s chilly out. Please, wear this.” Ulder—Astarion’s aide and occasional gentle tormentor—had slipped a plain cotton jacket over his back. He felt the warmth of the fabric seep through the layers of his clothing, and a small comfort bloomed inside his chest. Outside, the ground was dusted with the season’s first snow, and the cold wind rattled dry branches with a restless whisper. Inside, the warmth of braziers made it easy to forget the chill, but they were barely a month into the new year—deep winter still held the land in its grip.

“Thank you very much,” Gale said quietly, genuinely touched. (It was a shame Ulder was a eunuch; he thought they would have made a fine ally otherwise.) As he slid his arms into the sleeves of the unbleached cotton, he caught Astarion’s gaze—intense, unwavering. He was practically glaring at him.

Did I do something wrong? Gale tilted his head in puzzled curiosity, only to realize the glare wasn’t aimed at him at all. Astarion’s sharp eyes were fixed on Ulder, who now flinched visibly.

“This is from Master Astarion, I hasten to add. I’m only the messenger,” Ulder said quickly, waving his hands in a vaguely defensive manner. Somehow, despite the words, his tone was anything but convincing.

Is he being reprimanded for taking too much initiative? Gale wondered, amused. It seemed ridiculous to have to seek permission for something as simple as giving a maid a jacket, but it wasn’t easy being Ulder either.

“Is that so?” Gale said lightly, bowing a little in Astarion’s direction. Then, gathering the basket of paper scraps, he made his way toward the fire pit.

I wish you’d planted some herbs here too, Mum, Gale thought with a sigh. The outer court was many times larger than the rear palace, but boasted far fewer medicinal plants and useful ingredients. So far, he’d found little more than common dandelions and a few tufts of mugwort.

That said, he had stumbled upon some red spider lilies as well. Gale liked eating their bulbs soaked in water, despite the danger—those bulbs were poisonous unless carefully prepared. More than once the old madam had snapped at him for such foolishness, but it was in his nature. Some risks were worth taking.

Guess this is about the best I can hope for, he mused, eyeing the barren winter grounds. The scarcity of plant life made the search difficult. Even with patience, he didn’t expect to find much more until the thaw. The idea crept into his mind—planting some seeds on the sly, nurturing a secret patch where he might find some fresh ingredients come spring.

As Gale walked back from the garbage pit, his eyes caught sight of a familiar figure standing near a row of plaster storehouses some distance from Astarion’s office. It was a young military official, his strong, manly face softened by an unmistakable decency that lent him the easy charm of a big, friendly dog. Ah, yes—Rolan. Gale immediately noticed the sash draped over his shoulder had changed colors since he’d last seen him, a subtle but clear sign that he’d moved up in rank. A quiet pride stirred in his chest at the realization.

Rolan was deep in conversation with a handful of subordinates, their posture attentive as he issued instructions with practiced ease. Gale knew him well enough to recognize his tireless work ethic; whenever he found a rare moment to rest, he was invariably at the Verdant House, sipping tea and chatting with the apprentices. Of course, his true motive was less innocent—to win the favor of Gale’s beloved ‘brother’, Dammon. The price for such an honor was steep, and Rolan’s pursestrings must have loosened considerably to even be considered.

Oh, woe betide any alpha who has once tasted the nectar of heaven, Gale thought wryly. Now they hunted even the faintest, most furtive glimpse of that rare flower growing high on the mountaintop.

Perhaps Rolan sensed Gale’s gaze lingering on him with a mixture of pity and amusement, because he suddenly waved and bounded toward him with a boyish grin, his kerchief trailing like a makeshift tail behind him. “Hoh! How unusual to see you outside the rear palace. Accompanying your mistress on a day out?”

He clearly didn’t know that Gale had been dismissed from the rear palace long ago. Since he’d only recently returned to the pleasure district, their paths had yet to cross there.

“No,” Gale replied coolly. “My tenure in the rear palace has concluded. These days, I find myself in more... personalised company—courtesy of a rather particular patron.” It seemed simpler to gloss over the messy truth of his dismissal and subsequent rehiring with this single sentence.

“Personalised company? Whose? Someone must have very strange tastes,” Rolan said with a playful smirk.

“Yes, strange indeed,” Gale answered with a slight tilt of his head.

Rolan didn’t realize how insolent his remark was, but it was a natural reaction. Few would choose a freckled, spindly omega as their personal attendant, especially one as unassuming as Gale. He himself hadn’t planned on keeping his freckles, but Astarion had insisted he keep them. If his master commanded it, he obeyed, even if he didn’t understand his reasoning.

I just don’t know what he’s after, Gale thought, shaking his head. The mindset of nobles was simply beyond his grasp.

“Say, I hear some important official just bought out a courtesan from your place.”

“So it would appear,” Gale replied with a faint shrug.

I can’t blame him for that one, he thought ruefully. When the contract had been finalized, his excited siblings had fussed over him endlessly—dressing him in the finest clothes they could find, styling his hair elaborately, and piling on layers of makeup until he looked nothing like the plain maid he truly was. He remembered his mother watching him go with a somber, almost helpless expression, like a farmer seeing a calf led away from the barn.

Entering the palace looking like a tarted-up courtesan had been humiliating enough, but Astarion’s presence only drew more attention, and Gale found himself the object of an uncomfortable number of curious and hungry glances. He’d changed as soon as he could, but no doubt many had already seen his transformed appearance.

Yet here was Rolan, speaking of him so casually, completely unaware. Well, what else would you expect from a dumb mutt? Gale mused with a sardonic smile, though beneath it lay a hint of fondness for the earnest, if oblivious, alpha.

“If I may be so bold,” Gale began, his voice laced with amused civility, “you appear rather engrossed. Are you certain you can spare a moment for the likes of me?”

“Oh—ah, heh... well—” Rolan scratched the back of his head, clearly flustered. His posture went stiff, like a schoolboy caught out of class, and a moment later the reason made itself known: one of his subordinates was approaching.

The young alpha—uniform crisp but expression already harried—brightened for a moment at the sight of an omega nearby. A man on military pay rarely had the luxury of flirtation, and omegas were a rarity in the military quarter. But the spark of excitement quickly died when he saw it was only Gale. His expression collapsed into open disappointment, and Gale could practically hear the unspoken thought: Just my luck. He was used to it by now. If nothing else, such reactions neatly illustrated the difference between a true superior and a petty underling.

“There was a fire,” Rolan muttered, turning from the awkward moment and gesturing toward the nearest storehouse. “Not a big one. These things aren’t unusual in winter. Dry air, braziers... you know how it is.”

Still, he was here in person, and that was the part that struck Gale as strange. Rolan didn’t strike him as the type to micromanage. If it had been a routine matter, surely he could have sent someone else. And yet here he was.

Cause unknown, eh? Gale narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. There was a flicker in his chest—excitement, or perhaps an itch. Once he caught a scent, he couldn’t help but follow it. No one needed to beg him not to meddle; it would only make him more determined.

He slipped casually between Rolan and his subordinate, heading toward the singed building.

“Hey! Better keep your distance!” Rolan barked. There was a hard note in his voice, the kind that usually only came out during drills or duels.

“Oh, I understand,” Gale said sweetly, without the faintest intention of obeying. He paused near the foundation, eyes sweeping over the damage. A thick tongue of soot curled up one wall where the plaster had cracked from the heat. From the shape of the scorched area, he could tell the fire had concentrated near the base of the wall—low and fast-burning. It hadn’t reached the roof beams, which was lucky, but the blackened bones of storage shelves spoke to an intense heat. This hadn’t been a slow smoulder. This had roared.

Why’s Rolan handling it personally, then? he thought again. Something about this isn’t routine.

He took a few steps around the corner, noting a few loose shingles scattered nearby, splintered and charred on one edge. His brows drew together. The blast pattern looked more like an explosion than a simple fire. Maybe someone was injured? Or they suspect sabotage…

It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Though the empire was in a time of relative peace, that didn’t mean its enemies were all external. The former emperor’s brutal omega hunts had devastated villages across the countryside. It had only been five years since his death, and in the meantime, the current emperor’s abolition of slavery had shredded the profit margins of countless powerful merchants. Resentment lingered in more places than people liked to admit. Vassal states smiled in court and clenched fists in private. And then there were always the wild cards—rogues, radicals, and those too desperate to care about consequences.

Rolan caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder with enough force to jerk him slightly. “Hey! I told you—stay back.”

“Merely indulging a curious turn of mind.” Gale said airily, and before he could fully process it, he slipped cleanly out of his grip and ducked under a broken window frame into the building. Rolan shouted after him, but he was already inside.

It was a ruin of cinders. The interior smelled of scorched grain, burnt burlap, and something sharper—acrid, like oil or pitch. He stepped over a collapsed sack that oozed black flour, then carefully maneuvered around a pile of charred timber. Potatoes rolled underfoot, all of them shriveled and blackened as if they'd been left too long in the coals of a fire. What a waste…

He crouched low, examining the debris. The fire had scoured the place so thoroughly that very little of use remained. But as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spotted a small object half-buried in ash.

He reached for it—and the moment his fingers brushed it, the thing crumbled into powder. Only the tip remained intact. It was smooth, ivory-colored, and faintly warm to the touch. He turned it between his fingers, brushing away the ash.

This is… a pipe? he thought. The carved stummel was delicate, and though much of it had been destroyed, the remaining design was ornate—floral motifs curling around the bowl, and a faint inlay of gold at the rim. He brought it close to his face, squinting at a faint residue on the inner chamber. It had an acrid, bitter smell. Not just tobacco. Something else. Something medicinal?

His brow furrowed.

Behind him, Rolan’s boots thudded hard against the floorboards. “You’ve got some nerve!”

“Yes,” Gale said, not looking up as he tucked the remaining piece of the pipe into his sleeve. “Among my many charms, that one does shine rather brightly.”

“Listen, you can’t just wander around in here,” Rolan said, voice rising finally—not with fury, but the weary irritation of someone being dragged sideways through a situation he didn’t understand. “This is an active investigation. You can’t just… poke things.”

Gale crossed his arms and squinted into the middle distance. “Did you hear me?” Rolan pressed.

“Yes, I heard you.” he said flatly.

He had, in fact, heard every word. He just wasn’t paying attention. His mind was occupied—not with rules or jurisdiction but with an increasingly compelling puzzle: an explosion, a food storehouse, and a half-incinerated pipe of expensive ivory, still faintly fragrant with something bitter and unfamiliar.

He exited the scorched warehouse as if Rolan hadn’t said anything at all, marching straight across the snow-dusted courtyard to the neighboring storehouse, where he’d seen some of the salvaged goods being brought earlier. Rolan trailed after him, rubbing his temples and sighing through his nose.

“This storehouse,” Gale inquired, gesturing toward the entrance, “does it cater to the same charming miscellany of supplies, or am I venturing into more exclusive territory?”

“Yeah, basically,” the soldier replied, looking uncertain. “Flour, beans, millet. Same types of stuff, anyway. The older stuff’s stacked toward the back.”

Gale stepped inside and smacked a tightly packed sack with the flat of his hand. A puff of fine white powder burst into the air. Wheat flour, just as he’d suspected.

“Perfect,” she murmured.

Then he pointed to a nearby crate, one of the empty ones stacked against the wall. “Can I take this?”

The soldier shrugged. “I guess so?”

“Splendid. I’ll be taking that board as well,” he said, plucking it up with careful consideration. “It has all the makings of a lid.”

Now it was Rolan’s turn to gape. “Wait—what exactly are you doing?”

“As I mentioned before,” Gale said, crouching to inspect the crate with keen interest, “merely a modest experiment.”

Rolan blinked at him like he’d said he was planning to summon a ghost. “...Experiment?”

“Indeed,” he murmured, lifting the board and turning it toward the light. “Now, let’s see—nails, a hammer, perhaps a saw... and should you happen to have any copper wire lying about, I could be persuaded to smile.”

The soldier hesitated. But Rolan, eyes narrowing in cautious interest, waved a hand at him. “Just… humor him,” he said.

The soldier gave him a look that said You’ve lost your mind, but left to retrieve the tools anyway.

As soon as Gale had them, he dropped to his knees beside the crate and got to work, sleeves rolled up, hands steady. She sawed a circular hole into the center of the board, then hammered it down tight over the top of the crate. The result looked crude, but purposeful—like a make-do furnace lid.

Rolan, squatting beside him, tilted his head. “You’re oddly good at that.”

“I didn’t always have such a lucrative position, you know,” Gale said without glancing up. “When resources are scarce, invention becomes a necessity—and, dare I say, an art.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, but his mind flicked briefly to his mother—his odd, warm-hearted, unpolished old alpha, who had once shown him how to build a water clock from a jar and two lengths of bamboo. He’d studied abroad in his youth, and while most of what he’d learned had faded, he could still surprise her with ingenious contraptions made from scraps. He’d always watched his hands. Always remembered.

“There.” He sat back, admiring his work. “Now, just one more thing.”

He opened the top of the crate and poured in a generous scoop of wheat flour. Then he replaced the board and tapped it twice. “All right. Who’s got a fire starter?”

One of Rolan’s subordinates volunteered—curiosity clearly winning out over protocol—and dashed off toward a nearby barracks.

While they were gone, Gale fetched a bucket from a nearby well and filled it. Rolan, thoroughly out of his depth now, sat perched on the crate lid, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands.

“You realize this is entirely insane,” he said, staring at him.

“Yes,” Gale agreed, lifting the bucket. “But so is starting a fire in the palace storehouses.”

Rolan’s brows drew together, and for a moment, his expression sobered. The humor in his eyes faded—replaced by the weight of his rank, of his responsibilities. “You think this was deliberate.”

“I don’t know what I think yet,” Gale said. “But I intend to find out.”

He gave him a sharp little smile. His sleeves were dusted white with flour; a faint smudge ran across his cheek where he’d brushed hair out of his face with a dusty hand. He looked like a ghost of a baker—but his eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to excitement.

And Rolan, who had seen the aftermath of war and the consequences of carelessness, watched him with a growing sense of something he couldn’t quite name.

“Fine,” he said. “Do your experiment.”

Gale tilted his head. “You’re a surprisingly cooperative dog, Rolan.”

“I’m going to ignore that.”

“Thank you very much.” Gale nodded with polite formality as the subordinate handed him the smoldering rope.

The underling grimaced, clearly still unsure why a dust-streaked omega in patched sleeves was being given license to direct an impromptu pyrotechnic experiment—but curiosity won out over disdain. They crouched a few paces away, half-shielded by a stack of barley sacks, their arms folded and eyes squinting through the rising afternoon haze.

Gale stepped forward toward the crate with the rope in hand. Just as he raised it, he realized Rolan was standing directly beside him—shoulders squared, arms braced at his sides as though ready to charge into battle.

He tilted his head toward him. “Master Rolan. This is dangerous. Might I ask you to keep a safe distance?”

“Danger, hah!” Rolan replied with a grin that was half bravado, half actual delight. “If a delicate little omega like you can handle it, surely a seasoned soldier like myself is at no real risk.”

Ah, pride, Gale thought. The curse of alpha-kind. He clearly had no intention of moving, puffed up as he was with the need to show that bravery and brawn were somehow relevant here. Gale sighed through his nose, resigned.

“Very well,” he said coolly. “But there is real risk involved, so please take due caution. Be ready to run away immediately.”

“Run away? From a box of flour?” He barked a short laugh, clearly amused by what he thought was a bluff.

Gale didn’t reply. He simply turned to the crouching subordinate, tugged lightly on the sleeve of their uniform, and advised, “Behind the storehouse would be best.”

The underling, at least, had the good sense to listen. They scrambled for cover just as Gale lifted the burning rope and tossed it into the hole he’d carved in the crate lid. Then, without a second glance, he turned and sprinted, ducking his head and running for cover.

Rolan stood there like an oak tree in full bloom, watching his with a face full of confused amusement.

Then the crate erupted.

There was a roar like a dragon coughing, and a brilliant column of flame shot up from the slatted box, devouring the air and crackling in a hungry arc toward the sky.

“AHHHH!” Rolan screamed, flailing backward. The plume of fire grazed him like a striking whip—his hair lit up with an audible fwoosh. He stumbled away, batting at his head in blind panic. “PUT IT OUUUT!!”

Gale was already moving. With seamless efficiency, he grabbed the bucket he had filled earlier and doused him from head to knee. Water splashed and hissed on the scorched dirt, steam rising in quick spirals. The flames sputtered and died—leaving behind a curl of smoke and the potent smell of wet cloth and charred alpha.

“I told you to run,” he said flatly, brushing a damp strand of hair from his brow as he peered at him.

Rolan stood there, drenched, his tunic clinging to his torso, and his nose streaming from the sudden cold. His scorched hair hung in dark, frizzy tendrils, flattened against his face. He looked like a very large dog that had fallen into a bucket.

A pelt came flying through the air—thrown by his subordinate, who quickly wrapped it around his superior’s shoulders with more speed than sympathy.

Rolan opened his mouth to say something—perhaps a biting retort, or a thanks, or a wheeze—but whatever it was caught in his throat. He closed it again and just… stared.

“Perhaps,” Gale said crisply, turning to the shell-shocked underling, “you would be so kind as to remind the watchman of this storehouse not to smoke tobacco while on duty.”

That was only a guess, of course. But the presence of a scorched pipe, the smell of sweet smoke, and a storehouse thick with airborne flour—it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.

“R-right,” Rolan murmured, now visibly pale beneath his ruddy skin. The wet tunic clung to his arms, and a chill was already starting to settle into his bones. Still, instead of hurrying off to dry himself and light a brazier, he remained planted, eyes still fixed on Gale as if trying to decipher what, exactly, he had just witnessed.

“But what in the world was that?” he asked finally, his voice half-hoarse.

Gale lifted a palmful of flour from the second storehouse and let it sift through his fingers. The wind caught it and swept the white dust into the air like fog. It shimmered briefly in the sunlight before dispersing.

“Here’s your culprit,” he said. “Wheat flour and buckwheat flour—both highly flammable. If enough is suspended in the air and exposed to a flame, they combust. It’s not magic. Just chemistry.”

Rolan blinked. “Flour?”

“Yes.” Gale nodded. “There’s a reason bakers are careful about sparks.”

He looked back at the now-smoldering crate. Understanding was slowly dawning, mingled with just a touch of horror. “So... it wasn’t sabotage?”

“Not this time,” Gale said. “But negligence like that? It might as well be.”

He wiped his hands on his tunic, satisfied. “There are few things in the world that are truly inexplicable. People just fear what they don’t understand.”

Rolan stared at him a moment longer—this skinny, freckled, dust-covered omega with soot on his cheeks and eyes that burned brighter than the fire—and then exhaled a long breath through his nose.

“Pretty impressed you know about that,” Rolan said, still rubbing water out of his eyes, his voice half-admiring, half-stunned.

“Oh, I used to do it quite often.”

“You used to what, exactly?” Rolan asked, exchanging a baffled look with his subordinate.

Gale smirked slightly. Fair enough—they’d likely never spent a single moment trapped in a cramped, unventilated room filled with flour dust, trying to dry herbs over a brazier during a cold snap. “You wouldn’t believe how many things can explode if you don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, crossing his arms. “I learned that the hard way.”

In fact, he had learned the hard way—by being blown clear across the room he’d been borrowing in the attic of the Verdant House. He’d hit the doorframe so hard his teeth had rattled, and the entire third floor had smelled of burnt rice and singed camphor for a week.

He grimaced, recalling the wrath of the old omega who ran the place—who’d threatened to string Gale up by his ankles and hang him from the brothel’s highest window like a windchime. Just thinking about it made him rub his backside instinctively. It had been bruised for days.

“Anyway,” he said, shaking off the memory, “please take care not to catch a cold, sir. But if you do”—he pointed a finger lightly at Rolan, his tone changing into something brisk and practical—“let me recommend the medicine of an alpha named Morena in the pleasure district. Their apothecary’s on Redbrush Lane, just opposite the tavern with the squeaky sign.”

He made sure to add, “It’s quite effective.”

Always promote the family business. His old alpha wasn’t just a miserable saleswoman—she was practically allergic to customers—but she made some of the best damn medicine in the entire pleasure district. If Gale didn’t do the legwork for her, she might go days without making enough to cover the cost of her own dinner. With any luck, Rolan might stop by the next time he wandered over to pine after Dammon, and maybe leave with a cold tonic or a restorative tea.

That had taken longer than he’d meant it to. With a sigh, Gale picked up the basket of scrap paper once more and turned toward the fire pit. It wasn’t far—just down the path behind the storehouses—and he could already see the lazy plume of smoke rising from its stone mouth. He’d drop the waste off, give the attendant a little prod to hustle things along, and then finally be on his way.

As he shifted the basket against his hip, something hard nudged against his collarbone.

Oops, he thought. Looks like I took a souvenir.

He reached into the fold of his robe and pulled out the object he’d almost forgotten—an ivory pipe stummel, soot-streaked and heat-scuffed but unmistakably fine in make. He turned it over in his hand, running a thumb over the carved floral motif still visible beneath the charring.

This isn’t the sort of thing a lowly watchman carries, he thought. The work was too delicate, too costly. The kind of pipe you gave as a retirement gift or an heirloom from a favored patron.

Hmm.

According to what he’d overheard earlier, no one had died in the blast—just a few burns and a broken arm or two. That meant the pipe’s owner was likely still around, maybe recovering in the infirmary. They might not want it back—he thought, —too many bad memories—but if they did, at least it’s still mostly intact. And if not…

Well. Ivory like this would fetch a decent price. More than enough for a handful of dried rosehips or some powdered myrrh.

Still, he hesitated a moment before tucking it back into the top of his robe. He’d clean it up, maybe ask around before he did anything rash. He wasn’t in the habit of keeping things that didn’t belong to him—unless he had a good reason.

With that settled, Gale handed off the basket to the fire pit attendant and dusted off his hands. Ash swirled faintly in the air, clinging to the hem of his robe.

Going to have to work late tonight, he thought, pulling his jacket tighter as a fresh gust of wind cut down the path. The day wasn’t over yet—and his master had a habit of creating messes faster than even she could clean them.

Chapter 3: Teaching

Summary:

Sex Ed class and the introduction of the new Pure Consort

“What in the world is going on in there?”

“No idea.”

The question came from Ulder; the blunt answer, from Astarion. They stood outside a lecture hall in the rear palace, its carved wooden doors firmly shut. Inside, the highest-ranking consorts were gathered for what was officially described as a lesson—meant, apparently, to better equip them to fulfill their duties as imperial concubines.

The corridor outside was thick with confusion. Eunuchs and lesser omegas, all forcibly removed from the room at the start of the session, hovered nearby in clusters. Some murmured speculation in hushed voices. Others had taken to more direct means, pressing their ears to the heavy doors. The more secretive the content, the more irresistible the mystery.

But the greatest source of fascination wasn’t the topic of the lesson. It was the teacher.

“Is it true?” someone whispered. “Is it really that new maid?”

“The one who looks like he crawled straight out of the laundry basin?”

“With all those freckles?”

“I heard he used to be a taster. Or maybe a poisoner.”

“He’s not even beautiful.”

“Shhh!”

The truth—so much stranger than gossip—was that the lecturer inside was none other than a certain young, freckled omega servant. The same one currently assigned to Astarion’s private quarters. His sudden appointment as instructor to the elite of the rear palace had left many stunned. A few were scandalized. Most were simply dying to know why.

The peculiar series of events had begun some ten days prior…

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

In the stillness of early morning, Astarion sat in his sleepwear, legs crossed in his lounge chair, watching Gale clean. The sun had not yet climbed high enough to warm the windows, and frost still clung to the glass in delicate veins.

“If you’re looking for your breakfast, omega Estra is preparing it right now,” Gale said without looking up. He was vigorously polishing the legs of a lacquered table, his sleeves rolled up and his rag moving with ruthless determination.

He worked like a storm. As if the floorboards had insulted his mother. As if he could scour his way to enlightenment.

Astarion watched him for a long moment, silent. Then: “The rear palace has requested the consorts begin a formal education program.”

Gale blinked. “Is that so?” he muttered, voice flat, his attention still on the table leg.

“The Pure Consort’s position has been filled.”

That caught his ear—just barely. He paused, but only to dip the rag into a basin and wring it out. “A new Pure Consort, hmm? Well. I’m sure the other consorts will be thrilled.”

He’d long since learned to feign indifference to court matters. Still, his pulse had quickened slightly. The Pure Consort was the highest position among omega consorts, second only to the Empress herself. The title had been vacant for months. It was usually filled with someone educated, refined, and politically discreet.

Gale, who had never mastered polite laughter, let alone the art of court flattery, had little patience for any of it.

Now Astarion crouched beside him, scroll in hand. “They want a teacher,” he said.

“Of course they do.” Gale didn’t glance at him. “Some poor scholar, I hope?”

“You.”

That stopped him.

He turned to him slowly, lifting his eyes to meet him with the expression of someone who had just found a rat floating in his soup. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Astarion unrolled the scroll with maddening elegance and held it in front of his face. “The request is official.”

Gale took it reluctantly, scanning the lines. The neat characters confirmed his words. He felt his stomach drop.

“No,” he said flatly.

“They’re not asking,” Astarion replied. He gestured toward the seal. “See? Signed by the Director of the Inner Bureau himself. And counter-signed by the Steward of Ritual and Order. That’s not a request—that’s a command.”

“I clean your floors,” he hissed.

“They don’t want a tutor in etiquette,” Astarion said smoothly, “they want someone who knows how to survive.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what this is about? Surviving poison and rivals and social suicide?”

“I believe the official term was practical wisdom.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Practical wisdom. Lovely.”

Despite himself, Gale reread the scroll. The last few lines made his brow twitch.

His name was spelled correctly. That alone filled him with dread. But that endorsement…

“You can’t get out of this just by pretending not to look.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Gale asked, scrubbing at the same spot on the windowsill for the third time, his voice light and unbothered.

“I know you read it just now. I saw you,” Astarion said coolly.

“That was your imagination, I assure you.”

With maddening patience, Astarion unrolled the scroll once more, smoothing it between his elegant fingers. He tapped the parchment with exaggerated delicacy, directly beside the line that spelled doom: ‘Endorsed by the Wise Consort, Lae’zel.’

“There,” he said, gaze sharp. “A direct endorsement.”

Gale stared at the name. His face remained perfectly blank, but inside, a slow horror unfurled. Now he’s done it, he thought bitterly. Of all the consorts, Lae’zel was the least likely to offer up her approval unless she truly meant it—or unless someone had cleverly maneuvered her into it.

Gale put down his rag. “Count me out,” he said simply, and that was that. Or so he hoped.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

But the matter did not rest.

The very next morning, another scroll arrived, this one carried by a junior eunuch who looked all too eager to be part of something important. Gale cracked the seal with foreboding and unrolled the parchment.

‘Endorsed by the Honored Consort, Jenevelle.’

A second signature. Gale could all but hear Jenevelle’s melodic laughter as she imagined the look on Gale’s face. This request, unlike the last, came with a line highlighted in red: An appropriate honorarium shall be provided.

He sighed. Then sighed again, louder.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “if I’m being forced into this carnival, I might as well run the damn show.”

So he sat at Astarion’s desk and penned a short letter—not to Morena, her mother, but to the courtesans who had raised him. If he was going to teach omegas how to survive court life, he needed proper materials: cosmetics, scent sachets, blank diagrams for mapping rivalries, wax figures of certain anatomy. His instructors would understand exactly what he needed.

Several days later, a covered parcel cart trundled up the narrow path to Astarion’s estate. Gale was waiting for it before the wheels stopped moving.

He intercepted Ulder halfway down the stairs. “I’ll take that, thank you.”

“Shall I help you—?”

“No need.”

He all but elbowed him aside and took possession of the packages himself. Astarion, of course, materialized from the shadows like an inquisitive cat.

“Now what might this be?” he asked, eyes glittering.

“Private materials for a private assignment,” Gale replied sweetly, blocking their view with his body. “Master Astarion, I must request you respect my professional boundaries.”

Astarion looked affronted. “Professional boundaries? In my household?”

He only widened his eyes—round, guileless, and unyielding.

Astarion retreated with a grumble. Gale heaved the cart into his quarters and barred the door.

Inside, he peeled open the bundles like precious fruit. Cosmetics in glass pots and tins. Hairpins and face cloths. Miniature fan props. A stack of thin books—most copied by hand—on body language, honeyed speech, and the fine art of pleasure. There was even a copy of The Mirror of Obedience, one of the most prized courtesan manuals in the empire, long out of print and certainly not meant for a palace servant.

Tucked at the bottom was the invoice. Gale scanned it—and sighed. The old madam had absolutely inflated the price. Still, Gale couldn’t resist. With a touch of guilty cunning, he added a zero to the total and handed the invoice to Astarion.

They frowned over it. “This... seems high.”

“It includes shipping.”

But before he could sneak away, Estra materialized from thin air, peering over Astarion’s shoulder.

“Hm,” the old omega murmured, “I think the ink of this number is just a slightly different shade from the rest.”

With maddening good humor, she plucked the bill from Astarion’s hand and passed it back to Gale.

Wily old snake, Gale thought with mingled irritation and respect. Estra was sharper than any knife in the kitchen—and more loyal to Astarion than his own blood would have been. There was no fooling her. Still, Gale was relieved when Astarion didn’t press the issue. They simply paid the lower, “original” price without further comment.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

Finally, the appointed day arrived.

Gale stepped through the towering red gates into the inner court, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. He wore a plain robe of silk—unmarked by wealth, but fine enough not to disgrace him. A small pendant of pressed glass rested at his throat, an old charm given to his by one of her house-siblings. It felt like armor.

The soft scent of sandalwood, magnolia, and rosewater lingered in the air. He inhaled. It wasn’t unpleasant. Oddly enough, it made him feel calm—until he remembered what he was about to do.

The lecture hall loomed ahead. Polished stone steps, lattice windows, golden trim. Two royal guards flanked the door, nodding her through.

Behind him, in the outer hall, stood a crowd of eavesdroppers. Ahead: ten of the most powerful, viperous omegas in the realm.

Well, he thought, smoothing his sleeves. Let’s get this over with, then.

He stepped inside.

The lecture hall that had been prepared for him was, in Gale’s estimation, absurdly large. Easily capable of seating several hundred people, it seemed less suited to a quiet lesson and more like a place for issuing military orders or training opera singers. Once, long ago, it had been sleeping quarters for maids—converted in haste during the reign of the previous emperor, when the rear palace population had swelled far past sustainable limits and rooms had become a luxury rather than a standard. Individual chambers couldn’t be built fast enough to keep up with the influx.

Now, the building stood mostly abandoned, one of several such ghosts scattered across the palace grounds. To tear it down would be wasteful; to use it, politically fraught. And so, here it was—perfectly useless until someone found something inconvenient to do with it. Like this.

I don’t need all this space, Gale thought, his slippered steps echoing too sharply against the lacquered floor. The size of the hall gave her the distinct feeling of being swallowed. And I certainly didn’t ask for an audience.

Yet one had gathered. A significant one.

Middle- and lower-ranked consorts in gauzy robes lounged on the balconies, all but climbing over each other for a better view of the entrance. Their attendants clustered like birds in the courtyard. Servants and maids, driven out of the hall to make room, now peered from between latticed screens or simply rubbernecked from behind the colonnades.

You’d think we were staging a coronation. Gale blew out a slow breath through his nose. He hadn’t even begun and already his pulse was elevated.

The subject of the lesson was not trivial: etiquette, yes—but also pleasure, both your own and your partner's. In this case the Consorts and the Emperor. Such things did bear on the future of the court—perhaps even the nation—but for Gale, it only earned a weary sigh. There were so many other places he’d rather be. Even scrubbing the bathhouse tiles would be preferable.

“All right, listen up,” Astarion said from the steps behind him, projecting like an orator. “Only the high consorts are to receive instruction.”

Rather than disappointment, a ripple of delight passed through the onlookers. That announcement had been what many of them were waiting for—not to gain access, but to catch a glimpse of the famously elegant and perpetually untouchable Astarion. Half the omegas practically melted against the pillars; others stood with hands clasped reverently, as though waiting for benediction. Some seemed close to swooning.

Gale glanced over his shoulder. They look like pilgrims.

It was, frankly, embarrassing.

He gave Astarion a hard look as he trailed him into the hall, uninvited. “What?” they asked, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what.”

Without further ceremony, Gale planted his palms on Astarion’s chest and began pushing him toward the exit. Astarion was taller than him, and wiry beneath his robes, but he had the advantage of momentum and exasperation.

“What are you doing?” he protested, still letting himself be pushed backward with overly dramatic backward steps. “Why can’t I stay?”

“Because what will transpire here is confidential, dignified, and not for your silver-tongued ears. Unless you’ve become a high consort and forgotten to tell me.”

He gave one last, mighty shove, and with a faint “Oof,” Astarion stumbled through the door. Before he could compose another protest, Gale slid the bolt into place.

A moment of silence followed.

Then a scrape of feet outside. He could practically feel the sound of bodies pressing against the door.

Gale smirked and turned back to his small audience.

There were only nine people present now: the four highest-ranking consorts, each attended by a single trusted omega-in-waiting, and Gale himself. A circle of power, barely ten paces wide, inside a room that could have held a hundred times their number.

He wheeled his cart to the center and dipped into a low bow. “My cordial greetings to you, honored omegas,” he said, voice steady. “I, Gale, humbly present myself to you as your instructor.”

He straightened slowly.

Consort Jenevelle, radiant as ever in embroidered crimson, gave him a languid little wave and a knowing smile. Her chief omega-in-waiting, Nocturne, raised one brow. She did not seem particularly enthused by Gale’s presence.

Lae’zel sat with regal stillness, her piercing eyes cool and unreadable. She had regained much of the weight she’d lost during her illness—or rather, her hunger strike—but her austerity remained. Her omega-in-waiting, by contrast, was wearing an expression of poorly concealed disdain. Probably still angry about the freckled street omega who dared speak plainly to a consort, Gale mused.

Arabella sat primly in a gown of palest blue, her back rigid and her fingers knotted in her lap. The quietest of the four, she always looked like she was trying not to offend air. Her omega-in-waiting had the unmistakable air of a wolf in silk—tense, coiled, and utterly devoted to shielding her mistress from even so much as an awkward glance. Gale gave them both a reassuring nod, which neither returned.

And then—Orin.

The Pure Consort.

Gale took her in: her high-tied white hair fastened with a southern bird feather, her gown a vibrant vermilion patterned with curling vines. Her skin had the pale undertone of northern blood, but her dress and bearing spoke of the exotic, the self-styled foreigner. She was young—Gale’s age, maybe even younger—but there was a certain calculation in her smile that made her seem older.

She didn’t look like she needed instruction.

Orin tilted her head, watching Gale the way a snake might watch a bird: with curiosity, but no need to blink.

Her omega-in-waiting stood at her side with hands folded and an unreadable expression. Both of them were dressed to dazzle, though Gale sensed it was more than mere vanity—this was a power play.

Gale bowed again, more slightly this time. “Before we begin, I will ask that all personal sentiments be set aside. For the duration of this lesson, we are not rivals or servants or consorts—we are students and omegas of station. And if I may be so bold, I ask that you trust me.”

He straightened and met their eyes, one by one.

A flicker of amusement from Jenevelle.

A faint nod from Arabella.

Silence from Lae’zel, but no rebuke.

And from Orin—nothing but an inscrutable smile.

Orin was neither as alluring as Jenevelle, nor as dazzling as Lae’zel. She lacked Arabella’s porcelain fragility and demure manner, but was at least of an appropriate age to share the Emperor’s bed—a qualification not to be overlooked in the delicate court politics of the rear palace. Still, for the moment, she seemed more decorative than dangerous. Her bearing didn’t yet threaten the equilibrium that the other three had, with great effort, maintained.

But that costume…

It made her by far the most conspicuous of the four high consorts. Rich crimson fabric trimmed in gold, her skirt stiff with embroidery, every detail deliberate and demanding attention. Gale couldn’t help but stare at her eyes—or rather, where her eyes should be. Her makeup emphasized the outer corners so heavily that the true shape of her gaze was obscured. Khol-black wings lifted toward her temples in bold arcs, interrupted only by flecks of white powder, almost like scales. It gave her an eerie, unreadable look, the kind that made you uncertain whether she was looking at you or through you.

I can’t even picture her face without it, Gale thought. Not that it matters to me.

With formalities complete, Gale moved to his cart and extracted a small stack of thick, bound volumes—his textbooks. One by one, he passed them out to the consorts.

Jenevelle received hers with undisguised curiosity and an almost girlish glee, flipping through the first few pages with a conspiratorial smirk.

Lae’zel took hers silently but with care, as if accepting a ceremonial blade. Her gaze sharpened as she flipped to the index.

Arabella turned scarlet the moment her fingertips brushed the cover. She didn’t open the book. She held it like a tray of live coals.

Orin blinked once, slowly, and accepted hers with a faint tilt of her head. Her expression was blank—but her attendant, seated just behind her, bit the inside of her cheek and glanced down awkwardly.

Gale allowed himself a small, inward smile. As expected.

Next came the tools. Implements in velvet-lined trays, each set carefully arranged. There were brushes of unusual shape and design, metal spoons with rounded tips, a coil of silk rope, and several small flasks of colored liquid.

Half the room looked baffled. A quarter looked intrigued. The final quarter turned a very satisfying shade of pink.

“I wish to stress,” Gale said crisply, “that what I am about to share are the trade secrets of the Garden of Omegas. They are not to be divulged to outsiders under any circumstance. Do I make myself clear?”

There were a few cautious nods. Lae’zel gave a firm one. Arabella looked ready to faint.

“Then,” Gale continued, “please turn to page three.”

Two hours later, the lesson concluded.

Gale pulled the bolt from the door with a small sigh, rolling the tension from his shoulders.

“That went on for a while,” came Astarion’s voice. He sauntered in like someone arriving late to a party he didn’t quite want to miss. His cheek and left ear were a vivid pink, which told Gale everything he needed to know about how he'd passed the time.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Astarion paused just inside the room, his gaze sweeping over the now-disheveled desks, the flushed faces, the scent of perfume and powdered ink hanging in the air like mist. “Is something the matter, sir?” Gale asked innocently.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” he replied, eyes narrowing. “What did you do to them?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Gale murmured, stacking his materials back into the cart.

He had only fulfilled his assignment: to provide the Emperor’s favored consorts with appropriate instruction. What they did with that instruction was their own business.

Jenevelle was all but beaming. “Finally, some new tricks,” she said brightly. Her omega-in-waiting, Nocturne, looked drained—as if she’d just returned from battle. She was glaring daggers at Gale, but too exhausted to hurl them properly.

Lae’zel’s cheeks were warm and flushed, but her focus was laser-sharp. Her finger traced down the final page she’d landed on with the precision of a tactician reviewing troop formations. She nodded to herself.

Her omega-in-waiting, meanwhile, had gone the way of the tomato: face beet red, head bowed so low it was nearly in her lap. She was trembling.

Arabella was in a corner, forehead pressed to the wooden wall. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I couldn’t. It’s impossible…” Her face had lost all color. The omega standing beside her—the one Gale remembered as her former food taster, newly promoted—was patting her mistress’s back in soft, steady circles and murmuring reassurances.

As for Orin—

Orin was absolutely still. Her textbook lay open in front of her, but she hadn’t turned a page in some time. She stared into the distance, expression unreadable beneath her elaborate makeup. Her omega-in-waiting reached for the book gingerly and began folding it into a brocade cloth, as if unsure whether the lesson had ended or merely entered some invisible second phase.

I don’t care what they do with it, Gale thought as he gathered his tray of used implements. He took the cup of cool water someone had left at his table and sipped it, grateful for the moment’s pause. His shoulders were tired. His neck ached. But he had earned his pay, and the thick envelope that would arrive later would make it worthwhile.

Each consort was allowed to keep their instructional materials. Some—Jenevelle and Lae’zel among them—wrapped theirs up protectively. Others touched them like relics, afraid they might detonate. Gale encouraged all of them to use traveling cloths, to keep the materials discreet. He reiterated one final time: no outsiders. Not even attendants.

Astarion watched this procession in mute awe.

“What exactly did you teach them?” he asked, voice low.

Gale didn’t meet his eyes. He looked just past his shoulder, where the last shafts of afternoon sun streamed through the lattice. “Next time you see the Emperor,” he said, “ask what they thought of my lesson.”

And with that, he turned away, not bothering to elaborate.

Chapter 4: Raw Fish

Summary:

Gale torments Astarion and Ulder with his adventurous tastes and the Strategist Ysolde is introduced

Notes:

In the process of moving all of my fic accross from google docs to ellipsus to avoid ai and scraping from there (plus it's just terrible to use once the fic gets over 40000 words anyway) but the format isn't transferring well. This fic is like 50% complete, so as I edit it and send it across, I'll probably just post it. Gives me that extra assurance that it's somewhere at least since I've accidentally deleted an entire 35000 fic this year already and I would have cried if I didn't have it posted here so it at least existed somewhere other than in my head.

“Gustling, may I have a moment?” Ulder asked as Gale was on his way back to his room, hair already unpinned and a little askew from a long day. Their shared master, Astarion, had retired early, slipping off to the baths after dinner like a cat seeking warm stone. A single sigh from him had signaled the end of all conversation.

“What seems to be the matter?” Gale asked, tugging his outer robe closed as if he might still escape into rest. Ulder hesitated—a rare thing for him—and lifted a hand to stroke his chin. He could tell it was a stalling gesture.

He finally let out a long breath. “There’s something I’d like you to look at.”

His brows were furrowed more deeply than usual, the skin of his forehead drawn taut with thought. That alone made Gale stop. Without further explanation, Ulder turned and led him into the small receiving room near the garden corridor.

What he laid out before him was a bound collection of narrow wood strips—aged, slightly warped at the edges. He unrolled them onto the table, revealing the precise ink marks of an old incident log.

Gale leaned in, brushing his knuckles against the edge of the table as he bent to read. “A record of an old incident,” he murmured. His eyes scanned the faded characters. “A merchant... food poisoning... blowfish?”

He swallowed despite himself, and his stomach grumbled—softly, but not softly enough to escape Ulder’s attention. His mind raced not with horror, but hunger. Argh, I wish I could have some blowfish.

Ulder gave him a look, something between disappointment and disbelief. Gale wiped the grin off his face, straightening with a sheepish little sniff.

“Next time we have the opportunity, I’ll take you to eat something of the sort,” Ulder said dryly. “But I draw the line at blowfish liver.”

Gale pouted. “Real gourmands know how to enjoy that unique tingle.”

Ulder arched an eyebrow. “Real gourmands also tend to die young.” But despite the grim topic, his tone was mild—almost fond. He knew what would motivate him: mystery, and the promise of a rare meal.

Properly baited, Gale turned his full attention back to the record. “Why are we looking at this, if I may ask?”

“Long ago, I was involved—just tangentially—with this case. One of my former colleagues brought it to my attention again because something very similar occurred recently.”

Former colleague…? Gale glanced at him sidelong. So the rumors were true—Ulder really had been someone else, once. A soldier? A magistrate? There were stories among the palace staff, but no one could quite agree.

He filed the speculation away for later.

“Very similar?” he said. “How so?”

“A bureaucrat,” Ulder said quietly. “A young official from the Ministry of Rites. Ate a dish of shredded raw blowfish and vegetables. Now she’s comatose.”

Gale’s brows lifted. “Comatose?” His voice lost its usual lilt. That was worse than death, in some ways. It suggested something deeper—some toxin still circulating, still affecting the brain. “That’s... not typical, is it?”

Ulder didn’t answer right away. He only studied him—measured him, really. His fingers stayed tucked neatly in his sleeves, but there was a tautness in his posture that spoke of tension barely kept in check. Gale was used to being assessed, but rarely with this level of scrutiny.

“My apologies, Master Ulder,” he said, softening his voice, “but might I ask for further details?”

Ulder gave a slight nod, slow and deliberate. “Yes, of course. I’m happy to tell you, Gustling. I trust you know where you stand.”

He blinked. That was… loaded. Was it praise? A veiled threat? A reminder? He wasn’t sure. Still, he nodded back. “Understood.”

“Besides,” he added, with a faint glint in his eye, “could I really leave the story off there?”

Gale sighed. “Please, by all means, continue.”

Ulder turned back to the strips. “The victim ate a mixture of blowfish skin and lean meat. The fish was only lightly scalded. No liver, no gall, no ovaries. Only parts typically considered safe.” He tapped a note written in tighter script. “And yet—coma, within an hour.”

“No bitter taste? No warning signs?”

“None that were recorded. No nausea, no twitching. Just... collapse.”

Blowfish poison couldn’t be removed by heating. That much was known. Still, the poison—tetrodotoxin, Gale recalled—was mostly concentrated in the fish’s organs, especially the liver. The flesh itself was typically considered safe if handled by skilled hands. His brow furrowed. Could that much toxin really have built up in the meat? he wondered. In rare cases—depending on the species, the environment in which it was raised, and even its diet—it was possible. Some varieties were more toxic than others. Still, it would have to be a freakishly unlucky combination of factors for properly prepared flesh to send someone into a coma.

He folded his arms, lost in thought. I can’t rule it out... but it’s improbable.

When Gale had eaten blowfish himself, it had always been from reputable establishments, and only the flesh—well, almost always. Occasionally, when he was feeling bold or especially foolish, he’d dared a sliver of liver on his tongue. He’d liked the tingling, the brief brush with death, that sharp thrill of almost. The madam, of course, had been furious, and had made him drink so much water that Gale felt like a soggy vegetable himself.

“To be honest,” he said now, “I’m not hearing anything particularly unusual.”

“Well,” Ulder said, scratching the back of his neck with a rueful grimace, “there’s one detail I haven’t mentioned yet.” His fingers raked through his hair with the sheepish air of a man about to complicate everything. “The chefs involved in preparing the dishes insist they didn’t use blowfish. Not in this case, and not ten years ago either.”

Gale stilled. His expression didn’t change much, but his pulse gave an excited little skip. He ran his tongue lightly along the inside of his cheek, suppressing a smile. Now that’s more like it.

Ulder’s face was drawn into a dark scowl, the lines of it deepening with irritation. He clearly didn’t like the implications of what he was saying. But Gale? He was already thinking five steps ahead.

There were too many parallels between the two incidents to ignore. Both victims had been those of refined (read: reckless) taste. Both had been known to sample dishes other people wouldn’t touch. On the days in question, they’d each eaten a plate of thinly shredded raw fish with vegetables—lightly scalded, not properly cooked. It was the kind of preparation that made a chef wince. A culinary dare.

Sure, the food was delicious when done right. But parasites, bacteria, lingering venom—all these things liked to hide in half-cooked flesh.

“People say they wouldn’t touch raw fish, then sneak bites in the dark,” Gale muttered, tapping a finger against his chin.

Ulder made a noncommittal noise. Gale went on, more to himself than to him.

“Adventurous eaters. The kind who’d ask for the flesh to have just a little toxin left in, just enough to feel it. And then they’d pretend to be surprised when they got sick...” he scoffed. “And people judge them for it. Philistines.”

Ulder gave him a sharp glance, but didn’t comment.

Both chefs had denied wrongdoing. Loudly. Passionately. Repeatedly. In both cases, blowfish skin and innards had been found in the kitchen waste—but they were whole, untouched, uneaten. That was key. The investigators had taken it to mean that none of the poisonous parts had been served.

They actually looked, Gale thought, raising his brows in faint admiration. Most investigations would’ve just pinned blame on the most convenient scapegoat and moved on. The fact that both incidents had warranted an honest inquiry meant something. Someone cared. Or someone powerful was scared.

According to both chefs, the blowfish remains were from the day before the meal in question. It was winter—cold enough that waste might sit for days without rotting or being collected. That was plausible. And traces of other fish—safe ones—were also found in the refuse. The kind you’d expect in a shredded sashimi dish.

So this isn’t just a careless cook or a cover-up, Gale thought, but that doesn’t mean the chefs are innocent.

He frowned. Unfortunately, there were no direct witnesses to the actual meal. The bureaucrat, it turned out, had a habit of eating alone—especially when indulging in food he suspected would earn him a scolding from his wife. Discretion in excess could kill a man, it seemed.

The servant who brought the meal only glimpsed the alpha from a distance, tray in hand, and couldn’t say for sure what fish had been served. The dish had looked… white, shredded, slightly translucent. Like many fish when prepared that way.

What stood out, though, was the timing. The alpha had eaten her meal in full. Finished it. Half an hour passed. Tea was brought in. And by then—

“He was twitching and barely breathing. Lips blue,” Ulder said quietly. “Collapsed in her seat.”

Gale stared at the table. A shiver went through him, despite himself.

“That’s delayed,” he murmured. “Tetrodotoxin usually kicks in sooner, doesn’t it?”

Ulder nodded. “Which means—what?”

Gale tapped his fingers against the wood. “Which means either the dose was very small... or it wasn’t tetrodotoxin at all.”

He lifted his gaze, sharp now. Focused. Hungry.

“Master Ulder,” he said, voice cool, “you brought this to me for a reason. You’ve read these strips. You knew I’d get hooked.”

Ulder let out a quiet breath. “Yes. I did.”

“And you suspect,” Gale said slowly, “that someone knew exactly what they were doing.”

The symptoms were certainly consistent with blowfish poisoning, Gale thought, his brow furrowing as he mulled over the scant information Ulder had provided. Yet, there was something missing—a crucial detail that might turn the puzzle. Something to explain the delay. He sighed inwardly and decided to hold off on further deductions until he could extract more from the eunuch. Muttering softly to himself, “What in the world could have happened?” he barely noticed when an irreproachably handsome visage materialized at his side.

“If you’ll excuse me, perhaps you could refrain from pulling faces at yours truly? It wounds me,” Astarion said, a teasing lilt in his voice. His bright hair was still damp, strands dripping water as Estra hovered behind him, diligently mopping at the curls and exclaiming in mild distress, “Oh, goodness,” as droplets splattered across the floor.

Gale forced his features into a neutral mask, feeling the muscles of his face tense reflexively from the sudden intrusion. Although seeing him dripping wet was now a common occurrence, he certainly enjoyed the view—but he was busy right now. He realized he had been unconsciously betraying his agitation, vibrating with quiet distress over the mysterious poisoning.

“You were certainly hanging on every word Ulder said,” Astarion remarked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes held amusement, though it was mixed with something sharper.

“I was only as engaged as anyone when a speaker has something interesting to say,” Gale replied coolly, hoping to mask his preoccupation.

Astarion’s expression turned mock scandalized. “Now, just a moment. When I talk, you never...” His sentence trailed off, the full thought too irreverent even for him to voice. Gale barely spared him a glance.

“It’s getting late,” he said briskly. “If you won’t be needing me, sir, I’ll be going back.” he nodded politely to Estra, still fussing over Astarion’s damp hair, then turned to leave.

Astarion appeared ready to protest, but Estra cut him off with a sharp, “Don’t move,” her tone clipped and commanding. Gale heard nothing more as he exited, feeling a flush of exasperation with himself. Why was he so helplessly drawn into the matter of another’s death? His thoughts flickered briefly to his mother—what would she think, knowing he was consumed by such grim puzzles?

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The next day, Ulder presented Gale with a cookbook. “These are copies of recipes the chef commonly prepared. The servants testified that most meals served to their master came from this collection. This,” he said, opening the notebook to a worn page, “is the recipe the chef claims to have followed.”

Gale studied the page carefully. The instructions described raw fish, lightly scalded and shredded, served with minced vegetables and a vinegar dressing. Notes scribbled in the margins suggested minor modifications to the vinegar used, perhaps adapting for season or ingredient availability. Specific types of fish or vegetables weren’t detailed.

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “This doesn’t answer the crucial question of what fish was actually used.”

“Unfortunately, that is true,” Ulder admitted with a grim nod.

Nearby, Astarion watched with curiosity, though the amusement in his eyes was absent. He sat with a handful of longan fruit, cracking open the small, round shells and popping the dry, dark seeds from inside. The fruit’s sweet flesh was long gone, a summer delicacy preserved through drying, prized in traditional remedies.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” Astarion asked, leaning forward restlessly, resting his elbows on the table as he fixed Gale with a pointed gaze. His eagerness to join the discussion was evident, even if he lacked the patience for its seriousness.

Ulder frowned but wisely refrained from reprimanding him.

Someone ought to give him a piece of their mind, Gale thought coolly, eyeing Astarion’s casual, almost uncouth posture as he leaned on the table’s edge.

Just then, a hand plucked the longan from Astarion’s grasp. “Boys who can’t comport themselves like gentlemen will go without snacks,” Estra said with a chuckle from her position just behind him.

Despite the lightness of her laughter, Gale felt an unmistakable charge in the air. She caught a flicker of something beneath Estra’s calm exterior—a latent intensity, a readiness that suggested she was far more than the unassuming omega-in-waiting she appeared to be.

Would it be strange to say she carries the aura of a seasoned warrior? Gale wondered, a new respect—and a flicker of caution—growing quietly within her.

“Yes, yes.” Astarion’s eyebrows drooped in mock resignation as he lifted his elbows from the table and straightened with a practiced, almost exaggerated air of propriety. He smoothed his hair back with one hand, clearly suppressing a smirk.

“Very good.” Estra gave a curt nod, deftly placing the longan fruit back into his hand. Gale had long assumed Estra to be a kindly, doting old omega, but it seemed there was a steel core beneath her softness—a stickler for manners and discipline when the moment called for it.

But they were drifting from the topic. Gale cleared his throat gently. It was time to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“This incident happened recently, yes?” Gale asked, his voice low and focused.

“About a week ago,” Ulder confirmed, his tone grave. “During the cold season. Normally, this dish uses cucumber, but at this time of year, they would have had to substitute something else.”

Gale considered the season and the ingredients available. “May I guess it was prepared with daikon and carrots?” he suggested. “Winter vegetables. Each has its own season—a window when it’s at its best.”

Ulder gave a faint nod, then shook his head slightly. “Ahem... the chef said they used seaweed.”

Gale’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Seaweed?” he echoed, brows raised.

“Yes, seaweed,” Ulder replied firmly. “Seaweed is common in traditional medicine, and yes, it would fit with this particular dish.”

But Gale’s lips twitched, the corners lifting into a sly smile. A gourmand of such reputation would not settle for any ordinary seaweed. No, they would seek out something rarer. Something special. His eyes sparkled with a secret amusement as he shared the silent joke only he seemed to understand.

Astarion and the others stared at him, mouths agape.

Still grinning, Gale turned to Ulder. “Perhaps I could inspect the kitchen of the house in question. If that’s possible?”

He wasn’t certain the officials would agree, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

Ulder moved swiftly, and by the very next day, Gale was granted everything he needed to access the kitchen where the mystery had begun. He was told permission had been easy to obtain—the official inquest having already concluded.

The estate was located in the northwest quadrant of the capital, a district dominated by high-ranking officials and filled with sprawling, ornate mansions. The streets were wide and lined with well-tended trees, the air tinged faintly with the scent of polished wood and freshly turned earth.

When they arrived, the victim’s wife was said to be asleep, overwhelmed by the strain of recent events. A silent, impeccably dressed manservant greeted them at the door and ushered them inside. They were told the lady of the house had already given her consent.

Gale studied the manservant as they passed through the grand halls, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets. He was formal but distant, the kind who clearly thought his position beneath notice. Gale made a mental note of his neat attire and careful manners.

When they reached the kitchen, another official accompanied Gale—a young alpha from the military. Her frame was lean, lacking the bulk of a battle-hardened veteran, but her movements were brisk, efficient. Her sharp eyes flicked toward Gale frequently, a mixture of curiosity and doubt evident in her gaze.

He barely had time to assess her before a sudden commotion broke out. A stout alpha burst into the corridor ahead, his face flushed with anger and disbelief.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he barked, seizing the manservant by the collar with surprising strength. “You can’t just wander around this house! Get out of here! Who let this riffraff in?!”

The manservant struggled, wide-eyed, but made no reply. Gale’s heart quickened. This was no mere kitchen squabble. Something about the alpha’s tone—sharp, accusatory—spoke of power and suspicion, and possibly trouble just beginning.

Gale fixed the angry alpha with a sharp, unwavering glare. The tension hung thick in the air, but before it could escalate further, the young military alpha accompanying him stepped forward with quiet authority.

“The mistress of the household gave us her blessing,” the young official said firmly, voice calm but carrying unmistakable weight. “And this is official business.”

Gale silently applauded the steady tone, impressed by how the young alpha managed to hold the situation without raising her voice or backing down.

The overheated alpha’s grip on the manservant’s collar slackened slightly. Through a hacking cough, the manservant croaked out his confirmation.

“Now, may we proceed? Or is there some reason we shouldn’t?” the official pressed, eyes locked on the alpha.

The alpha gave a dismissive grunt, the disdain clear as he spat on the ground. “Pfah! What do I care?”

Later, the manservant explained apologetically that the overbearing alpha was the younger brother of the comatose official, currently overseeing the estate in his incapacitated sibling’s stead. It was he who had accosted them.

So that was the source of the alpha’s ire, Gale thought, but he recognized it would be improper to pry further into family matters and left it at that. Instead, he turned his attention to the kitchen itself.

As he’d feared, the chef had already scrubbed down most of the utensils and surfaces; everything was spotless, betraying no hint of recent cooking. Aside from the fish—disposed of to prevent spoilage—most other ingredients remained untouched.

He began a careful examination of the room. Near the back wall, on a rough wooden shelf, something caught his eye. Sitting plainly in a small, unassuming pot was a familiar sight. Gale’s lips curved into a triumphant grin.

“What is this?” he asked the manservant, holding up the pot.

He squinted at it, brow furrowed, clearly unsure. Gale took a pinch of its contents and dropped it into a nearby jug of water, watching closely.

Recognition dawned on the manservant’s face. “Oh! This is that thing the master liked,” he said quickly. “She ate it all the time—it couldn’t possibly be poisoned.” His voice was earnest and sincere, and Gale judged him truthful. The mistress of the house evidently trusted him implicitly.

“You heard the man,” the younger brother snapped from behind, his gaze fixed on the jar. “Hurry up and go home.”

“Yes, of course,” Gale said smoothly, returning the jar to its place on the shelf. But as he did, he slipped a small handful of the salted contents into his sleeve, concealing it deftly.

“Our apologies for disturbing you.”

As he left the kitchen, he could feel the younger brother’s eyes boring into his back, sharp and suspicious.

On the carriage ride back, the young military alpha broke the silence. “Why did you just run away like that? You hardly even objected,” they asked, surprise coloring their tone.

Gale smiled wryly. “Oh, I hardly think I ran away.” From his sleeve, he produced the bit of salted seaweed and laid it carefully in a handkerchief. The fabric quickly soaked up the salty residue, and he was glad not to shake it out in the carriage—Astarion might object to the mess.

“This is strange,” he continued thoughtfully. “It’s a little too early in the year to harvest this particular kind of seaweed. But I don’t think a salt-cured piece from last year would have lasted this long.” No, this ingredient was clearly out of season.

“That leads me to think it wasn’t harvested around here,” Gale mused. “Maybe it was obtained from the south somewhere, through trade, perhaps. You wouldn’t happen to know where such a thing might come from, would you?”

The young alpha’s eyes widened in realization. They clearly understood what he was asking.

That left Gale’s own task ahead.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The next day, at his request, Ulder arranged a kitchen for his use. It was housed within one of the bureaucratic offices in the outer court and included modest accommodations for overnight stays. Gale had prepared everything the night before; now, he set about his work.

Well, “cooking” was perhaps an overstatement. He was simply steeping the seaweed in water to wash the salt away—a straightforward process, but necessary. Given the sensitive nature of the case, he had chosen not to use the kitchen in Astarion’s building, hence requesting a separate space.

Two plates rested before him, each bearing a portion of the soaked seaweed, now a rich, deep green.

Gathered with him were Ulder, the official who had initially consulted him about the poisoning case, the young soldier from the previous day, and—somewhat unexpectedly—Astarion himself. Gale suspected Estra would soon be giving him a sharp rebuke for his meddlesome presence.

“I discovered you were right,” the young soldier said, folding her arms as she addressed the group. “The seaweed was imported from the south. I tried asking the manservant we met about it. He says that indeed, that seaweed was never eaten in winter. I inquired with the other servants as well, but the answers were all about the same.”

The stranger in the room—the alpha who had consulted Ulder about the poisoning—shook his head with a skeptical frown. “I already spoke to the cook about it. They say it’s the same kind of seaweed they always use. They swear it can’t be poisonous.”

Gale nodded thoughtfully. “In fact, it is the same kind of seaweed,” he agreed. “But there is a difference.” he plucked one of the dark green, glossy pieces from his plate with a pair of lacquered chopsticks, holding it up for everyone to see. “Tell me, do people in the south normally eat this kind of seaweed? Or could it be that a gourmand-official imported dried samples from the plant’s native land, thinking there might be money to be made?”

Astarion, who until now had been quietly observing, spoke up in a voice sharper than usual. “And what would be the problem if they had?” Today, he carried none of his usual loose, playful tone. Perhaps the presence of so many officials kept him restrained. Ulder maintained his serene composure, but the two others shifted uneasily in their seats, clearly unsettled by the radiant, imposing eunuch’s presence.

Gale twiddled the chopsticks between his fingers, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “There are ways to make a poison not poisonous.”

He glanced at the two plates before him. “Eels, for example, are normally poisonous. But if you drain the blood and heat them sufficiently, they become edible.” His fingers returned to the seaweed, lifting a piece that had been steeped overnight in a quicklime solution. The other piece, he noted, had not undergone this treatment.

Holding the quicklime-soaked seaweed delicately between his chopsticks, he took a sizable bite—an act that elicited gasps and worried murmurs from the assembled alphas. They leaned in, eyes wide, some beginning to fuss over him as if he might collapse at any moment.

“I’ll be fine… I think,” Gale said, trying to sound confident. The truth was, he knew the theory but had no guarantee a single night’s soaking was enough to neutralize any toxins. This was a crucial, risky test.

“You think?” Astarion demanded sharply.

“Oh, calm down. I have an emetic right here.” he lifted the small pouch of herbal medicine hanging from his neck, hoping to reassure the group.

“Aren’t we a little overconfident?!” Astarion snapped, half outraged. Within moments, Ulder had wrapped Gale in a firm bear hug from behind while his master forced the bitter medicine down Gale’s throat.

And so Gale’s demonstration ended with him vomiting—much to the discomfort of four important alphas. Lovely. What a way to impress upon them the seriousness of the case, especially as a young omega who had yet to be married.

Worse still, the emetic’s foul flavor clung stubbornly, making it a terrible chaser for the seaweed’s taste.

And here I was trying to prove the seaweed was safe, Gale thought grimly. He wiped at the corners of his mouth, composing himself. “Here’s the question as I see it: who suggested the idea to the tradesman to import this salted seaweed?” The merchant had traveled to a foreign land where the plant wasn’t traditionally consumed, simply to obtain it. Presumably, they must have been aware of the potential danger.

“The alpha who fell into a coma from it could be said to have reaped what they sowed.”

But what if something else was at play? What if the risk of poison had been carefully considered—or even deliberately used?

Here I go, speculating again, he chided himself silently.

There had been a similar case ten years before. Could it have given someone a hint—inspiration? Gale had no way of knowing if the two incidents were connected. But as for the current case, he trusted his intuition. Everyone here in the room was intelligent, and he doubted he needed to say anything more. Gale was a person of such minor consequence; he had no desire to ponder anyone’s particular guilt.

“I see.” Ulder nodded slowly, evidently grasping the implications behind his words.

Gale exhaled, relief washing over him. Then he reached for the seaweed on the other plate and took a bite.

And thus, for the second time that day, Gale was reduced to retching in front of Astarion and the others—his face pale, but his resolve unbroken.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The culprit turned out to be the younger brother of the comatose bureaucrat. Once they discovered where he’d purchased the seaweed, he could hardly confess fast enough. Gale had been right to be suspicious of the way he’d been watching him so intently in the kitchen—they might as well have told them outright there was something he didn’t want them to see in there.

His story was a familiar one: with the elder alpha alive and well, the younger had been forgotten, overlooked, sidelined. Gale and the others exchanged almost disappointed glances, as if expecting some grander, darker scheme rather than a prosaic family grievance. But then, the true weight of the situation settled in: a simmering resentment had driven the younger brother to contemplate murder over such a slight.

However, a troubling question lingered. How had he learned about the poisonous seaweed in the first place? He claimed that a fellow patron at his favorite bar had mentioned it casually in conversation. Neither Gale nor anyone else could tell if this was mere chance or the hint of something deeper lurking beneath.

Gale was cleaning up, muttering under his breath about never getting to eat the toxic seaweed himself. But it was no use crying over spilled milk—or regurgitated seaweed—so he resolved to shift his thoughts elsewhere.

Ahh, I wonder what I’ll do with my precious new ingredient, the bizarre image of that herb sprouting from a writhing bug danced teasingly in his mind. Just as the thought threatened to consume his entire focus, he shook his head firmly. He was on the job. But he couldn’t suppress a grin at the thought of that disgusting dried insect with a grayish mushroom sprouting from its back. Maybe he’d make medicinal wine from it, or grind it into pills. The possibilities thrilled him.

His unexpected joy caused him, to his chagrin, to greet the master of the room with a giant, beaming smile. The moment he registered Astarion—and saw the shocked, almost horrified look he was giving him—Gale dropped his eyes to the floor.

I’ll bet that wasn’t very appealing.

Slowly, uncomfortably, he dared a glance upward and caught Astarion rhythmically beating his head against a pillar. The repeated clacking noise echoed like a woodpecker’s tap. The sound summoned Ulder and Estra running to his side.

Ulder fixed Gale with a sharp glare. It wasn’t my fault! he wanted to protest silently. Your master is wrong in the head. Despite his pouting, he managed only a cool “Welcome back.” At least he could keep up appearances.

Lately, Astarion had been putting in especially long days at work. He claimed it was because there was so much needing his attention. If that was the case, perhaps he should have been working the other day rather than standing around gawking at Gale’s reckless experiment.

His assessment of the person he’d recently had to entertain was less than flattering. “You could say we don’t get along. Or at the very least, that there’s a stark difference of opinion.” He sighed as he accepted a glass of fruit wine from Estra. Everyone in the room was well-practiced at tolerating Astarion’s whims, so it barely registered—but if some unsuspecting omega had seen him like this, they might have fainted on the spot. Truly a most troublesome eunuch.

So there was someone out there who could successfully hold an opinion opposed to Astarion’s. That alone was impressive.

“There are some people even I can’t deal with easily,” Astarion added.

The person in question was a high-ranking military official—an alpha known for sharp intellect but unorthodox, infuriating character. She was the kind who nitpicked endlessly, brought visitors unannounced to people’s offices, barged in without invitation, challenged officials to games of Shogi, distracted them with trivial banter, and otherwise prevented paperwork from getting stamped for as long as possible.

On this occasion, Astarion had been her target. For a full two hours each day, the alpha demanded his attention, forcing Astarion to accommodate, which meant working late to make up the lost time.

Gale’s face twisted in disbelief. “What old hermit wastes her time like that?”

“Old hermit? She’s only just past forty,” Astarion replied dryly. “The worst part is, she gets her work done before she comes to bother me.”

A forty-something, eccentric, highly ranked military officer? Those traits struck a chord with Gale, but he suspected dredging up the details would bring no good. He wisely decided to let it drop—even if that didn’t ease the unease that settled in his chest.

“I believe the matter you were concerned with has already been approved,” Astarion said smoothly, flashing his nymph-like smile at the uninvited visitor. It took effort not to scowl.

“Hell, sure it has,” the woman replied, “but flower viewing’s just so hard in the winter. Thought this would be the next best thing.”

Astarion was confronted by a middle-aged alpha with a monocle—if ever there was a loiterer. Though clad in a military uniform, her frame was more that of a civil official, and her fox-like, squinting eyes shimmered with a mix of cunning intelligence and barely contained madness.

The woman’s name was Ysolde, a military commander. In another era, she might have been considered a sleeping dragon—a great military mind waiting to be unearthed. But in this day and age, she was just another eccentric oddball. Though she came from a distinguished family, she was still unmarried past forty and had adopted a neice to oversee her household.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

Ysolde was interested in three things: Go, Shogi, and gossip. They had an uncanny ability to engage anyone—willing or not—in one of these pursuits. Their enthusiasm was relentless, even exhausting, but it was strangely infectious. The reason for their recent fixation on Astarion was simple enough: Astarion had recently taken on a young omega as a maid, a maid with a tenuous connection to the Verdant House.

The situation, in its bare facts, was nothing unusual. Yet to society’s ever-watchful eye, it looked decidedly problematic. Taking an omega from a brothel—even if only nominally as a servant—could be spun into scandalous rumors. This rumor-loving official, with her endless ear to the ground, had seized upon the story of Astarion’s youthful new acquaintance, and before long, the entire military was convinced that the eunuch had purchased him out of prostitution. And, in a way, it was hard to say they were entirely wrong.

Astarion, for his part, let the old fool’s jabbering—where do they get all these stories?—go in one ear and out the other, as he stamped away at the endless stack of papers Ulder had brought him.

That was until Ysolde suddenly said something unexpected. “I used to have a friend at the Verdant House myself, you know. Someone I was very close to.” Astarion blinked—Ysolde had never shown the slightest interest in anything carnal before.

“A courtesan? What was she like?” Astarion asked, curiosity creeping into his voice despite himself.

Ysolde grinned broadly, pouring a bit of the fruit wine she’d brought into a glass. Reclining on the couch with a casualness that suggested she was in her own quarters, she seemed to slip into another time. “Oh, he was a fine omega. Excellent at Go and Shogi. In Shogi, I could hold my own, but in Go—oh, I was always losing.”

To be bested by a courtesan at a game of strategy—especially by a military commander—was no mean feat, Astarion reflected.

“I thought about buying out his contract. Figured I’d never meet an omega so interesting again. But life doesn’t always hand you what you want, boyo. A couple of wealthy parties showed up and started a bidding war. Drove the price through the roof.”

“Goodness,” Astarion murmured.

Buying out a courtesan’s contract could cost as much as building a small palace. So the bidding war had placed the omega far beyond Ysolde’s reach.

But why share this with Astarion now?

“He was an odd duck, that omega. Sold his arts but never his body. Hell, he didn’t seem to think of his customers as customers. When you had tea with him, he never acted like he was serving some master or highborn. No, no. Instead, he’d look at you imperiously, like royalty granting an audience to the basest peasant. And some alphas loved that. Mad for him. I mean, listen to me—it takes one to know ’em, eh? Ah, the very thought sends a shiver down my spine!”

Astarion grew visibly uncomfortable, trying to avert his gaze. Ulder remained quietly in the background, mouth drawn tight, biting his lip—a rare show of tension.

There were many in the world who shared Ysolde’s twisted fascinations.

Ysolde seemed unaware of the discomfort she sowed. “Ah, what I wouldn’t have given to take him to bed!” Her leering grin carried a dangerous glint. “In the end, though, I couldn’t let him go. I resorted to an underhanded scheme. If he was too expensive, all I had to do was make him cheaper, mm?” she gave a knowing wink. “Shave off the premium, as it were.”

Behind her monocle, her fox-like eye sparkled with a mixture of madness and cunning. “Aren’t you curious what I did?”

Despite himself, Astarion found himself drawn in by the tale. This was the essence of Ysolde’s fearsome nature. “We’ve come this far. It would be a waste not to hear the end.” His tone sharpened, becoming almost icy. Ysolde smirked knowingly.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, boyo. I have a little favor to ask first.” she stretched languidly, fingers lacing together.

“And what might that be?” Astarion asked, wary but intrigued.

“The serving omega you got in recently—I hear he’s quite an interesting specimen.”

Astarion was on the verge of a weary sigh—Not this again—when Ysolde’s next words caught him unexpectedly.

“They say he’s got a knack for solving mysteries.” The subtle emphasis didn’t escape Astarion’s notice; he flinched ever so slightly, though he kept his expression neutral.

Ysolde leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in her fox-like eye. “I have a friend—a metalworker—used to produce pieces for the palace. Good hands, skilled beyond most. But they kicked the bucket some time ago. Tragic, really. Now, the odd thing is, that craftsman had three pupils but never named a successor.”

“Oh?” Astarion said with measured politeness, surprised by the uncommon nature of this connection.

Ysolde shook her head slowly, as if still haunted by the thought. “It’s a cruel thing, a master who doesn’t pass on their secrets before they go. I keep thinking there must be some clue, a hint left behind somewhere, to make sure his art didn’t vanish with him. But I’ve found nothing.”

“What exactly are you implying?” Astarion’s tone sharpened slightly, suspicion creeping in.

Ysolde removed her monocle, cleaning the glass with a slow, deliberate motion. “Oh, it’s nothing concrete. Just a notion. Thought maybe a particularly clever young omega—like yours—could look into it. Maybe find something the rest of us missed.”

Astarion said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Our late friend left a will. Oh, very portentous, full of cryptic references. Makes you think there’s more buried in that document than meets the eye.”

Still, Astarion remained silent, closing his eyes briefly as if weighing the gravity of what he’d just heard. When he spoke, his voice was low and cautious. “I’m not making any promises. But tell me about the will.”

Chapter 5: Lead

Summary:

Gale investigates a peculiar will with Wyll

Around evening, Astarion approached him with an extraordinary story. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he began, a phrase so uncharacteristic it immediately piqued Gale’s interest. Normally, Astarion seemed indifferent to how much inconvenience he caused him, so this unusual preface suggested something genuinely important.

At issue was a dispute involving an acquaintance of an acquaintance—something that skirted the edges of a family quarrel. A craftsman had died without passing on his most treasured secrets to his disciples, who were also his sons. Among those secrets was a technique never divulged to outsiders.

“So all we have to do is figure out this metalworker’s most secret art. Yes?” Gale asked, his tone lightly teasing.

“Gee, when you put it that way, it sounds so simple!” Astarion replied with a smirk. “I must say, though, you seem uncommonly eager.”

“Do I?” Gale asked, averting his eyes and trying not to reveal how intrigued he was.

What Astarion had told him was this: the metalworker had three disciples, all his blood sons, each a respectable craftsman in his own right. The father had held a prestigious commission from the palace, and with his passing, talk had begun about one of the sons succeeding him. The will was peculiar: the eldest son inherited a modest workshop; the second, a finely decorated piece of furniture crafted by their father; and the youngest received a goldfish bowl.

The will also contained a cryptic final line: Would that you boys would sit down and share tea together like you used to.

“What a very intriguing final testament,” Gale mused. He had no idea if it was meant literally or if some hidden meaning lay beneath the surface.

“It is,” Astarion agreed, “and evidently just as opaque to the young alphas as it is to us.”

Gale nodded thoughtfully. “I must say, the division of the inheritance doesn’t seem very fair.” The family’s main house, still occupied by their mother, wasn’t part of the will. But to see one son with a workshop, another with furniture, and the last with a goldfish bowl—it hardly seemed balanced.

“Do you know anything about this goldfish bowl?” Gale asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Astarion said. “But if you’re curious, I have their address.” He had clearly anticipated this next step.

“Then perhaps if I could be spared for a while tomorrow?” Gale glanced discreetly at Estra, who waved a carefree hand, though Gale suspected his workload would only increase.

The craftsmen’s house was located beyond the far end of the capital’s main thoroughfare, nestled in a bustling district of shops. The yard was dominated by a great chestnut tree, its sprawling branches offering a stately presence.

Astarion and Ulder were absent; instead, a young alpha Gale had seen a few times lately—Wyll.

Doesn’t seem to think much of me, Gale reflected as Wyll barely spoke more than necessary, his tone dripping with a quiet disdain. But Gale didn’t mind; it wasn’t their job to be friends.

“I’ve spoken to the family, and they’re willing to accommodate us,” Wyll said curtly. “Outwardly, I’m the one asking the questions. You’re my attendant.”

“Very well.” Gale accepted the role with a small smile—it suited him just fine.

When they knocked, the door opened to reveal a grim-faced alpha, perhaps in his early twenties.

“I heard you were coming,” he said, his tone guarded but polite as he ushered them inside.

The house inside reflected the exterior’s neatness and order: tidy rooms, careful flower arrangements here and there, subtle signs of care. Gale’s eye was drawn to an unusual object set into a recess on one wall—a chunk of rock adorned with metal that shimmered faintly with a bluish hue.

“Oh, that thing,” the young man said, noticing his interest. “Father bought it when he was gathering materials. He always had a soft spot for... strange things.” For a fleeting moment, a hint of warmth crossed his otherwise sullen features.

They left the main house and walked down a covered path to a small workshop. There, two more men awaited them—one tall and lean, the other somewhat rounder, both wearing expressions of moroseness that bordered on hostility.

“Here they are, dear elder brothers,” their youngest sibling said with a hint of irony in his voice.

His brothers offered no smiles, but at least they remained polite. After a brief, muttered exchange, they led Gale and Wyll into the workshop.

The interior of the workshop was surprisingly pleasant, the tools neatly arranged and gleaming faintly in the muted light. Shelves lined the walls, each item in its proper place—a testament to the craftsman’s discipline and pride. The alphas explained that this room was no longer the primary workshop; the real forge and anvil lay back at the main house. This space now served mostly as a quiet retreat, a place where the brothers sometimes gathered to share tea and reminisce.

“What an odd arrangement,” Wyll muttered, his eyes scanning the room with thinly veiled suspicion. Gale silently agreed.

Smack in the middle of the space stood a chest of drawers, oddly placed as if it had been left there without much thought to practicality. But a closer look revealed its exquisite craftsmanship. The overall shape was unlike anything Gale had encountered before—sleek curves and subtle asymmetry lending it a modern elegance that seemed ahead of its time. The intricate carvings traced delicate patterns across the polished wood, and tasteful metal accents adorned the corners, gently catching what little light filtered through the window. Rather than feeling out of place, the chest somehow anchored the room’s atmosphere, commanding attention.

The topmost row of drawers boasted keyholes, as did the central drawer in the middle row, each accented with a different metal—silver, brass, and iron—hinting at a complexity Gale found fascinating.

As he studied the piece, the plump brother approached quietly. His voice was low but firm. “You’re welcome to look, but keep your hands off.”

Gale dipped his head in acknowledgment, stepping back to respect the unspoken rule. The dead craftsman’s will had left a piece of furniture to the second-oldest son. This must be it, he thought. The man before him was presumably that son.

His supposition was soon bolstered when the youngest brother came forward, cradling something clear and round in his hands.

“Do you really think you can make heads or tails of these odds and ends our father left us?” the tall eldest brother asked Wyll, his tone tinged with skepticism.

Wyll glanced toward Gale, who gave a subtle nod and jerked his head toward the three brothers, signaling that he was ready to observe and learn. The brothers exchanged a brief, uncertain look before Gale replied, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to say until I’ve heard a little more.”

Wyll settled into a chair while Gale stood behind him, using the moment to take in the room once more. The architecture was unusual: the window was unnaturally tall, its style clearly influenced by western designs to flood the space with light. But outside, the massive chestnut tree’s dense canopy swallowed most of the sun’s rays, casting a deep, dappled shadow over the workshop. Gale’s eyes caught the faded paint on a nearby wall shelf, its dullness interrupted by a perfectly square patch of untouched color—a silent testament to something long removed only recently.

While Gale examined the surroundings, the lanky eldest brother entertained Wyll with a weary voice. “We’ve told you everything we know. Our father left this world without revealing his deepest secret. Then he left me with this workshop.”

“And me with these drawers,” the second son said, slapping the chest with frustration.

“And me,” the youngest son added, holding up the clear, round object. It was glass—thin and delicate, flat on the bottom. Gale hadn’t expected the goldfish bowl to be glass; she’d imagined something sturdier, perhaps wood or ceramic. Yet here it was, each brother’s inheritance tangible and distinct.

Even so, an unmistakable disparity hung in the air. The first two sons’ bequests felt like real assets, tools for trade and survival. The youngest’s seemed fragile and almost symbolic. Gale’s gaze lingered on the youngest brother’s hands—calloused and worn, yet marked with a series of angry, red welts, raw and just beginning to heal. Burns, perhaps? The image planted a seed of unease.

The second son sighed heavily, running a hand along the carved wood. “Don’t know what Father was thinking. He left me this entire chest…”

He paused and glanced down at the floor. “…but there’s only one key, and it doesn’t fit any of the locks.”

Gale followed his eyes to several sturdy metal fastenings anchoring the chest firmly to the floor. The key he held seemed intended for the centermost drawer, yet he insisted it wouldn’t turn.

“The other three drawers open with the same key,” the second son continued irritably, “but it’s a key we don’t have.”

“Look at this,” he added, gesturing toward the metal braces. “I can’t take this thing anywhere. So what am I supposed to do with it, stuck here in my brother’s workshop?”

The eldest brother gave a sharp nod in agreement. Only the youngest seemed uncertain.

“But Father said to have tea like we used to, didn’t he?”

The other two stared at him as if they’d had this conversation dozens of times before.

“Easy for you to say. You’re the lucky one. Your bequest’s like money in your pocket.”

“Yeah,” the eldest said with a sneer, “pawn that thing off, and you’ll be living fancy for a good long time.”

The older brothers’ tone was dismissive, as if chasing off a mangy dog. Gale considered the dynamics carefully, then nudged Wyll with a gentle tap.

“If I may,” Wyll began, frowning but dutiful, “could you tell me again about your father’s last message to you?”

“Just like the kid said,” one of the older brothers muttered.

“Yeah. Have a tea party, just like we used to. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

It sounded like a thinly veiled plea for reconciliation. Fatherly advice, perhaps, but Gale suspected that digging deeper wouldn’t yield straightforward answers. He was just beginning to think how to proceed when the brothers’ mother appeared silently, carrying a tray.

She placed cups of steaming tea on the long table in the center of the room without a word. Three cups were arranged neatly on one side; two more sat opposite, leaving the space in front of the chest of drawers conspicuously open. Presumably, those two were for Gale and Wyll.

The brothers did not seat themselves randomly. Each took a precise place as if by habit, positions clearly settled long ago.

Hm, Gale thought, eyeing the sunlight streaming in through the tall window. It stretched across the room but stopped short of the chest. The seat directly in front of it remained empty, and given the time of day, the bright sunlight would make sitting there for tea uncomfortable. The faintest glow caressed the chest’s surface just beyond that spot, yet the wood showed no signs of fading, suggesting the sun never fully reached it.

Signs of fading? Gale rose from his seat and moved toward the tall window. With the large chestnut tree standing sentinel outside, he knew the sunlight would only filter into the room briefly each day. He peered out, then turned to look at the chest of drawers bathed faintly in that wan light.

His gaze lingered on the position of the lock—no, not the usual keyholes on the three upper drawers, but the lone lock set squarely in the middle row, centered on just one drawer. Something about it niggled at his thoughts.

Curiosity pulling him forward, he approached the chest, drawing sharp, skeptical looks from the three brothers. Wyll pressed a hand to his forehead and cast his eyes downward, a gesture so familiar Gale started in surprise. It was as though he were seeing a reflection of Ulder in him.

Wyll sighed, turning his gaze to him with no effort to hide his displeasure. “You’ve found a clue?”

“That locked drawer won’t open, right?”

“It used to,” said the second son, voice tinged with frustration, “but Father fiddled with it until it wouldn’t anymore.”

“And you have only one key?”

“This is it,” the man said, holding up a worn key. “Our father had a habit of speaking in riddles. He warned us—‘If you break the lock, whatever’s inside will break too.’ So, smashing it isn’t an option.”

Gale crouched to examine the keyhole closely, a faint impression forming in his mind that something was tightly packed within the drawer’s depths. He traced his fingers lightly along the polished wood, thinking about the whole puzzle: the three bequests, the locked drawer, the chest anchored to the floor, and—

She glanced over at the youngest brother cradling the glass bowl. “Excuse me, but did that bowl used to rest on that shelf there?” he asked, nodding toward the faded square on the wall.

“Yes,” he answered, stepping over and gently placing a folded handkerchief beneath the bowl. “We kept a goldfish there. But the winters were too cold, so it only sat there around noon, when the sun was warmest. We haven’t had a fish in years. The bowl’s just decoration now.” A wistful sadness softened his features.

Gale studied the scene carefully, then stepped out of the workshop for a moment.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Wyll called after him.

“Just fetching some water,” he replied, returning quickly with a small pitcher. He poured clear water into the bowl. “I assume it held water like this before?”

“Yes, and the pattern always faced us,” the youngest confirmed.

Gale watched intently as the light filtered through the window, passing through the bowl and focusing sharply on one precise point: the lock on the chest’s center drawer. The sunbeam shimmered and danced like a beam from a lens.

“Is this the usual time you have tea here?” he asked, eyes never leaving the lock.

“Wh-What are you doing?” the second son barked, stepping forward protectively.

“Stand back!” Gale snapped sharply. His voice carried unexpected authority, and the large alpha stepped back, shrinking under his glare.

“If the light hits your eyes wrong, you could be blinded,” he warned. “I need this space clear, or the lock won’t open.” he kept his gaze trained on the shimmering lock and the moving light.

No one watched the time. The sunbeam edged gradually, inch by inch, wrapping around the metal. Finally, the light faded away, swallowed once more by the chestnut’s heavy branches.

Gale reached out and touched the lock. The metal felt warm—unusually so—and he detected a faint, strange scent, almost metallic, almost faintly sweet.

“What is this?” one of the brothers demanded.

“Did the old man suffer anemia? Stomach pains?” Gale asked quietly.

“Yes... yes, he did,” they answered, exchanging uneasy looks.

“And vomiting? Lethargy?”

Their silence confirmed Gale’s suspicions.

Then he recalled the strange bluish metal object on the wall. “Did your father do soldering here as well?”

“Yes! He did.”

“Good. Now, please try to open the drawer with that key.”

The second son grumbled, “I told you, it doesn’t fit.” But he slid the key into the keyhole regardless.

It slid in smoothly, as if it belonged there all along. He turned it—and a soft click echoed through the room.

“What happened?” the eldest gasped as they all leaned closer.

“Nothing magical,” Gale said with a small smile. “You just followed your father’s last wish. The three of you had tea, just like before.”

He carefully pulled the drawer free and placed it on the table. Inside was a mold shaped like a key, still faintly glowing and warm to the touch.

Gale tapped it lightly with a finger, testing its hardness. “May I remove this?”

“Y-Yes, please,” the second son answered, eyes wide with wonder.

With their permission, Gale lifted the mold from the drawer, feeling the lingering heat fade from his palm. He tried the key in the locks on the other drawers—it fit perfectly. One by one, he opened them, revealing their contents to the astonished onlookers.

“What’s all this stuff?” one brother whispered, astonishment plain in his voice.

The first two drawers, varying in size, held a curious assortment of metals and something that gleamed like crystal. The largest drawer contained a bluish gem nearly identical to the one that had adorned the entryway of the house—a subtle but unmistakable signature of the old craftsman’s work.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Gale admitted softly, shaking his head as he carefully placed the three irregular lumps on the table. Their surfaces caught the dim light, each one smooth but oddly shaped, as if deliberately crafted to defy easy identification. “I’ve only done as we were told.”

The eldest son slammed a fist on the table, breaking the silence. “Dammit! ‘Be friendly to each other,’ he says! Like hell! Father just couldn’t resist one last prank on us.”

“He must have been laughing all the way to his grave,” the second brother agreed with a bitter chuckle.

The youngest, however, remained silent. His eyes flicked back and forth between the three lumps and the empty drawers. Gale’s gaze dropped to his hands once more—those unusual half-healed burns marked his fingers in stark contrast to his brothers’ unblemished ones.

Apprentice see, apprentice do, he mused quietly. The phrase echoed in his mind, spoken once by a visitor to his mother—someone with the unmistakable air of a master craftsman. Gale recalled his own painful lesson: mimicking his mother’s herb mixing without understanding, which had resulted in his own accidental poisoning. From then on, his mother had insisted he ask her before experimenting.

He suspected this youngest son was the only one who truly grasped what their father had been after. Soldering was no simple craft; it required blending metals to melt at a temperature far lower than any individual component. Gale knew of one such combination—lead and tin. Strange knowledge, but he’d witnessed a metalworker poison herself doing just that. And then there was the infamous lead-based face-whitening powder once favored in the rear palace—his mother’s warnings echoed again.

What if two of these lumps were lead and tin, and combined with the third, they could create an entirely new metal? The goldfish bowl had indeed focused the sunlight, but only briefly. The metal’s melting point was clearly very low. And the drawers themselves, varied in size and seemingly chosen with intention, hinted at a hidden order.

There was little need to voice the theory aloud, but Gale felt compelled to add one thing. He stepped toward the youngest brother, meeting his wary, curious gaze.

“At an establishment called the Verdant House, in the pleasure district, there’s an apothecary named Morena. A healer of substantial skill. If you ever find yourself unwell, I urge you to visit her.”

The young alpha blinked, caught off guard by the unsolicited advice. “Uh—y-yes, thank you,” he stammered politely.

Gale inclined his head in a slow, respectful bow. The youngest brother nodded in return, and after a quiet farewell, he retreated. The other two brothers, absorbed in their endless bickering, paid Gale no mind as he slipped away.

As he rejoined Wyll, Gale caught the expression on his face: as displeased as ever, if not more so. Perhaps he had crossed some invisible line. Without protest, he fell into step behind him.

Whatever unfolded next was no longer his concern. Whether the youngest brother chose generosity or guarded the secret jealously was a matter for their family alone. For now, Gale had done what he could—and the rest must follow its own course.

Chapter 6: Make-up

Summary:

Time for a m̶a̶k̶e̶-o̶v̶e̶r̶ make-under

Gale was preparing for the evening meal when Astarion said, quite without preamble, “Do you know much about makeup?”

The question landed so abruptly that Gale nearly spilled the ladle of congee he was stirring. What in the world is he asking about that for? he thought, making no attempt to disguise his bewilderment. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, studying Astarion as though he were some curious specimen pinned under glass—his expression not unlike one he might wear while inspecting a caterpillar on an unfamiliar leaf.

Astarion had only just returned from work, the faint chill of the evening air still clinging to his clothes. Estra was behind him, deftly undoing the fastenings of his jacket. And this was what he wanted to ask?

It was true that Gale’s childhood in the pleasure district had exposed him to the art of cosmetics—how to blend pigments until they melted seamlessly into the skin, how a trace of powder or a well-placed shadow could shift the way the eye perceived a face. He’d even concocted his own from time to time, crafting salves and creams as easily as he brewed medicine. The knowledge was second nature to him.

“Do you wish to give some to someone as a gift?” he asked, half-guessing the intention.

“You misunderstand,” Astarion replied, his voice smooth as silk. “It’s for me.”

That struck Gale dumb. His eyes went flat and black, vacant as ink pooling on parchment. He no longer looked like a man studying a small, harmless insect—more like one staring into an inexplicable, faintly dangerous void.

“What are you imagining?” Astarion snapped, an edge of irritation curling his words.

Well, what else would Gale be imagining? Astarion, in makeup—Astarion had brought it up, after all.

He doesn’t need any damn makeup! Gale thought with sudden vehemence. The man already possessed the kind of beauty reserved for immortal beings in old tales, the sort of face poets used as excuses to ruin themselves. A mere flick of crimson along his lashes, the barest touch of rouge at the mouth, a painted flower at his brow—and the Outer Court would collapse in chaos. Kingdoms had gone to war for less. History was littered with senseless bloodshed, some of it caused by nothing more than a beautiful omega standing too close to a throne.

And Astarion… he could transcend gender entirely, if he chose.

“Do you want to destroy this country?” Gale asked flatly.

“What in the world gave you that idea?!” Astarion’s voice rose, equal parts incredulity and amusement. He shrugged on his outer jacket and sank into a chair, legs crossing elegantly.

Gale set a bowl before him, steam curling up from congee rich with salty abalone. He took the obligatory taste, both to check the seasoning and to ensure no one had laced it with poison—delicious, on both counts. He knew that once Astarion was finished, Estra would split the leftovers with him, and so he silently urged the vampire to eat before the dish cooled.

“How do you make that stuff you use?” Astarion asked suddenly, nodding toward Gale’s nose.

Ah… my freckles. Realization struck in an odd, sideways fashion. Perhaps Astarion didn’t want to enhance his beauty, but rather dull it. “I dissolve dry clay in oil, sir,” Gale explained. “If I want the product darker, I mix in charcoal or a touch of red pigment.”

“Hmm. And could you do that on short notice?”

Without hesitation, Gale reached into the folds of his robe and produced a small clamshell. Inside, the clay was packed tight and smooth. “This is all I have on me at the moment, but give me a night and I can make more.”

Astarion took the clamshell, dabbing a bit on the back of his hand with one pale finger. Gale frowned—it was a shade too dark against skin like porcelain. He would need to thin the mixture if it were to look natural.

“Will you yourself be using it, sir?” Gale asked.

Astarion’s reply was only a low chuckle, one that gave nothing away but suggested he should take it as a yes.

“If you know of any medicine that can change a man’s face, I would love to hear about it,” Astarion said lightly.

He was joking—probably—but Gale answered all the same. “Such things exist, but you would never be able to change back.” A pause, deliberate, before he added, “Lacquer, for instance, would do the job in a hurry.”

“I suppose so,” Astarion said with a strained smile. He wouldn’t want that—and neither would anyone else around here. Gale could easily picture himself torn to pieces and fed to the beasts if he dared to do such a thing.

“There are certain techniques, sir, which might achieve the same effect,” he said at last.

“If you please, then.” Astarion smiled as though this was precisely the answer he had been waiting for, and finally turned his attention to the bowl of congee before him. He began to eat, clearly enjoying himself, pausing only to savor a particularly tender morsel of chicken. Gale watched in dismay as the portions dwindled with alarming speed; it soon became apparent there would be no leftovers worth claiming. By the time Estra whisked the tray away, only a single bite remained.

“I want you to make me someone else entirely,” Astarion said casually, as though commenting on the weather.

I wonder what he’s planning, Gale thought, but he valued his life far too highly to ask. Curiosity had little reward in matters like this. Best to keep his head down and follow instructions. “Very well,” he said simply, and returned to watching Astarion eat, silently urging him to hurry. That congee looked too good to be left cooling on the table.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The next day, Gale set out a neat cloth holding all the tools he would require: a fresh batch of his clay-based makeup, thinned to a natural shade, along with a selection of powders, small brushes, and a few other items that might be useful in altering a face. He arrived earlier than usual to find the lamps already lit in Astarion’s personal rooms. The master of the place had finished his bath and now reclined lazily on a couch while Estra gently dried his hair with a fine linen towel.

Only a noble could take such luxuries for granted. Even in a simpler outfit than his usual attire, Astarion radiated refinement. The tilt of his hand, the line of his shoulders, the careless elegance with which he stretched—all of it betrayed an upbringing steeped in privilege.

“Good morning,” Gale said, though his tone suggested he didn’t think it was particularly good.

“Morning,” Astarion replied, entirely at ease. He seemed almost cheerful enough to start humming. “Something the matter? It’s early for such stormy looks.”

“Not at all, sir. I was merely contemplating the fact that you’ll spend yet another day being perfectly beautiful.”

“What’s this? Some new way to snipe at me?”

Perhaps it sounded like a barb, but it was only the plain truth. The light caught in Astarion’s damp hair, each silvery strand gleaming like fine silk thread. Gale found himself idly wondering whether it could be woven into an exquisite textile.

“Don’t feel like doing your job today?” Astarion asked.

“I do, sir. But are you quite certain you wish to become someone else entirely?”

“Yes. I said so last night.”

“Then, if you’ll pardon me…” Gale stepped closer, seized the sleeves of Astarion’s outfit, and pressed the fabric to his own face, inhaling deeply.

“Goodness gracious,” Estra murmured. She immediately abandoned the towel, swept out of the room, and blocked Ulder as he tried to enter. Neither of them went far, however—certainly not far enough to miss the chance to eavesdrop.

“Wh–What do you think you’re doing?” Astarion’s voice wavered dangerously close to a crack.

When Gale was given a task, he could only rest easy once it was performed to the utmost. Today was no different. He had assembled an entire arsenal of tools to ensure he could make Astarion unrecognizable. He has no idea, does he? Gale thought, lowering the sleeves.

“No commoner would wear such fine perfume,” he said. The outfit Astarion had chosen was that of a modest townsman, perhaps a lesser government official—someone with no reason to possess such a fragrance. The rich, resinous note was unmistakable to Gale’s sharp nose, trained from years of distinguishing medicinal herbs from their poisonous cousins. The scent alone was enough to betray a person’s station. He had detected it the moment he entered, and his ill humor since then made perfect sense. Estra, no doubt trying to be helpful, had perfumed the clothing, but in truth, she had only made the disguise less convincing.

“Do you know how to discern the various types of customers at a brothel?” Gale asked.

“I don’t,” Astarion admitted. “Perhaps by their body type, or their clothing?”

“Those are possibilities,” Gale said, “but there’s another way. The smell.”

Overweight patrons who gave off a sweet odor were usually sick, but almost always wealthy. Those who wore several perfumes at once, creating a noxious miasma, tended to frequent the common prostitutes and often carried some form of venereal disease. Meanwhile, a young man who smelled like a barnyard animal had almost certainly abandoned the notion of regular bathing altogether.

The Verdigris House was not in the habit of accepting first-time customers without proper introductions. Still, every so often one would prevail upon the old madam and be granted entry. That such individuals often became excellent regulars said much for the old omega’s skill at judging her clientele.

“Anyway, the first thing we need is a different outfit. And something else.” Gale crossed to the bathtub and drew a bucket of still-warm water, then carried it over to Astarion. Estra and Ulder both watched him with no small degree of apprehension. Since Ulder was standing there idle, Gale sent him on an errand for additional clothing—something beyond what had already been prepared.

From his cloth bag, Gale took a small leather pouch, dipping two fingers into its contents. They emerged slick with a viscous oil, which he dissolved into the bucket of water.

“One thing commoners do not do,” Gale informed Astarion matter-of-factly, “is bathe every day.” He dipped his hand in the bucket and ran his fingers through Astarion’s hair. With a few slow passes, those lustrous locks began to lose their glossy sheen. Gale thought he was being careful, but he wasn’t as practiced at this as Estra, and perhaps that was why Astarion seemed increasingly restless under his touch.

Careful not to pull his hair, Gale reminded himself, suddenly aware that this august figure could very easily separate his head from his shoulders if sufficiently displeased.

By the time he finished, the shining silk strands that had once crowned Astarion’s head now resembled coarse hemp. Gale tied the dull hair back, using not a proper ribbon but a plain scrap of cloth. For the new persona, anything utilitarian would do.

When the bucket had been put away and Gale had washed his hands, Ulder returned with exactly what he’d asked for. Good help, Gale thought.

“Are you quite sure about this?” Ulder asked, his unease plain. Beside him, Estra made no effort to hide her disgust. For a long-serving omega-in-waiting, the sight must have been nearly unthinkable.

Ulder’s prize was a large, well-worn set of commoner’s clothes. They had been washed at some point, but the cloth was thin in places and still held the scent of the previous owner’s musk.

Gale lifted the garments to his nose and inhaled. “I might have preferred something even a little stinkier,” he remarked. Estra’s hands flew to her cheeks in astonishment, clearly on the verge of protesting, but Ulder silenced her with a single raised hand. Even so, the deep crease between his brows betrayed his own distaste.

Gale felt a pang of sympathy for Estra, but there was still much to be done—much that would try her sensibilities further. “Master Astarion, please undress.”

“Er… yes. Certainly,” Astarion said, though the uncertainty in his tone was obvious. Gale ignored the hesitation, busying himself with preparations. He gathered several handkerchiefs from around the room, then produced a few lengths of binding cloth from his bag.

“Might I ask the two of you to help me?” he said to the pair of nervous spectators. Drawing them in, he handed Ulder a handkerchief to wrap around Astarion’s torso. The man might be an alpha of near-celestial beauty, lacking one important feature most alphas possessed, but his chest and shoulders were still reasonably well-muscled. Perhaps anticipating the chill of being half-dressed, Astarion had kept his trousers on. Gale, who thought the room comfortably warm, realized he might have been less than considerate and tossed a few extra coals into the brazier.

Ulder wound the handkerchiefs into place, Estra held them steady, and Gale tied them off securely with the binding cloths. When they were done, Astarion possessed a solid, almost portly silhouette. The slightly oversized commoner’s clothes now fit him perfectly. His perfume would soon be smothered by the lingering scent of the garments, leaving only his face—beautiful, unmistakable, and now oddly incongruous—hovering above the borrowed body.

“All right, let’s move on to the next thing, then.” Gale set aside his notes and reached for the batch of makeup he’d prepared the night before. It was just a shade darker than Astarion’s pale skin tone—subtle enough to blend, but noticeable in the right light. He began applying it delicately with his fingertips, smoothing it across his cheeks and jaw with practiced care.

Yeesh, he thought, I am literally close enough to count his eyelashes, and he’s still outrageously beautiful. It was infuriating, really. Not only did he have no facial hair whatsoever—his skin looked as though a razor had never so much as threatened it—but there seemed to be no body hair of any kind, only smooth, faultless skin.

Once he’d finished the foundation and blended it to his satisfaction, a mischievous notion took root. After all, when would he ever have such a chance again? When would another opportunity present itself to indulge his curiosity about exactly how devastating Astarion’s beauty might be if he were made up like an omega?

From among his implements, he selected a small shell holding a vivid red pigment. He dipped the tip of his pinky into it and brushed the color carefully over Astarion’s lips. It was the smallest of gestures—yet it transformed him instantly.

Gale froze. He found himself back in the garden by the wall again. His heart fluttered slightlyas he remembered how brazenly he had kissed Astarion that night. Ulder and Estra had frozen as well, though for a different reason. The three of them exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from mild discomfort to something like awe, then to a kind of horrified resignation. No one said a word, but they all reached the same conclusion at the same moment.

It was a blessing—truly—that only the three of them were present. If anyone else had been here, man or woman, it might have been a disaster. There are some sights, they all understood now, that the world is simply not meant to behold. Because with just a dash of lip color, Astarion had somehow acquired the power to topple small villages.

“What’s going on?” Astarion asked, narrowing his eyes at their collective silence.

“Nothing, sir,” Gale said briskly, accepting the handkerchief Estra wordlessly offered and rubbing at his lips—firmly enough to make sure every trace of red was gone.

“Ow, that’s uncomfortable. What in the world was that about?”

“As I said, sir, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing at all, I assure you,” Estra chimed in.

“Not a thing, sir,” Ulder agreed solemnly.

Astarion regarded them all with skepticism, but, for once, refrained from pressing. Gale, deciding it was best to pretend nothing had happened, returned to her work.

The next step required a darker tone. He smeared some pigment beneath his eyes, giving him convincing bags. While he was at it, he experimented with a pair of moles—one on each cheek. His gracefully arched eyebrows she thickened in careful strokes, first the left, then the right, stepping back between each adjustment to assess the effect.

There were more advanced techniques he could have used to alter the very contours of his face, but at such close proximity, the makeup would be obvious. On an omega, that might pass without question. On an alpha, it would invite suspicion. Instead, he opted for an old trick—cotton, stuffed into his cheeks to subtly change his profile. Ulder and Estra both raised their brows at the boldness of it, but Gale wasn’t finished. He daubed the remaining pigment sparingly here and there, even smudging some beneath his nails until his hands looked convincingly unkempt.

Can’t have his hands looking too pretty, he thought. They were undeniably masculine—broad-palmed, long-fingered, with a certain strength in the grip. Gale had always assumed Astarion never lifted anything heavier than a wine cup or writing brush, but faint calluses told a different story. They hinted at sword training—or perhaps skill with a fighting staff—though he had never seen him practice. Not that it mattered now; curiosity about such things felt trivial compared to the task at hand.

By the time he finished, the transformation was startling. The magnificent, too-perfect figure before him had vanished, replaced by an ungainly urban dweller who looked distinctly worse for wear. His face retained its underlying symmetry, but the protruding belly she’d padded beneath his tunic, the mottled spots on his hands, and the shadowy hollows under his eyes painted a far less flattering picture.

And yet—even like this—he still managed to look as though he could waltz onto a stage and be cast as heavenly nymph without auditioning. It was, Gale reflected with some irritation, entirely too much trouble for one person’s beauty to cause.

“Gracious, is that really my young master?” Estra said, voice warm with mockery.

“Don’t call me that.”

Estra had watched the transformation from start to finish, and even she looked impressed. The man before them could have walked the length of the palace corridors without a single soul recognizing him—at least, not by sight.

Gale reached into his pouch and drew out a slim bamboo cylinder, its lacquered surface worn smooth from use. Unstopping it released a faint but unmistakable sting of bitter herbs and sharp resin. He poured the contents into a small porcelain cup and offered it to Astarion. He eyed it as one might a suspiciously fizzing potion, his nose twitching at the acrid, nose-prickling scent. The liquid shimmered faintly, a deep ochre brown that promised an unpleasant swallow.

“What exactly is this?” he asked.

“A special draught of my own devising,” Gale said primly. “Sip it slowly so it coats your lips before you swallow. It should cause just enough swelling in the lips and throat to alter your voice. Ah—” he added with a pointed look, “—do take the cotton out of your mouth first.”

Astarion could look different. Even smell different. But anyone who knew him well would recognize that silken, honeyed tone in an instant. Gale wasn’t about to let that ruin his work.

“It’s quite bitter,” he warned. “But don’t worry. It isn’t poisonous.”

The room fell into a small, collective silence, as though waiting for him to admit he was joking. He didn’t. Instead, he set the bamboo cylinder aside and began cleaning his workspace with brisk efficiency. He’d been granted the rest of the day off, and for the first time in weeks, he’d be free to visit the pleasure quarter—and, more importantly, to spend some uninterrupted hours mixing and brewing to his heart’s content. The thought put a lightness in his step.

Which lasted all of three seconds.

“Gustling, you’re headed home today, yes?”

“Indeed, sir. I intend to leave presently,” he replied, only for Ulder to smile in a way that suggested he’d been waiting for exactly that answer.

“In that case, you’ll be going the same way as Master Astarion.”

Gale managed not to groan aloud, but he suspected the distaste was written across his face anyway.

Ulder glanced at Astarion, who looked just as stricken—mouth slightly ajar. “You went to all the trouble of changing your appearance, sir. It would rather spoil the effect if you were seen with your usual attendant.”

“Goodness, I hadn’t thought of that,” Estra said with exaggerated innocence, which meant she’d absolutely thought of it—and well in advance.

“Do you see my point, Master?” Ulder said, uncharacteristically eager. Probably thrilled to unload Astarion onto someone else for a change.

“I do. Yes, that would be helpful.” Astarion was suddenly agreeable.

Now, this won’t do, Gale thought. “I’m exceedingly sorry, but even in my company, Master Astarion would face the same problem.”

True enough—though his new appearance was far more forgettable, it was already common knowledge in certain corners of the palace that Gale was his personal maid. Traveling together would be a risk.

But Estra, crafty old omega-in-waiting, only smiled as if she’d been hoping for that objection. From a lacquered box she produced a pair of eyebrow tweezers and an ornamental hair stick. She crossed the room with the air of someone about to solve a problem once and for all.

“Then I believe a disguise of your own is called for, Gustling,” she said, her smiling eyes sharp enough to slice.

That prickle of premonition in Gale’s gut grew stronger.

Chapter 7: Around Town

Summary:

A little trip into town

They would take a carriage from Astarion’s rooms to the gate of the outer court. Gale’s dramatic and successful transformation of his master was proving a double-edged sword: an alpha who looked like Astarion now bumbling around the palace was bound to attract suspicion. Even the lowliest maids and manservants were provided with halfway decent clothing here, and his current shabby disguise stood out in a place accustomed to polish.

It might have seemed obvious to simply put him in more refined clothing for the journey out, but with Astarion’s stomach artificially padded, a change later would have been awkward, if not impossible, without compromising the illusion. The inconvenience irritated Gale—he wanted every detail to be perfect, and he was mildly incensed at Astarion’s apparent failure to understand the sheer magnitude of his own beauty, even under disguise.

They disembarked the carriage in a quiet, shaded spot near an unused side path. Almost immediately, Gale began lobbing critiques like stones into a pond.

“Master Astarion, your posture is much too good. Slouch a little!” At present, Astarion stood as straight as if some invisible string ran from the crown of his head up to the heavens.

“Well, speak for yourself,” Astarion grumbled. “A little heavy on the formalities, aren’t we? And don’t use my name—it rather defeats the point.” His voice was pitched lower, roughened, just like the common alpha he now ostensibly was.

Gale privately admitted he was right. But in that case… what should he call him? He narrowed his eyes and studied Astarion closely. The intensity of his gaze made him look, quite unintentionally, like he was observing some delicate, unpredictable moth that had drifted too close to a lantern. Astarion’s expression shifted—part curiosity, part something Gale didn’t want to think about too hard.

“What shall I call you, then, sir?” Gale asked at last.

“Good question,” Astarion said, stroking his chin in an exaggerated show of thought. He hummed for a moment, then declared, “Call me Fiore.”

Fiore? Gale thought. It was hardly unusual, but its meaning—flower—was a peculiar choice for a man’s alias. Then again, “Astarion” wasn’t exactly the name of a dockside brawler either. For the briefest moment, Gale regretted not disguising him as a female omega—he had the bone structure for it—but then the memory of that dab of rouge flashed across his mind and he wisely abandoned the thought. Astarion in an omega’s dress might just unravel the fabric of the world.

“Very well then, Master Fiore—” Gale began, but caught Astarion’s glare mid-word. Ah, yes. The no-formality rule. “Fiore, then. No honorifics, no deference.”

Gale found the elaborate, polite speech of the palace tricky enough to manage at the best of times, but abandoning it entirely for the easy camaraderie of casual talk was somehow even harder. And was that… a gleam in Astarion’s eyes? Blast it—he’d worked so hard to make him appear pale and sickly, and now he was in danger of undoing the illusion entirely by looking too pleased with himself.

“Excellent, m’lord,” Gale said instead, letting the sarcasm drip.

“Huh?” Gale blinked, and Astarion grinned like a cat presented with an unattended cream jug.

“I should think this manner of address is most suited, considering our respective appearances,” he said, giving Gale a slow, deliberate once-over

Gale’s own disguise had been arranged by Estra, who had dressed him in hand-me-downs from her son. There was a faint whiff of camphor to the garments, but the fabric was high quality, the cut flattering without being ostentatious, and the style—though slightly old-fashioned—could be called vintage rather than out of date. His hair was neatly gathered and pinned with a simple ornamental stick. All in all, he looked every bit the image of a well-off young omega from a respectable family.

Pursing his lips, Gale turned and began walking. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gale was profoundly uncomfortable with this reversal of their usual dynamic, but Astarion looked like he was having the time of his life.

His destination was a discreet little restaurant just outside the pleasure district. Apparently, he had arranged to meet some sort of acquaintance there, though Gale didn’t press for details. Experience had taught him that not asking too many questions was, more often than not, the wisest way to navigate the world.

Still, Gale couldn’t help but feel somewhat used by Astarion and Ulder. The thought sat in the back of his mind like a pebble in a shoe—small, but impossible to ignore.

Maybe I should act a little more oblivious, he mused, adjusting his pace as he made his way down the narrow street. The air was thick with the scent of dried fish, grilled chestnuts, and the faint tang of damp wood from the stalls. Merchants cried out their prices in clipped, sing-song voices, haggling even before customers reached their tables.

The market was a lively crush of bodies: stall owners calling out for attention, children darting between baskets of goods, and servants bartering over bundles of root vegetables. Leafy greens were still scarce this time of year, but the fat, pale daikon stacked in neat rows were plentiful. Gale had been given a little pocket change for the trip, and as he passed a vendor shaking off mud from freshly pulled radishes, his mind began to wander toward dinner. He could have someone wring a chicken’s neck for him, stew it with daikon, and let the rich aroma fill the air—something hearty, rustic, and satisfying. Ma would like that.

His small daydream was cut short when someone abruptly grabbed him by the collar.

“What is it?” Gale snapped, spinning to find Astarion—no, Fiore—standing over him with a grin that could only be described as predatory.

“You’re going shopping?” Fiore asked, his voice lilting with just enough amusement to make it clear he was laughing at Gale, not with him.

“I saw something I wanted,” Gale said stiffly. “I was just going to get it.”

“Looking like that?”

It only took a beat for Gale to understand. An omega well-off enough to have a manservant at his side would never lower himself to pawing through vegetables, let alone ask a butcher to slaughter a chicken for him. Even here, in the outer market, appearances mattered. He cast a lingering glance at the produce. But I wanted to make it for my mum, he thought bitterly.

Ma was both a doctor and an apothecary of rare skill, able to mend broken bones, treat fevers, and craft remedies that smelled like summer fields after rain. But she had one glaring flaw—an utter inability to balance profit and loss. Her talent should have kept her in silks and good wine for the rest of her life, but instead she lived in a shack that leaned with the wind, patched with mismatched planks. If it ever came to true hunger, the old madam of the district would probably slip her food, if only for the sport of it.

Gale resumed walking with a faint pout tugging at his mouth. Fiore was still affecting the mannerisms of a servant, but his long strides quickly carried him past Gale, forcing the him to lengthen his own pace to keep up. Hrm, Gale thought, he’s got a long way to go.

Fiore’s eyes glittered as he took in the market. He wasn’t gawking outright, but there was a restless energy to him, like a predator intrigued by unfamiliar territory. For a man accustomed to the polished marble of courtly halls, this tangle of shouting vendors and narrow, muddy streets must have been an entirely new kind of theater.

Gale, unwilling to let him get the upper hand, stepped ahead and shot him a sharp look over his shoulder. Fiore’s expression sobered for the briefest moment, as if chastened, but he recovered instantly and strolled on as though nothing had happened—at least making the concession of staying behind Gale this time.

Gale kept his thoughts to himself, letting the rhythm of his fingers in his palm mark time as he imagined what herbs might be ready in the garden when he returned. Mugwort, perhaps? If the season had been kind, maybe the butterbur would be ready for harvest. The idea of frying its tender stalks with meat and a spoonful of miso was enough to make his mouth twitch in anticipation.

He was still lost in the image when Fiore appeared at his side again, moving so quietly he might have been a shadow.

“What is it, sir?” Gale said, frowning at him—though the slip back into deferential speech was automatic.

“Why so quiet?” Fiore asked, his tone now direct, as if dropping the mask entirely.

Gale thought about it, then shrugged. “Because I don’t have anything to say?”

It was the truth, but apparently the wrong answer. Fiore bit his lip, his expression turning oddly unreadable. He didn’t look as if he’d cry—Gale would never insult him by imagining that—but there was a faint air of wounded pride about him.

He was the one who told me to be brusque, Gale thought irritably. He’d never been one to start conversations unless there was something worth saying. Why that should shock this particular alpha was beyond him.

Gale scratched at the back of his neck, wondering if he ought to fill the silence, when the scent of charcoal-grilled meat drifted toward them. Ahead, a stall displayed skewers of perfectly crisped chicken, their juices hissing as they dripped onto the coals. Without another word, Gale broke into a brisk trot and ordered two, the fat glistening in the late morning light.

“Try it,” Gale said, passing one of the skewers to Astarion.

Astarionaccepted it slowly, holding the stick between thumb and forefinger as though it were an object of delicate craftsmanship, not street food. His eyes flicked over it like a jeweller examining a questionable gemstone.

“Quick, before it gets cold.”

Gale guided him into a side street just off the main road, the bright chaos of the market receding to a dull hum. Here, the air was cooler, scented faintly with charcoal smoke and the mineral tang of damp stone. A battered wooden crate sat near the wall; Gale brushed away a layer of dust and settled onto it. The boards creaked faintly under his weight, sun-warmed on top, cool beneath.

He took a bite.

The grilled meat yielded instantly, juices spilling over his tongue. The fat under the skin had rendered perfectly, turning the surface into a thin, golden crisp that gave a clean, audible snap. The salt clung to his lips, chased by a faint sweetness from the glaze.

Gods, that’s good.

He leaned forward to keep the juices from spotting his tunic. Across from him, Astarion still hadn’t moved to eat, his expression caught somewhere between mild curiosity and theatrical reluctance.

“Not going to have yours? As you can see, it isn’t poisoned.”

“No, that’s, uh… not what I’m worried about.” Astarion tapped his cheek lightly.

“Ah.” Gale remembered. He’d stuffed cotton into Astarion’s mouth earlier to change his profile. Fishing in his pouch, he pulled out a square of fine, sturdy paper and offered it. Astarion plucked it from his hand, slipped the cotton out of his cheeks, and flicked the pieces into a nearby wastebasket with lazy precision.

That paper—thin yet strong, with a faint herbal scent from its making—was the sort of thing a resourceful person could find a dozen uses for. One of Estra’s thoughtful touches, along with the clothes.

I didn’t think to bring replacements, Gale thought, irritation prickling. Such an omission felt like leaving a book unfinished—an untidy thing that gnawed at him, even if no one else would notice.

Astarion, still studying the skewer as though it might bite him first, blew delicately on the meat and took a bite. He chewed, swallowed, and his tongue swept slowly along his lower lip to gather the juice.

“What do you think, sir?”

“Damn sight better than what they served at the bivouac. Good and salty.”

Bivouac? Gale’s brows twitched faintly. As far as he knew, eunuchs didn’t normally serve in the military. In wartime perhaps, but not in the easy rhythm of peace. What had put Astarion out in the field, sleeping under canvas instead of silk?

He let the question simmer, watching Astarion. The man’s makeup had smudged faintly at the corner of his mouth, a barely-there imperfection. Gale looked away before the urge to fix it won out.

Enough lingering. Whatever business they had here, he’d see it done and be rid of him.

He finished the last bite of chicken, wiped his fingers on a handkerchief, and rose from the crate. Already, in the back of his mind, he was returning to the market stalls, picturing the fresh daikon and another skewer of this perfectly grilled chicken, eaten in peace.

Astarion, however, moved as though wading through honey—each gesture unhurried, deliberate, as if to prove the world would wait for him.

“Are you quite sure you’re going to be in time for your meeting, Fiore?” Gale asked, voice carrying just enough edge to make the point.

“I think we’ve got a few minutes yet.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to arrive early? It’s bad manners to make someone wait.”

Now it was Astarion who narrowed his eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

“Would you?” Gale asked mildly, though Astarion had struck the mark dead-on.

A faint pout tugged at the other man’s lips, but he didn’t press the point. Instead, he veered off. “I can’t imagine life in the palace is that bad. Surely it must be better than here in the pleasure district.”

Gale considered. “Not terrible,” he admitted. “Especially now that I’m there by choice. I’ve got a small but clean room, and an offer to move to better quarters. I’ve been lucky.”

But his mind was elsewhere. The pleasure district still had its pull, though not for the reasons most assumed.

“I’m worried whether my old alpha is taking proper care of herself,” Gale said at last.

Astarion’s mouth fell slightly open. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Gale replied with a shrug.

Astarion tilted his head, studying him with open amusement. “I just… never knew you were interested in anything besides drugs and poisons.”

Gale replied with a glare. Rude bastard.

“My adoptive mother is my teacher in matters of medicine,” he said curtly, “so I certainly hope she’ll continue to live a good long time.” The words came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t take them back. With deliberate finality, he turned his back on Astarion and started walking, boots crunching against the dusty paving stones. Yes—he knew for sure now. He wanted to get this business over with and be rid of him.

Astarion, looking slightly frazzled by the cold shoulder, quickened his step to come alongside Gale. His elegant stride seemed to belong to a man strolling in a marble courtyard rather than threading through the less-than-pristine streets of the border market.

“This mother of yours,” he began lightly, though there was a calculating gleam in his eyes. “I gather she’s indeed a talented apothecary.”

After a moment’s pause, Gale answered, but there was a wary hitch in his voice. “She is.” He didn’t like this line of questioning—Astarion had a way of using even the most innocuous topics as leverage, and dragging his father into the conversation felt particularly unfair. “Apparently she studied in the West when she was a young woman.”

That was no small feat. Gale had grown up hearing fragments of his mother’s stories—foreign cities with sharp-angled roofs and markets where no one spoke their tongue, strange flowers with petals the size of dinner plates, and medicines distilled from resins that came from trees taller than a city wall. His mother’s skill wasn’t only rooted in their own region’s herbal traditions; she could set a broken bone as deftly as any Western-trained physician, and once in a while Gale would catch her jotting notes in a foreign script so precise it looked printed. Occasionally, she’d slip a word into conversation whose sound was as alien as the smell of opium to a child. All of it made Gale certain his mother had been away for more than just a season or two.

“Really?” Astarion’s brows rose slightly. “She did that? Then she must have been something special. I believe people are only sent on those studies by endorsement from the government.” His transparent amazement only confirmed to Gale what he’d always known—that Morena was exceptional.

“Yes, she is rather incredible,” Gale admitted, his voice softening. “The old proverb holds that ‘Heaven doesn’t give two gifts to one man,’ but I suppose there are exceptions.” A flicker of pride had crept into his tone, loosening his reserve.

“He must have been quite a woman indeed...” Astarion’s voice had dropped, subdued, almost thoughtful. Something in his expression hinted that Gale’s flood of words had brushed against a sore place.

Well, he was the one who insisted I talk, Gale thought irritably. Make up your blasted mind.

Astarion’s gaze slid away, scanning the shops lining this stretch of road. The air here smelled faintly of cedarwood from the textile stalls. Restaurants and food carts had thinned out, replaced by small, tidy boutiques where alphas examined silk ties, silver cufflinks, and lacquered boxes before handing them to clerks for wrapping. Trinkets to charm their evening companions.

“And what,” Astarion said lightly, but with a hidden barb, “is such a distinguished person doing running a druggist’s shop in a nameless corner of the pleasure district?”

“Heaven gave her many gifts,” Gale replied coolly, “but luck was not one of them. And as much as she was given, something was also taken from her. Something important.”

Ill fortune—that was Morena’s one great flaw. Her time studying in the West had given the former emperor’s father the perfect excuse to rid himself of a woman he distrusted. The former empress dowager had ordered her castrated and sterilised, ending her chances of children and court service in a single stroke.

Astarion’s eyes sharpened. “You’re telling me that the mother who adopted you is a eunuch?”

“Yes, sir,” Gale said evenly, wondering if he truly hadn’t mentioned it before.

Astarion began muttering under his breath, as if tasting the words: “Eunuch... apothecary... doctor...”

By the time his murmuring faded, they had reached their destination—a narrow building at the edge of the pleasure district, its upper floor an inn and its lower a modest restaurant. The paper note Ulder had given Gale matched the painted sign above the door.

“I believe that’s it, sir,” Gale said, nodding toward it.

“Yes, I think you’re right. But we still have a few minutes,” Astarion replied, his gaze roaming the surrounding street.

Ah, now I see it, Gale thought, eyes narrowing. The elaborate disguise. The leisurely stroll through the market. It wasn’t just about the meeting. He was making a day of it.

Gale exhaled slowly. “I fear that traipsing around too much will cause your makeup to smudge. Besides, the person you’re meeting could already be inside. Better to look for them now than risk making them wait, don’t you think?”

At last, Astarion seemed to take the hint.

“I shall part ways with you here, then, sir.”

“What, here?”

“Yes. You took the trouble to disguise yourself. It would spoil everything if I walked in with you.” Gale gave a short, formal bow and turned back toward the market. As he went, he glanced over his shoulder to see Astarion slipping through the restaurant’s door.

Even eunuchs need a day off now and then, he thought, folding his arms. His gaze lingered on the building’s lacquered façade, the lanterns swaying faintly above its entrance. He knew the type—it was the sort of place where the food was only half the attraction, and the wait-staff were the other half.

Well, I hope he enjoys himself, Gale thought caustically, giving the place a long, frostbitten look before turning away.

Chapter 8: Plum

Summary:

Gale attends to a sick courtesan and Astarion continues his chess match with the strategist

Gale awoke to the high-pitched twittering of sparrows outside the shuttered window, the soft golden light of early morning spilling across his threadbare blanket. He blinked against it, taking a slow breath. The faint, sharp tang of brewed herbs reached his nostrils, mingling with the musty smell of his small room. Even the scent of vinegar in the bowl on the table seemed oddly comforting, grounding him in the familiar rhythm of home.

“Good morning,” said a calm, grandmotherly voice. It belonged to his mother, steady and unhurried, the kind of voice that seemed to warm the cold corners of the room.

That’s right… I’m back home, Gale thought, running a hand through his tangled hair. His first trip back since he had begun working in the outer court. Normally, men in his position had no vacations, no breaks, no days to themselves. Even if a master allowed one, it was rarely enough: a servant’s life revolved entirely around the whims and schedules of those he served. Most masters had enough attendants to permit one of them a reprieve, but Astarion’s household was different.

I can’t believe he’s managed all this time alone… Gale felt a pang of respect for Estra, Astarion’s chief attendant, whose indulgence had allowed him this short reprieve. He was grateful, though he knew that once he returned, Estra would exact her relentless toll.

Gale swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the worn wooden floor. His mother set a chipped porcelain bowl in front of him, steaming congee that smelled of faintly sweet herbs, earthy grains, and a touch of ginger. Gale lifted the spoon, tasting the warm porridge. It was bland, in need of salt, but not unpleasant—the herbal aroma gave it character. He added a few more drops of vinegar from the jar on the table, swirling it into the congee until the flavors blended.

“Make sure you wash your face,” his mother said absently, slicing through a bundle of dried roots for the morning’s medicines.

“Yeah. After I eat,” Gale replied, his voice quiet in the small room, mingling with the soft scraping of the knife and the faint rustle of dried leaves.

His mother’s hands moved quickly, almost absentmindedly, yet every motion was precise—folding leaves, measuring powders, grinding roots with a practiced rhythm. “What do you plan to do today?” she asked without looking up.

Gale paused, spoon hovering. “Nothing special,” he said finally, unsure if he could fully explain the layered thoughts running through his mind.

“In that case,” his mother replied, setting down a small mortar, “perhaps you could go to the Verdant House for me.”

Gale nodded, adding another liberal splash of vinegar to the congee, the tang mingling with the earthy aroma, and swallowed a hearty mouthful.

The apothecary was located within the Verdant House itself, a place that had transformed over the years from a humble, mud-streaked establishment to a gilded, high-ceilinged mansion. But when his mother sent him there, it rarely meant a formal visit.

Gale arrived, giving the familiar servant outside a polite nod. The atrium greeted him first: sunlight filtered through the latticework above, casting intricate patterns on the polished stone floors. The covered walkway extended off to either side, lined with carefully trimmed shrubs and pots of vibrant flowers. Beyond, the central courtyard opened like a jewel box—stone pathways framed by meticulously pruned bushes and faintly fragrant blossoms. At night, the lanterns cast a warm, golden glow, a delicate lattice of light against the shadowed walls.

But Gale ignored the grandeur and walked purposefully toward a small, secluded outbuilding tucked into the back corner. Few ever ventured here, and none stayed long. The sickroom was not meant for display or comfort; it existed only for the care of the forgotten.

The moment he opened the door, the room hit him: a wave of illness and decay, sour and iron-laced, mingled with the faint, dusty aroma of medicinal powders. The air was heavy, stagnant, yet beneath it lay the sharp, cleansing tang of herbs.

“Morning,” Gale said softly, steadying himself.

A man lay on a thin pallet, hair matted and tangled, skin yellowed and slack. Once a celebrated courtesan—a butterfly, the pride of the Verdant House—he now resembled a skeleton, hollowed and frail, wrapped in worn cloth that did little to disguise the angles of his bones.

“I brought your medicine,” Gale continued, kneeling beside him. He gave no reply; his eyes barely lifted. Once he had screamed, cursed, and chased him from the room with venomous energy. Now he had neither the strength nor the will.

Gale carefully mixed the powder with a few drops of water, forming a paste he could coax into his mouth. It was a replacement for quicksilver and arsenic, safer but still effective—a subtle weapon of medicinal control, meant to stave off infection or sedative collapse. But it was barely enough to comfort him in his decline.

He paused for a long moment, watching his fragile hands twitch against the blanket, remembering the vibrant man he had once been, celebrated and adored. The contrast cut him sharply, a reminder that beauty and vitality were fleeting, and that even the most radiant could be reduced to this.

The omega, now nearing forty, had once been celebrated as the most exquisite courtesan in the house, feted as a delicate flower amidst silk and candlelight. The Verdant House had grown in prestige since those years, now able to select its clientele with care and taste. But in the early days, it had been little more than a struggling establishment, a mud-streaked sign and cracked stone floors, scraping to survive. During that period, the omega had earned his living by entertaining clients with charm and wit, until misfortune struck: he contracted syphilis—the Plum Poison.

Gale’s eyes softened as he administered the last of the powder, patting his hands gently. He had seen the stories of his beauty and grace, the flowers he had once been compared to, and now he was reduced to this husk, a lesson in mortality and the quiet cruelty of time. The smell, the sight, the faint rattle in his chest as he breathed—it was all a grim reminder of the fragility of life, and the power of his mother’s remedies to at least ease some of the suffering.

If this medicine had been available to him in the early stages of his illness, perhaps he might have been cured, but by now the state of his body barely bore looking at. The illness had ravaged not only his appearance, but his mind as well, leaving his memory in tatters and his movements feeble.

Time—time was a cruel and relentless thing. When Morena had first seen the omega, his illness had been in a dormant phase, subtle enough that it could almost have been ignored. If only he had spoken then, instead of holding back, things might not have taken such a brutal turn. But trust was difficult to come by. Not everyone was willing to accept the intervention of a eunuch who appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a pariah from the rear palace. The simple reality of a courtesan’s life was stark: take customers, or starve.

When the lesions returned several years later, the tumors spread with terrifying speed. The omega had been confined to this small room, hidden away where no customers would see him. Yes, he was being swept under the rug, but by one standard it was remarkably compassionate treatment. A courtesan who could no longer work was typically dismissed, left to fend for themselves—or worse, discarded after a token effort at concealment. He was fortunate not to have been smeared with whitening cream and left to rot.

Gale took a rag from the washbasin and began gently wiping the omega’s frail body, working carefully around bruised skin and mottled patches. Perhaps he’d burn some incense too, he thought; the perpetually closed door kept the room stifling, the sickly tang of illness pressing in.

There was a small pile of incense on hand, gifts from a certain noble, aromatic and finely made, with a faint sweetness said to be a favorite of the alpha himself. Normally, the incense was used sparingly—most medicines absorbed its scent and became compromised—but today Gale lit a token amount, careful to place the burner out of reach of the patient.

The gentle, slightly sweet smoke curled through the room, softening the sharp tang of sickness. A barely perceptible smile flickered across the omega’s features, the first sign of life he had seen since he’d arrived. Then, almost impossibly, he began to hum a children’s song, his voice weak and broken, regressing to some distant memory. Gale allowed himself a small sigh, hoping at least he was reliving something pleasant in his mind.

He moved the incense burner to a corner, ensuring it would not be knocked over, and settled back to continue his ministrations. Then, the muffled sound of hurried footsteps reached his ears, a clattering that made the floorboards creak under the intruder’s weight

“Good lord. What is it?” Gale muttered, straightening.

An apprentice appeared in the doorway. She seemed hesitant, as though the room itself were forbidding. Gale recognized her immediately as someone who served Sorell. The omega, sensing the intrusion, ceased his humming and lay rigid, his small frame trembling slightly.

“Um… Dammon said to bring you a message,” the apprentice said softly. “He said if I found you here, to tell you to stay put. There’s a… weird alpha with a monocle out there.”

Ah. Gale understood immediately. The “weird alpha” with glasses was a long-standing, and often troublesome, customer of the Verdant House. Not someone he wanted to encounter here, not with the omega in such a delicate state. As long as he remained in this room, however, he would be safe—the madam would never risk exposing the patient to such an inconvenient guest.

“Very well,” Gale said calmly. “Go back now. All clear.”

The apprentice hesitated a moment longer before retreating, leaving the room silent again. The omega, now fully aware he was alone with him, stopped his song. He reached into a small bundle and pulled out a set of marbles, each a different colored pebble, arranging them with careful precision across the blanket as if trying to make sense of fragmented memories.

Foolish omega, Gale thought, crouching beside him to watch. The motions were delicate, almost meditative, a fragile attempt at order in a mind slowly unraveling.

Moments later, Sorell arrived, moving with a quiet authority that contrasted sharply with the apprentice’s nervousness. She entered without hesitation, settling gracefully beside the sleeping omega.

“Thanks for taking care of him today,” Sorell said, her tone warm but firm.

Gale arranged a round pillow for her to sit on, then observed as Sorell’s gaze lingered on the frail patient. The omega remained still, breathing shallow and even, finally drifting back into a restless sleep.

“Gale,” Sorell said, breaking the silence. “They talked about you-know-what again.”

Gale’s chest tightened. He did indeed know what she meant, and the thought sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. “Persistent old bastard, isn’t she? I’m amazed you can stand her,” he said quietly, his voice a mix of exasperation and admiration.

“She’s a good customer, if you can accept her as she is. And given what she pays, the old omega’s not about to object,” Sorell said, her voice low and measured. The words carried the weight of experience; in her world, one did not challenge the whims of wealth lightly.

“Yeah. And I’m sure that’s why she’s so keen for me to become a courtesan,” Gale muttered, bitterness lacing his tone. The client in question had been the reason the madam had worked so hard to groom him for this path over the years. If he hadn’t been under Astarion’s employ, there was a real possibility he would have been sold off to this woman long ago. The thought twisted unpleasantly in his stomach. “I don’t even want to think about it,” he added, face contorting with disgust and frustration.

Sorell exhaled, letting the sound drift lazily through the sickroom, her eyes noting every subtle twitch in Gale’s expression. “From an outside perspective, it might look like an excellent opportunity,” she said, but her tone carried the faintest edge of irony.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Gale replied sharply, shaking his head.

“Don’t make that face at me,” Sorell said, amused. Courtesans had a far different perspective on what constituted a “good match” than most people. “Do you know how few of us actually end up with someone we truly desire?”

“I know,” Gale admitted, his voice quieter now. “Because for the madam, personal attraction is meaningless—but silver… silver weighs very, very heavy.”

“That’s the price of a ticket on the boat to heaven,” Sorell said lightly, but there was a knowing glint in her eye. She leaned down to smooth the sparse, thin hair of the sick omega, her fingers lingering in gentle, careful motions. Then, leaning closer to Gale, her lips barely moving, she whispered, “I think the old omega might be of a mind to sell one of us off one of these days. We’re approaching that age.”

Sorell wasn’t yet thirty, but in the courtesan world, beauty and youth dictated one’s career. Time had to be reckoned with: sell high before the inevitable decline of charm and allure.

Gale observed her quietly. Her face, still striking and composed, was a mask of layered emotion: care, worry, fatigue, amusement. He didn’t want to dwell on it. Those were feelings he no longer understood, not after the harsh lessons of his youth. If love existed, he had left it behind long before he had stepped into the world.

“What if you started up a place of your own?” he asked, curiosity breaking through his habitual reserve.

“Hah! The last thing I want is to compete with that old hag,” Sorell replied, her tone sharp but not unkind. Gale noted the edge of experience in her words. She had money, independence even, if she had wanted it—but she hadn’t. Perhaps the life she had chosen was one she wasn’t ready to abandon.

“Just a little longer,” she said with a soft, knowing smile. “I won’t be in this line of work forever.”

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

Meanwhile, Astarion pressed his chopsticks against some scattered papers, the creased corners of the parchment beneath them doing little to alleviate the tension in his posture. The outing the day before had clearly taken its toll.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair. He hadn’t anticipated that the meeting location would be a near-continuation of the pleasure district itself. He hadn’t gone there to be surrounded by the sights and smells of brothels, lantern-lit alleys, and the faint tang of spiced meats from the street vendors. The very idea of his disguise was to allow him to move through public spaces unnoticed. Yet, here he was, having arrived nearly to the doorstep of his meeting accompanied by Gale the entire way—a scenario orchestrated by Ulder, who had silently and efficiently arranged the logistics.

Astarion felt a flash of irritation at his own helplessness. Ulder’s intentions had been clearly good, but the alpha could have raised half a dozen objections. Still, the aide had anticipated none, moving with quiet efficiency that made the day run smoothly, whether Astarion approved or not.

“Ulder… What are you plotting?” he asked, though he knew the aide’s placid expression often hid cleverness.

Ulder shook his head, offering a gesture that conveyed innocence—or perhaps complete disinterest in conspiracy. “Allow me to answer a question with a question, sir: how was your little jaunt into town?”

Astarion sipped his tea slowly, stalling for words. He had hoped to make the discussion brief, yet Ulder had clearly assumed the day had gone as planned, unaware of the subtle chaos inherent in such an outing. “Ahem… I discovered something interesting. The omega—his adoptive mother is a eunuch and was once a doctor here.”

“The omega—you mean Gustling? If he was trained by a palace doctor, that explains his depth of medical knowledge. A eunuch, though…” Ulder’s brow arched, curiosity piqued.

“You heard me,” Astarion said, setting down his cup with measured patience.

The truth was simple, if uncomfortable. Physicians in the rear palace were rarely figures of renown. Only those who lacked other opportunities, whose talent alone could not secure wealth or status, ended up there. A skilled and independent medical practitioner had no reason to become a eunuch to find work. Those who became palace doctors often did so because circumstance had left them with no other choice: marginalized, overlooked, and yet competent enough to fill the role.

Astarion leaned back, letting the weight of the situation settle. His sharp eyes traced the edges of the room, noting the quiet efficiency of Ulder’s work, the faint sunlight filtering through the lattice windows, and the subtle scent of incense that lingered from earlier cleaning—a reminder that even here, in the mundane, one had to navigate appearances as carefully as in the palace corridors.

“Could such a talented practitioner really have been among the eunuchs?” Ulder asked, his voice low, carrying the weight of curiosity and disbelief. His sharp eyes tracked Astarion’s every subtle movement, studying him as if trying to read not only the words but the intent behind them.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Astarion replied, leaning back in his chair, letting his fingers drum absently on the polished mahogany surface of the desk. The faint sheen of wax reflected the morning light filtering through the tall, latticed windows, giving the office a quiet, almost sacred hush.

Ulder stroked his chin thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. Astarion knew he had said enough; Ulder was astute, capable of pursuing the line of inquiry independently, and would follow every nuance of what had been hinted at. A small smile tugged at the corner of Astarion’s lips—not from amusement, but from recognition of a mind as sharp as his own.

The sudden, crisp chime of a bell interrupted the contemplative silence. Astarion’s office bell—a delicate brass device—was positioned so that he would never miss a visitor. Ulder immediately set aside his papers and moved to the entrance with the quiet precision of someone who had long served under scrutiny, ever ready to manage the arrival.

The door opened to reveal the familiar figure of Ysolde, the monocle-wearing alpha who carried an air of casual superiority. She lounged on the chaise with perfect ease, crossing one leg over the other and sipping juice from a crystal glass. The faint scent of citrus and fermented grains followed her, subtle but unmistakable. She glanced around the office as if testing its order and efficiency, a hint of mischief in her narrow eyes.

“Thanks for taking care of that little thing the other day,” Ysolde said smoothly, voice both teasing and authoritative. “Whew, it did turn out to be quite a story, didn’t it?” she leaned slightly forward, one hand stroking her chin, eyes narrowing in calculated appraisal.

Astarion, flipping through a stack of meticulously organized documents, offered a measured reply. “It seems the youngest of those brothers was the most capable after all.” His tone was neutral, but his mind was alert, parsing Ysolde’s every intonation. After the incident with the inheritance, the brothers had appeared reconciled, but Astarion knew appearances were often deceptive. The youngest had shown unexpected skill, and though he had only glimpsed the result of the apothecary’s son’s interventions, he strongly suspected he had been involved, keeping his secrets as carefully as ever.

“I think if we got that young alpha to handle the furnishings for the ritual, it would redound to the glory of our ruler,” Ysolde said with ease, as if arranging ritual preparations were the simplest of tasks.

“Yes, of course,” Astarion replied, masking his mild irritation. Ysolde had a talent for elevating even mundane matters to the level of strategic importance, making them sound critical when ordinarily they would be dismissed by anyone of Astarion’s stature.

“Then there’s the last work the father left behind. Simple metal fittings, but so precise and refined that they could serve a ritual function themselves.”

“I find I keep wondering, Master Strategist,” Astarion said dryly, “why you feel compelled to discuss these craftsmen with me.” He kept his gaze steady, but the faintest crease appeared between his brows.

“Why not?” Ysolde replied with a faint smile, tilting her head back. “It’s a waste to leave buried talent buried.” She exuded that irritating ease of command, the kind that made one feel simultaneously included and subtly manipulated. Astarion almost envied the woman’s ability to leverage perception and influence. Ysolde may have appeared relaxed, but her reach extended far, and every word was calculated.

“What does it matter whether he’s the elder brother or the younger? The cream should rise to the top!”

The simplicity of Ysolde’s statement was almost disarming. Astarion knew the sentiment had merit, yet he also understood the careful handling it required to avoid unforeseen consequences.

Astarion straightened the remaining papers and passed them to an attendant, who whisked them away with professional efficiency. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary on the edges of the stack, as if savoring control over the precise order of his environment.

“Incidentally,” Astarion said, “I wanted to ask you about something—the matter we discussed before.”

The topic was unmistakably the courtesan they had observed earlier. Ysolde, ever the master of playful ambiguity, put her hands to her cheeks and let a sly grin spread across her face.

“If you want to know about that world,” she said, rising with fluid grace, “better to ask someone who comes from it.” The official attending her exhaled, clearly relieved to leave the office without further engagement.

“Hah, I see it’s that time. My lackeys won’t forgive me if I keep them waiting,” Ysolde added lightly, finishing the last of her juice with a delicate tilt of her glass.

She placed the remaining bottle on Astarion’s desk with a soft clink, the sound cutting through the quiet like a small punctuation mark.

“Let your little serving omegas have it, or something,” she said casually, waving toward Astarion with a hand adorned with faint calluses. “It’s easy on the throat—not too sweet.”

“See you tomorrow,” she added, giving a half-bow that was almost mocking, then stepped out, leaving only the lingering scent of citrus and polished wood behind her. The office seemed suddenly quieter, the faint echo of her presence still hanging in the corners.

Astarion allowed himself a slow exhale, leaning back in his chair, eyes tracing the sunlight that had shifted across the floorboards. Every interaction was a chess move, and even Ysolde’s playful manner concealed layers of intent. He reached for a fresh sheet of paper and began to write notes, cataloging the encounter meticulously—not just for the record, but for the subtle nuances he might exploit later.

Chapter 9: Ysolde

Summary:

The true nature behind Ysolde’s interest in Gale is revealed.

The night before, Gale had been plagued by a strange dream. He dreamed of long ago—or rather, of something that must have happened long ago, for there was no way he should have been able to remember it. He wasn’t sure if what he dreamed of had even really occurred.

It must have been visiting that omega, he thought. Brought old memories clawing back from the dark.

In the dream, a grown omega had looked down on him from above. His hair was in wild disarray, tumbling around a drawn, desperate face. His eyes glinted hungrily, sharp as a starving wolf’s, and his makeup flaked at the edges, rouge smeared unevenly across trembling lips.

He reached out and seized Gale’s hand. His skin was stippled with minuscule welts, like a leaf mottled and curling in autumn.

In his other hand, he grasped a knife. The hand that held Gale’s was swaddled in bleached cotton cloths, layer after layer, all seeping red. The fluttering strips smelled of iron—rusty, wet, and faintly sweet.

A sound escaped Gale’s throat, pitiful and small, more mewl than voice. He realized, with a hot sting down his cheeks, that he was crying.

His hand was pressed hard against the bed, pinned there. The omega raised the knife high, his lips trembling, contorted, his swollen eyes still spilling tears.

Fool omega.

The knife descended—

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“Goodness, are you tired? I’m afraid bedtime won’t be for a little while yet,” Estra’s voice cut cleanly into the waking world. Gale blinked and yawned. The old omega sounded polite, but she was a notorious disciplinarian. Gale straightened at once, forcing focus back onto the silver vessel he was polishing. He would be practically begging for trouble if he seemed sluggish, especially the day after taking time off. The fact that it was evening offered no excuse.

“I’m quite fine, ma’am,” Gale said, forcing steadiness into his tone. It had only been a dream, strange or not. He’d assumed that if he threw himself into the routine of his work, it would soon slip away. Yet the images had clung to him all day, an unwanted shadow at the edge of his thoughts. This isn’t like me, he thought, a rueful smile twitching briefly across his lips.

He was stacking the dishes back onto the shelf—clatter, clatter—when rapid footsteps echoed down the hall. The honey candles burned low in the sconces, their sweet scent hanging heavy in the room. Their master had returned. Estra plucked one of the polished dishes from Gale’s stack and began preparing a tray.

Astarion trooped through the living area, cloak trailing faint dust from the street, and appeared in the kitchen. “A gift, from a weirdo. Share it with Estra.” He set a bottle down on the table with deliberate carelessness.

The “weirdo” could only have been Ysolde, that particularly nettlesome official who had been circling him like a hawk in recent weeks.

Gale undid the stopper. A sharp, citrusy odor rose at once, sour yet cloying at the edges. Some kind of juice, he guessed. “We’re accepting gifts from weirdos now, are we?” His voice was perfectly flat.

Astarion had already retreated into the living area, collapsing into the couch with a languid sprawl. Gale, unimpressed, fed a few more coals into the brazier, the flames crackling with renewed life.

Ulder, ever watchful, noted aloud that the coal supply was running dangerously low before slipping out. Going to fetch more, Gale figured. Now there was an alpha one could rely on—solid, steady, and practical.

Astarion scratched vigorously at his head, wholly without decorum, then fixed his gaze on Gale. “Are you familiar with the regulars at the Verdant House?” he asked.

Gale tilted his head, caught off guard by the question. “If they’re conspicuous enough about it, yes.”

“What kind of people go there?”

“That’s confidential,” Gale replied at once, clipped and cool.

Astarion’s brow furrowed at the brusque refusal. After a pause, his expression softened; he realized he had come at the matter sideways. He tried again, his tone more careful this time, each word chosen like a tool being laid out for delicate use.

“Let me ask you this, then. How would one go about reducing the price of a courtesan?”

“What a distressing topic.” Gale huffed, though his voice carried that professorial lilt that suggested he secretly relished being asked his opinion. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, then reached for a small brass burner, polishing it with the sleeve of his robe as though he needed something for his hands to do. “But there are any number of ways. Especially when it comes to the top-ranked omegas.”

The most renowned courtesans, the most carefully cultivated blossoms, were never working constantly. They didn’t have to. Some might only accept patrons a handful of times in a season. The daily grind of entertaining customer after customer—that belonged to the “night walkers,” omegas who lived by necessity rather than refinement. A courtesan of high rank made themselves scarce, and in that scarcity lay them power. By withdrawing, by being glimpsed only rarely in the corridor of lantern light or behind a painted screen, they let others build their reputation for them. The less they were seen, the more luminous they became in the imagination.

Such omegas drew suitors by means of cultivated artistry: singing, dancing, playing the lute, reciting verse, conducting polite conversation with wit and grace. At Verdant House, apprentices began with the same foundation: learning letters, etiquette, embroidery, calligraphy, the rudiments of music. Then came the division. Those with plain features or little promise were quietly directed toward more immediate service, taking customers as soon as they had made their debut. They had no arts to sell, only their bodies, and they survived as best they could.

But those with promise were given a different path. Their early encounters consisted of tea poured into porcelain cups, of conversation that left a patron leaning forward in their seat, of little songs hummed while fingers danced along a stringed instrument. Their skill was not measured by how quickly they could please, but by how long they could keep someone waiting. If they proved themselves truly gifted—if they could ensnare with intelligence, with charm, with the mere tilt of a smile—then their value grew like a gem being cut. And if they were rarely permitted to be seen at all, if customers were turned away time and again? Then desire only sharpened, until an evening’s companionship could command a year’s salary in silver.

There were even omegas whose contracts were eventually bought out, carried away like a prize jewel, without anyone in all those years ever having laid a hand upon them. That, too, was fantasy. Everyone wanted to be the one to pluck the untouched blossom.

“A flower is valuable because it’s untouched,” Gale murmured, setting the brass burner down at last and striking a taper. The incense caught, coiling pale tendrils of smoke into the still air. He had lit it for Astarion, who had been visibly weary of late, but tonight he found the scent a balm to himself as well. Sandalwood, faintly bitter, faintly sweet. He exhaled into the curling smoke. “Once someone picks it, its value immediately drops by at least half. But there’s more...”

He sighed softly, eyes half-lidded as if watching the memories take shape in the drifting incense. “If such an omega were to become with child, their value would be practically nothing.” His tone was as flat as a ledger, but a heaviness hung beneath the words, like something sour at the root of them.

It was all because of that stupid dream.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

Astarion exhaled through his teeth as he pressed his chop to a waiting document, blotting the page more heavily than he intended. He set it aside with a faint grimace. He could not shake the words of the apothecary’s son from his head, the way he had spoken last night—solemn, certain, as if he had seen the future written out before him. It gnawed at him in every quiet moment.

And then, as if summoned by irritation itself, the one alpha most likely to know the answer to his unspoken question appeared.

“Hello, hello.” The door rattled once with a perfunctory knock before swinging wide. Ysolde stepped in, foxlike grin plastered across her face, as though the room already belonged to her. She had come exactly when she’d promised she would yesterday. Worse, she had come bearing furniture: a poor, sweating subordinate lugged in a couch upholstered in wine-red brocade and set it down with a thump heavy enough to stir the ink wells on the desk.

Astarion bit back the urge to roll his eyes. He could already feel the woman’s presence crowding the room, could already taste the length of the visit in the way Ysolde lounged across the new seat as though it had always been hers.

“Shall we pick up where we left off yesterday?” Ysolde asked, breezy as ever. She reached into a lacquered case and withdrew a slim bottle of juice, pouring it into a delicate glass without so much as asking if anyone else wished for some. She had also brought food: a golden pastry, buttery and fragrant, which she plunked directly on top of a stack of paperwork.

The oil bled outward almost immediately, seeping into inked lines and stamped seals.

Ulder, entering at that very moment with a ledger tucked beneath his arm, stopped dead. His expression crumpled into despair as he took in the sight of butter pooling onto the fiscal records. With a groan that seemed pulled from the depths of his soul, he clutched his forehead in both hands, muttering something about the gods testing him.

“It seems, sir, that you did something quite reprehensible,” Astarion said as he pressed his chop to another piece of paper. The words came out drier than he intended. He hardly registered what the document even said, but Ulder, standing behind him with arms folded like an executioner, didn’t speak up—so it was probably fine.

Based on what Gale had told him, Astarion had a fairly good idea of what this wily creature must have done. And after that thought came another, equally unwelcome one. Namely, that her actions weren’t incomprehensible. That they had a consistency. Even a certain logic. He thought he understood why Ysolde had begun with talk of buying out a contract at the Verdant house, why she had mentioned her old “friend.” But Astarion didn’t want to admit the implications. To do so would be to invite yet more trouble.

“Reprehensible? How rude. And the last thing I want to hear from a thieving little magpie.” Ysolde’s eye narrowed behind her monocle, and then she laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh; it was like glass splintering. “I had finally brought the old omega around, do you know that? Ten years of work. Ten years! And then you swoop in and snatch him away from me—just imagine how that feels.” She gestured with her glass, juice spilling down the sides as the ice clinked like bones in a cup.

“Are you saying I should give back your shiny trinket?”

By this, Astarion meant the reticent young omega.

“No, keep it. I don’t want to get stuck in the same rut as before.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

“Then what could I possibly do? I could count on one hand the number of people who could go against your will, milord.”

Ysolde was resolute about never saying quite what she meant. It drove Astarion to distraction. She knew exactly who and what he was; otherwise she never would have dared speak so lightly, so tauntingly. But the logic was there, buried under the mockery.

Ysolde removed her monocle, polished it with a flourish, and replaced it—on the other eye this time. A trick, an affectation, something to remind her audience that she always held the upper hand. Astarion had always known she was a strange one. “But I do wonder what my, ahem, little omega will think.”

The way she lingered on the words little omega—ugh. It made Astarion’s stomach twist. And it confirmed what he had most dreaded: much as he resisted admitting it, Ysolde was not speaking metaphorically.

Oh.

Ysolde was Gale’s mother.

Astarion finally stopped stamping paperwork. The silence in the office deepened until even the rustle of Ulder’s sleeves sounded loud.

“Could you let him know I’ll be popping by for a visit one of these days?” Ysolde said breezily, as if arranging tea. Then she swept from the office, licking butter from her fingers as she went. She left the couch dragged into the corner exactly where it stood, as though planting a flag. The message was clear: she would be back.

Almost in unison, Astarion and Ulder bowed their heads and loosed great, weary sighs.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“I met an official who said she’d like to see you,” Astarion told Gale as soon as he returned to his room. The words felt heavy, poisonous, but he knew keeping them back would only worsen the matter.

“And who is this official?” Gale asked. Astarion thought he caught the faintest flicker of unease behind his otherwise stony expression, the tiniest fracture in his calm. His voice, however, was as flat and toneless as ever.

“Ahem. Her name is Ysolde...”

No sooner were the words out than Gale’s composure shattered. His eyes widened, his pupils sharp with alarm, and he took an involuntary step back from him. Until this moment he had looked at him like a beetle, a dried-out earthworm, mud, dust, a slug, even a flattened frog—demeaning comparisons, every one of them. But Astarion realized in that instant that all of those had been almost gentle compared to the look he gave him now.

It was not contempt. It was not disdain. It was pure, unbridled fury and loathing, cold as iron and bright as fire. He looked as though he might tear him open and pour molten metal into his chest until not even ash remained.

That one look told him everything he needed to know about how Gale felt toward his true mother. It was not merely dislike—it was hatred, bone-deep and irrevocable.

“I’ll turn her down. Somehow,” Astarion managed, still faintly dazed. His tongue felt heavy, his throat dry. It was a wonder his heart hadn’t stopped already.

“Thank you, sir.” Gale, for his part, smoothed his face back into its usual expressionless mask, sat, and resumed his work as though nothing had happened. But Astarion could still feel the echo of that look on his skin, a scorch mark he would not soon forget.

Chapter 10: Mystra

Notes:

I just had surgery so I've been editing this in the moments of lucidity between doses of pain meds.

So he knew. He’d had a feeling about the person Astarion had been talking about the other day. That suspicion sat like a pebble in his shoe—never painful enough to make him stumble, but always present, always irritating. He was, after all, part of the reason Gale diligently avoided going anywhere near the military encampment.

He exhaled, watching his breath fog pale and ghostly in the cold air. Winter still clung to the earth with stubborn fingers; the thaw felt impossibly far away. His knuckles ached with the chill, each joint stiff, and his breath came out in shallow plumes as though the frost were pressing against his ribs.

The house was empty of its masters. Astarion and Ulder had left first thing that morning, and their absence seemed to strip the rooms of warmth. Gale knew Astarion’s habits now, well enough to predict his movements like clockwork. Every two weeks, without fail, came the ritual: the long bath the night before, hot steam curling thick as fog around the tiled chamber; the heavy perfume of incense smoldering in its bowls; the sense of anticipation—unspoken, but charged—before dawn broke and he and Ulder disappeared into the streets together.

Gale took advantage of these days. With no eyes but Estra’s upon him, he could polish the floors without interruption. He worked the rag back and forth across the boards, the repetitive motion steadying him, though his fingers were raw and pink from the cold. The sharp scent of cleaning oil clung to his hands, masking the faint smell of smoke left over from Astarion’s incense.

Estra lingered, leaning against the doorframe. She never raised her voice, never snapped, but her watchfulness was like iron—mild only in tone, never in effect. Gale knew better than to falter beneath that gaze.

At last, when he had dusted nearly half the building, Estra relented. “That will do. For now. Come—tea.”

Grateful, Gale followed her to the kitchen. They sat at the round table, their cups steaming between their palms. The tea leaves were not new, but their quality spoke for itself; the aroma filled the air, sweet and fragrant. Gale sipped carefully, savoring what little warmth it offered as it slid down his throat.

A plate of sesame balls sat on the table, golden and glistening with syrup. Gale bit into one. Sweetness burst over his tongue—cloying, but not unpleasant. He smiled faintly, swallowing quickly, though what he longed for was salt, something sharp and bracing to cut through the sugar.

He said nothing. Best not to.

Estra, by contrast, crunched happily on a stack of grilled rice crackers. The sound—crisp, decisive—was enough to make Gale’s mouth water. Their salty tang perfumed the air.

“Ah,” Estra sighed, licking a fleck of salt from her finger. “That flavor is like an addiction.”

Gale’s hand twitched toward the dish. But before he could even brush the edge of the plate, Estra deftly snapped up the last cracker and popped it into her mouth, chewing with exaggerated relish. Her eyes, faintly amused, slid to his.

Yes. She had done it on purpose. Disagreeable to the last.

So he contented himself with his sesame ball, the sticky sweetness turning leaden in his mouth. He swallowed and, as always, found himself the listener. Omegas chattered endlessly in the pleasure district and rear palace; with Estra, the words were fewer, but no less one-sided. Her conversation circled inevitably back to the master of the house.

“The meal tonight will be vegetarian,” Estra remarked, “So make sure you’re not sneaking any meat or fish. I’ll know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gale said smoothly, but his mind turned the words over. Vegetarian. Ritual purification. Such preparations were common before rites, though rites were the province of aristocrats, or those chosen to serve the gods. But Astarion was neither priest nor court functionary.

Can eunuchs even perform rites? he wondered, the thought prickling at the edge of his mind.

There were so many things about Astarion that didn’t fit. His noble birth alone should have secured him a very different life. Instead, he bore the scars of an unmendable choice. Gale thought of the former empress dowager—an omega of ruthless intelligence, whose will had kept an empire from crumbling while his son fumbled through his reign. He had taken what he wanted, remade what he deemed necessary. Gale’s own mother had been one of those casualties, stripped of what made her whole, pressed into service at his whim.

It was all too easy to imagine that Astarion had been marked in the same way.

“Oh, and I need you to run a little errand this afternoon,” Estra said, interrupting his thoughts. She spoke briskly, like snapping a fan shut. “Go to the doctor and fetch some medicine—”

“Yes, ma’am!” Gale blurted, a little too quickly. His voice cracked the stillness of the room.

Estra’s eyebrow arched in faint mockery. “If only you were always so enthusiastic.” She tipped the last crumbs of salt from her hand into her mouth, then brushed her fingers delicately against her sleeve.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The medical office was tucked against the eastern wall of the outer palace, just a stone’s throw from the military headquarters. Perhaps that was by design—convenience for all the wounds, fevers, and broken bones the barracks produced. Gale recalled what Astarion had once said about this physician: competent, discreet, sought after. But Astarion’s interest had been personal. Gale’s was sharpened by something else entirely.

By comparison, the rear palace had been cursed with a quack whose remedies were little better than superstition—a waste of everyone’s time and suffering. Gale’s curiosity to see how the outer court handled things had grown steadily since.

“I’ve come to pick up some medicine,” Gale said, presenting the tag Estra had pressed into his hand earlier.

The doctor was an alpha, her sharp cheekbones casting angular shadows in the lamplight. She examined the tag, then inclined her head without a word. “Sit down. I’ll fetch it,” she said, before disappearing into the back room.

Gale settled onto the bench. The air struck him at once—thick with acrid smoke and the bitter perfume of dried herbs. It clung to his tongue, as though he’d swallowed a cup of steeped leaves too strong to drink. His eyes drifted to the desk where the doctor had been sitting: a mortar and pestle, its contents half-crushed, still damp with oils.

With effort, he restrained himself. His gaze kept sliding toward the narrow doorway into the back room, where he knew rows of jars and packets must be waiting. His hands itched to explore, to catalogue every remedy, every tincture, to know them by scent and texture.

No, he told himself firmly. Stay put. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

And yet his body betrayed him—he found himself leaning forward, legs tensed as if to rise, already half-drifting toward the forbidden room.

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

The cold voice snapped through his thoughts like a whip. Gale jolted upright, heat rising in his cheeks. Standing behind him was an omega he recognized at once: tall, severe, with a gaze that left no space for excuses. It was the same court omega he had run into before, the one whose presence had set his nerves on edge.

Gale realized, with no small amount of mortification, that he must look profoundly suspicious—caught hovering like a thief outside the storeroom. He hurried back to the bench and plastered on an innocent smile.

“Just waiting for some medicine,” he said lightly.

The omega’s expression remained unchanged, cold as glass. She looked as though she wanted to say more, but before she could, the doctor reemerged, a small packet of medicine in her hand.

“Oh, Mystra. When did you get here?” she asked, her tone suddenly lighter, almost indulgent.

The omega—Mystra—frowned faintly, unimpressed by his attempt at familiarity. “I’ve come to restock the supplies they keep at the guardhouse,” she replied coolly. The way she said guardhouse suggested she meant the military encampment nearby.

Now that Gale thought about it, he realized the last time he had crossed paths with Mystra, it had also been in the vicinity of the military quarter. He had felt then, unreasonably perhaps, that she bore him a private dislike. The way she looked at him now—an expression hovering between disdain and impatience—only reinforced that suspicion.

So that’s why she smelled of herbs before, Gale thought.

“I’ve got everything right here,” the doctor said, setting a neat parcel of jars and packets on the counter for Mystra. “Anything else you need?”

“Not to speak of. I bid you good day.” Mystra accepted the medicine with practiced efficiency and swept out, leaving behind a faint trace of bitter scent.

The doctor’s ingratiating smile faltered the moment she was gone. She almost looked wistful, until she realized Gale was watching her. Then his expression hardened; she thrust the waiting packet at Gale with a scowl.

“So that’s how it is,” Gale thought, studying the disappointment on the doctor’s face. Too easy to read, far too easy.

“Does that omega work with the military?” Gale asked idly, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“Yes,” the doctor said shortly. Then, with a grimace: “Though there’s no need for a qualified omega of the outer court to handle that sort of thing…”

Gale tilted his head, expecting elaboration. The physician only shook her head. “It’s nothing. Anyway—here’s your medicine.” she shoved the packet into Gale’s hands and flicked her wrist in a dismissive wave. Go. Out.

Apparently, Gale had touched on something he ought not have. What exactly, he couldn’t say.

Something a court omega wouldn’t normally handle? The thought pricked him again, though he doubted it was worth unraveling here and now. He slipped the packet open just far enough to peek inside.

Powder. Pale, fine, almost flour-like. Curious, he dipped a fingertip in and touched it to his tongue.

“Is this…potato dust?” he muttered, grimacing.

He left the office still frowning, the packet clutched in his hand, his thoughts a tangle of suspicion and bafflement.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“Do you need anything from the doctor’s office today?” Gale asked, casting a hopeful glance at Estra. But the omega-in-waiting was not to be outfoxed.

“I won’t have you slacking off,” she said firmly, setting her jaw in that implacable way she had.

I don’t think of it as slacking, Gale thought, biting back a sigh. He was simply eager—aching, really—for even the faintest sniff of that rich, bitter aroma of medicine.

“On that note,” Estra said, drying her hands on her apron with deliberate slowness, “I gather you’ve quietly been using our storage room to keep some unusual herbs. I don’t want that to continue.”

She never missed her chance to twist the knife. Gale’s face screwed into a scowl as he squeezed out a rag and went back to scrubbing the floor. Estra was a far more fearsome force than the head omega-in-waiting of the Jade Pavilion. Perhaps age truly did bring cunning, for she had a way of cutting right to the quick.

“If you feel you haven’t enough space in your room,” Estra continued, “you might try speaking to Master Astarion. We have more than enough rooms here. If you only ask, you might be surprised at how accommodating he can be.” Her tone was unusually cheerful, which only made Gale more suspicious.

He wondered if that was true. After all, Astarion had turned his request for a stable down flat without even blinking.

“No, ma’am,” Gale said at last. “I could never turn a noble’s residence into medicinal storage.”

Estra lifted a surprised hand to her mouth as she took a seat. “You don’t look like the sort who would care, Gustling, but you always turn out to be so circumspect.”

“I’m only a low-born young omega,” Gale said softly. “No one is more surprised than I am to find myself here.”

“I can understand that. But...” Estra’s eyes grew distant as she gazed out the window. Flurries of snow drifted down, pale and fragile, like drifting ash. “I urge you not to imagine that those who are high-born are fundamentally different creatures from you. None of us, however princely or however poor, know what will happen in our lives. That uncertainty alone unites us across every divide.”

“You think so, ma’am?” Gale asked, uncertain whether she was speaking from wisdom or from old wounds.

“I very much do,” Estra replied with a small, genuine smile. She stood, hefting a large wicker basket stuffed to the brim with refuse. “And now it’s time to work, Gustling. Do you think you could go throw this away for me?”

The basket came up nearly to Gale’s chest and looked heavy enough to tip him over. Estra’s placid smile was unmovable.

Not just any servant could be trusted to dispose of trash from Astarion’s residence. Too many prying eyes and greedy hands would gladly rifle through it for anything that might yield an advantage.

“The way to the trash pit goes past the doctor’s office,” Estra said. “If all you do is walk past it, I certainly don’t mind.”

That’s not a favor—that’s torture, Gale thought, but he obediently bent his knees and hauled the basket onto his back, wobbling under the weight.

Later, as he studied the deep red grooves the straps had left on his shoulders, he marveled at how much must have been packed in there. At least no spy would be pawing through that particular noble’s garbage now; the whole lot had gone up in smoke. As for Gale, all he could do was sigh at how blithely his so-called betters caused work for everyone else.

He had just turned back when something caught his eye.

Is that what I think it is?!

Not far from the pit stood a low building—judging by the muffled neighing and stamping hooves, it was a stable. Patches of wild grass, scraggly but defiant against winter’s grip, grew nearby. But Gale’s trained eyes spotted the difference immediately. Not all of it was common forage.

He glanced left, then right, then dashed forward, dropping to his knees. To the untrained eye, it was only withered grass, the kind that smelled faint and lifeless in the cold. But when he tugged it from the frozen soil, the truth revealed itself: long roots, ending in a small but unmistakable tuber-like growth.

It was a wild plant frequently used to flavor medicine; in and of itself, it wasn’t that unusual. What was unusual was finding it growing seemingly at random among a patch of rough grasses behind the stables.

Lots of fertilizer out here, maybe? Gale thought, fingering the wiry stalks. But no—something about the soil, the light, the way it clung among ordinary weeds—it didn’t belong here.

He scanned the yard again. Just beyond the fence, a modest rise of earth drew his eye. The hill was modest, hardly more than a mound, but its slope was covered in a profusion of herbs that looked distinctly medicinal. His pulse quickened. Putting down the basket, he trotted up the incline and crouched at the crest.

A whole patch stretched before him, tucked away as though someone had secreted it here: soil soft and dark, flower stems nodding in the cold breeze, the faint tang of medicine drifting on the air. Though winter had leeched most of the color from the blossoms, it was enough to make Gale’s eyes gleam. He bent closer, fingers hovering reverently over the leaves, cataloguing textures and scents with the avidity of a scholar.

He had just started to distinguish root from root, muttering identifications under his breath, when a set of footsteps padded softly over the soil behind him. They were too steady to be another servant’s idle wandering. He stiffened.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” asked a sharp, irritable voice.

Gale froze, still crouched, and turned his head. A tall woman—likely an omega—stood at the edge of the patch, brown hair loose around her shoulders, a small basket hooked in one hand and a sickle in the other. The doctor had called her Mystra.

Shit. Gale’s mind raced. From this angle, with his hands already half-buried in the dirt, he looked every bit a thief. He lifted them, palms open. “Please, ma’am—there’s no cause for alarm. I haven’t picked anything. Not yet.”

“Meaning you were about to?” Mystra arched a brow, but after a pause, she lowered the sickle to the earth, setting it neatly beside her basket. Her calm was worse than if she’d shouted.

“Any farmer would want to inspect such a fine field,” Gale said lightly, forcing a crooked smile.

“And what palace is peopled with farmers?” she shot back.

He winced inwardly. It had sounded cleverer in his head.

Mystra sighed through her nose. “I’m not here to hang you by your thumbs. This garden isn’t even technically allowed. Still—if you’re wise, you’ll stay away. The doctor comes here from time to time, and she’s not as forgiving.” She crouched and began pulling weeds as if the matter were settled.

Gale tilted his head. “So you’re in charge of this place?”

“Sort of. They let me plant what I like.” Her tone was flat, uninterested.

To Gale’s ear, she sounded disaffected—disenchanted with the very work she tended. A kindred spirit, perhaps, though she had no trouble joining the other court omegas when they teased him.

“And what is it you like to plant?” he asked.

She paused only briefly before answering, eyes flat as glass. “A medicine to revive the dead.”

Gale’s heart stuttered. His whole body tensed with the urge to seize her shoulders and demand details. Only the sight of the sickle kept his reason intact.

Then, at the exact moment his hope peaked, Mystra’s mouth curved into something cold. “I’m joking.”

The devastation must have been plain in Gale’s face, because she gave a low, humorless laugh. “Word is you’re an apothecary.”

He didn’t bother asking how she knew. He only nodded.

Mystra trimmed dead leaves from a stalk with a practiced flick. “I wonder just how good an apothecary.” There was a barb in her tone, a quiet test.

“Good question,” Gale replied dryly.

“Mm.” She stood, tucking a few herbs into her basket. “I plant morning glories here every year. Not the season yet.” Without another glance, she slung the sickle over her arm and started back down the hill.

Gale remained crouched, staring after her, Mystra’s words echoing in his mind. A medicine to revive the dead...

If such a thing existed, he would trade anything to obtain it. Humanity had chased immortality since its first breath; why shouldn’t it be real? And yet... could something so miraculous exist here, tucked in a forbidden garden behind a stable?

He shook his head, trying to smother the fever of longing. His gaze lingered on the field anyway, the apothecary in him itching to gather, the courtier in him warning restraint. The struggle left him torn—and late.

By the time he returned, Estra’s verdict was unspoken but absolute: Gale found himself polishing every beam in the room, from floorboards to rafters, as punishment for his tardiness.

Chapter 11: Chance

Summary:

Rolan approaches Gale to discuss a series of incidents that may or may not be connected.

Gale was polishing a brass lantern in one of the quieter hallways of the Outer Court, the kind of idle work that often left him alone with his thoughts. The faint tang of oil and metal clung to his hands, the repetitive motions soothing in their way. That peace was broken by the sound of bootsteps—quick, uneven, almost desperate.

When he looked up, he saw Rolan. The large officer was bearing down on him in a state of visible agitation. His normally neat sash was twisted, his hair damp with sweat despite the morning cool. For a man so often collected, he looked distinctly rattled.

“What’s going on?” Gale asked, carefully setting down his cloth. Rolan wouldn’t have sought him out here—not unless the matter was serious.

“No time for chitchat! There’s trouble!” Rolan’s voice came out rough, pitched lower than usual as if he were trying not to draw attention.

“And what might that be?” Gale’s tone was mild, but his eyes sharpened. Rolan was not in the habit of chasing errands; if he was here, urgency was at play.

“You remember the fire at that storehouse?” Rolan demanded, already half-shifting from foot to foot. “Later, we found out that on the very same day, another storehouse was burglarized.”

“Ah,” Gale said, inclining his head slightly. “A distraction.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Fire for show, burglary for profit.” Rolan grunted. “Couldn’t have been coincidence.”

“And what was taken?” Gale asked, folding his arms. His mind was already running possibilities, tracing how far such a diversion might reach.

Rolan hesitated. His gaze slid left, then right, as though the shadows themselves might be listening. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Not here.”

That in itself was telling. Gale followed as Rolan led him out into the garden. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and the air shimmered faintly with heat. They crossed a stone path, then ducked beneath a stand of ginkgo, where the branches muffled sound and the scent of crushed grass mixed with earth.

There, Rolan squatted heavily in the shade, his large frame making the motion almost comical. He tapped a calloused finger against the side of his nose and muttered, “Some ritual implements went missing.”

“Ritual implements?” Gale repeated, frowning. Of all the things to steal, the choice seemed oddly specific.

“Yeah. Several pieces, we think. Trouble is, nobody’s sure exactly what.” Rolan rubbed the back of his neck, looking exasperated. “Inventory’s a mess. You can’t even tell what was supposed to be there.”

“That strains belief.” Gale’s eyes narrowed. “Was the keeper of the storehouse so careless?”

“No. It’s not that simple.” Rolan sighed and shook his head. “The man who oversaw it died last year. Important fellow, had the whole thing running tight. Since then… chaos. Files scattered, authority passed around, no one truly responsible.”

“Ah.” Gale tilted his head. Bureaucracy left unchecked could be as destructive as any fire. “Perhaps you could ask whoever worked under him? Someone must have kept the records.”

Another grimace crossed Rolan’s face. “There’s a wrinkle there, too. The deputy in charge came down with food poisoning just after the fire. Bad case, real bad. He hasn’t woken since.”

Gale stilled, the pieces sliding into place with disquieting speed. Fire, theft, now a conveniently indisposed clerk. His memory stirred—hadn’t he heard of such a poisoning? Almost at the exact time as the fire?

“That wouldn’t happen to be the clerk-gourmand, would it?” he asked.

Rolan’s eyes widened, shock breaking through his usual blunt expression. “How do you know about that?”

Gale gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s a long story.”

Yet even as he said it, his mind was racing. Three events, circling one another like hounds on a trail. Coincidence was always possible, but three in such quick succession? No. That smacked of orchestration.

He looked back at Rolan. “You mentioned the official who passed last year. What sort of man was he?”

Rolan tapped his temple, face screwing up in effort. “Some old stickler, always harping on principle. Never bent a rule, never cracked a smile. Blast, what was his name? He had a sweet tooth, that much I remember—sweets all the time.”

“Master Cullagh,” Gale supplied without hesitation. Astarion had spoken of him often enough: the straitlaced bureaucrat with a fondness for sugared plums, whose sudden death from too much salt had thrown the entire office into disarray.

“Yes! That’s it!” Rolan slapped a fist into his palm, then paused, narrowing his eyes at Gale. “Wait… how do you know about him too?"

Gale’s lips curved in a wry, almost weary smile. “It’s a long story.”

Rolan’s surprise was understandable. Gale was by no means enough of an optimist to assume all these coincidences could be, well, mere coincidence. Each mishap looked like an accident in isolation. But as the case of the poisoned blowfish had proven, what seemed accidental could, in fact, be intentional. Threads pulled together; patterns began to emerge. Was it possible, then, that all these incidents were not chance at all, but deliberate?

He watched Rolan carefully before breaking the silence. “I’m sorry, Master Rolan, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Right! That’s what I came here to talk to you about!” Rolan exclaimed, scrambling into the satchel slung across his broad chest. He rummaged noisily, then pulled something out—a slender object wrapped in soft cloth. He offered it forward like a conjurer about to reveal his trick. When the covering fell back, Gale found himself staring at the ivory pipe he had unearthed in the ashes of the burned storehouse.

For a heartbeat, Gale only regarded it, the pale surface catching the light with a soft gleam. “That,” he said finally, “was supposed to be returned to its owner.”

“I know, I know!” Rolan said quickly, shifting his weight as if he expected Gale to scold him. “The watchman told me to keep it. Said he didn’t want it anymore.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed. That particular watchman had been dismissed in disgrace, cast out when blame for the fire fell on him. At the time, Gale had assumed the pipe a curious extravagance—a thing far too fine for a low-ranking guard. Yet now, knowing it had been a gift, the pieces fell differently. Someone had been very generous indeed. And generosity, in his experience, was rarely free.

“He said one of the omegas of the Outer Court gave it to him,” Rolan went on, lowering his voice as though the shadows of the courtyard might be listening. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Why would one of them hand something like this to a mere watchman?”

“It might make sense, depending on the person.” Gale’s tone was mild, though his thoughts sharpened. “When courtesans receive gifts from patrons they despise, they’ll often sell them or pass them on. But there’s another possibility.” He glanced at the pipe again, imagining it being pressed into the guard’s hands. “Perhaps she knew he would want to put such a rich gift to immediate use.”

Not everyone would, but many would. And if that was the omega’s true intent, then she must have known exactly what would follow: the guard distracted, the fire drawing attention, security thinned elsewhere. The perfect time to slip past unnoticed.

Rolan, sensing Gale’s unspoken conclusion, grimaced. “Unfortunately, the man said he couldn’t see her face. Said it was too dark.”

“A female omega of the Outer Court wandering alone at night,” Gale mused, more to himself than to Rolan. “That is peculiar.”

“The watchman thought so too,” Rolan said, nodding. “He found her near the storehouse, collar pulled high so you couldn’t even see her chin. He offered to walk her back to the gates for her safety. She thanked him… by giving him the pipe.” He snorted, incredulous. “Some thanks.”

“And he noticed nothing else?” Gale prompted.

“Only that she seemed unusually tall for an omega,” Rolan said after a pause. He hesitated, then added, “And… that she smelled faintly of medicine.

Gale’s head tilted. His mind instantly conjured images: drying herbs strung on cords, pestles grinding powder in porcelain bowls, the sharp tang of roots steeped in alcohol. Medicine. A dangerous word, in the wrong context.

“Medicine?” he repeated, his voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t worry, I know it wasn’t you,” Rolan said quickly. “He said tall and female, remember? But still—sounds like anyone you know?”

Rolan might look the part of a bumbling giant, but there was a surprising sharpness beneath the surface. Gale felt unease ripple through him, though he kept it concealed. I can’t exactly claim ignorance, he thought grimly. He could confess his suspicions then and there, but his father’s voice cut in—do not draw conclusions from assumptions.

He let the thought settle, then shifted course. “Has anything else unusual happened, aside from the accidents you’ve mentioned?”

Rolan raised his brows. “That sounds like a portentous question if I ever heard one. Honestly, I wouldn’t have connected even this much without your hints. Are you saying there’s something else I should be sniffing out?”

“Possibly. Or possibly not.”

“Which is it?” Rolan said, throwing up his hands.

Gale bent, plucking up a stick from the ground. He drew a slow circle in the dirt between them. “Two things can happen coincidentally.” Another circle, overlapping the first. “Three things may still be chance.” A third circle joined them. “But don’t you agree, Rolan, that at some point… coincidence ceases to be coincidence, and becomes design?”

Rolan stared at the overlapping rings of dirt, the weight of Gale’s words sinking like a stone in water. Somewhere, unseen, the scent of medicine seemed to linger in the air.

He filled in the segment at the center of his three overlapping circles with a neat stroke of ink.

“Suppose this omega of the Outer Court—if that’s what she truly is—stands at the nexus of these deliberate coincidences.”

“I get it!” Rolan burst out, his heavy hands clapping together with a crack like a celebratory firework. The sound carried through the courtyard, startling a pair of doves from the eaves.

Gale’s quill paused. For an instant, an image of Mystra surfaced unbidden in his mind—her hand guiding his, her smile inscrutable—but he dismissed the thought as neither here nor there.

“You’re smarter than you look,” Rolan went on, grinning as though he’d just solved the puzzle himself. He slapped Gale on the shoulder with a companionable thump.

“And you’re just as stupidly strong as you look, Master Rolan,” Gale replied, arching a brow. “So please do be careful with where you place that strength.”

Rolan’s grin faltered, a faint chill settling over him as he caught the simmer of disapproval in Gale’s eyes. He turned slightly, as if to shake it off—only to realize that Gale wasn’t the only one fixing him with a sharp look.

“I’m glad to see you’re having fun.”

The voice slipped across the courtyard like velvet laced with glass. Smooth. Gorgeous. Cutting. Rolan started, and instinctively stepped back when he saw who had spoken.

“I’m not particularly having fun at all,” Gale said at once, his voice cool, measured.

Astarion was standing in the shade of an old plane tree, half-hidden, pale skin luminous against the dappled leaves. His eyes, keen and unreadable, lingered on Rolan with a predator’s patience. Behind him, Ulder waited in silence, his brow furrowed in its usual expression of chagrin, though Gale thought it looked sharper now, almost protective.

The great mutt gave a low whine and slunk away toward the outer wall, leaving Gale alone with Astarion—who, by the tilt of his chin and the curl of his mouth, was put out for reasons unspoken.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“You seem quite friendly with that alpha,” Astarion said at last. The words were mild, but his eyes gleamed, hard as chips of garnet.

“Do I?” Gale asked, deliberately light. He busied himself with the teapot he had set to boil earlier, pouring its contents into two gleaming silver cups. A ceramic cup would have offered a better-tasting brew, but nearly all of Astarion’s dishware was silver, and so silver it must be.

He glanced up, watching Astarion over the steam. For all his time in the palace, Gale had yet to truly decipher the elf’s role in the court. He was more than a delicate ornament of the Inner Palace, that much was clear—yet the full weight of his business here in the Outer Court remained elusive, veiled in shadows and whispers.

“What is he, some kind of military officer?” Astarion asked, voice cool and casual, though there was a bite beneath it.

“Indeed, sir, as you saw for yourself. He came to speak with me about a matter that was troubling him.”

Gale placed a plate of dried plums and sugared lotus root on the desk beside the tea. He could not be sure if Astarion had any interest in what Rolan had confided, but considering Cullagh’s hand in the affair, it seemed foolish to assume otherwise. After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Shall I tell you exactly what he wished to discuss?”

Astarion lifted his cup, unhurried, and took a sip. His silence was permission enough.

When Gale had finished his detailed account, Astarion closed his eyes, his long lashes lowering like curtains over a troubled stage. His lips pressed thin, faintly distressed. “A tangled web indeed.”

“Yes, sir.”

The plate of sweets remained untouched. Ulder shifted at the threshold, stiff-backed and uneasy, his eyes darting between his master and Gale as though anticipating a quarrel.

“And how do you think it’s all related?” Astarion asked, opening his eyes again, their red depths sharp and intent.

“That I don’t know,” Gale admitted. He folded his hands before him, feeling the weight of his own ignorance like a stone in his gut. Perhaps any of the incidents might have been accidents. But the more he considered them, the more contrived they seemed, like snares set in the underbrush, each one waiting for an unsuspecting prey. “Personally, I think they look less like a single grand scheme and more like a series of traps—the kind where the success of any one would serve the purposes of the one who set them.”

Astarion listened in silence, then drained his cup with a slow, deliberate sip. Gale rose without a word, setting more water to boil.

“I must agree,” Astarion said at last. His tone was deceptively calm, but the grip of his hand on the cup’s stem betrayed his tension. “And that means there’s a possibility of more. Traps yet unseen. Waiting.”

“We can’t be certain,” Gale replied. He stirred the coals beneath the kettle, sparks snapping like teeth. Speculation was all he had, and speculation alone was flimsy armor. If someone told him it was all mere coincidence, he would have been forced to nod and accept it.

“Hmph.” Astarion’s gaze lingered on him, bright and searching. “Not feeling too eager about this one, are you?”

“Eager, sir?” Gale repeated, raising an eyebrow. His voice was dry, but his hands twisted idly in his lap as though he had to keep them busy. “And why should I be? It’s not as if I meddle in these things out of personal interest. I merely… observe. Nothing more.” His words had a clipped neatness to them, but he knew it sounded like an excuse, even to his own ears.

The problem was simple: far too many people were eager to drag him into their affairs—schemes, quarrels, bargains struck in shadows. He didn’t go looking for them, but they had a way of finding him all the same.

Truth be told, Gale longed for something smaller, quieter. A life of glass jars and pestle and mortar. Afternoons on a veranda with a cup of tea steaming gently at his elbow, manuscripts scattered around him while he tested new remedies in sunlight. A man of medicines, not intrigues.

“I’m only a servant,” he finished with a sigh. “I simply do the work I’m given.”

“Hmph.” Astarion tilted his head, unimpressed. His pale fingers rolled a calligraphy brush back and forth across his palm with idle grace. The tray of sugared plums and candied lotus root, once presented with such care, had been shoved to the edge of the desk, ignored.

Gale’s gaze flicked to the brush—black lacquer handle gleaming softly, bristles catching the lamplight—and then to Astarion himself. In that moment the elf looked curiously unlined, as if time had passed lightly over him. Almost youthful. But Gale knew better than to mistake the look for anything resembling innocence.

“How about this, then?” Astarion asked. The corners of his mouth curled into something sly, almost conspiratorial. He beckoned Ulder closer, leaned in, and whispered a few words too low for Gale to hear.

Ulder’s jaw tightened; whatever he had heard clearly didn’t please him. “Master Astarion…” he began carefully.

“You heard me,” Astarion said, velvet layered over steel. His tone allowed no room for objection. “Get everything ready.”

Reluctantly, Ulder bowed and stepped back.

Astarion turned his attention to the inkstone, dipping the brush with practiced ease. He moved with fluid confidence, sweeping strokes across the parchment, his wrist steady and elegant. The sound of bristles dragging against paper was hushed, deliberate. Then, with a flourish, he held the sheet aloft, crimson eyes glinting as though he already knew Gale’s reaction.

“When I was making the rounds of the trading merchants the other day, I came across word of a very interesting item. This, I believe, was the name.”

The ink was still wet, dark against pale paper.

Gale leaned forward instinctively. His eyes lit, almost boyishly, as the characters became clear:

牛黄 — niu huang. Calculus bovis. Ox bezoar.

The words struck him like a bell.

“Would you like it?” Astarion asked softly.

“I would!” Gale blurted, the words tumbling from his mouth before thought could catch them.

He had risen from his chair without realizing, carried forward by sheer momentum, and now found himself braced on the edge of Astarion’s desk, perilously close.

Calculus bovis—legendary among medicines. A gallstone born only in the rarest of cattle, said to cure poisons, fevers, convulsions. A single fragment could buy a fortune, but its worth to an apothecary was far greater: a key to doors of knowledge most never dreamed of opening. To so much as glimpse one in his lifetime would be a blessing. To hold one, to test its properties—

Astarion shifted back in his chair, but not far—only enough to mark the distance, to force Gale to notice just how near he’d come. The elf’s expression was unreadable, somewhere between amusement and scrutiny.

The illusion broke when Ulder, returning silently, gave Gale’s sleeve a discreet tug. Gale blinked as if waking from a trance. Heat rushed to his cheeks, and he stepped down quickly, adjusting the folds of his robe to recover a semblance of dignity.

“There’s that motivation,” Astarion murmured, faintly amused.

“Can I really have it?” Gale asked, quieter now. His voice trembled between eagerness and caution, his eyes darting toward Astarion’s face in search of an answer.

Astarion’s gaze sharpened, the boyish air gone. What stared back at Gale now was the cultivated allure—the predatory elegance—he often turned upon the maids of the rear palace.

“That,” he said smoothly, “depends entirely on how hard you work. Let me begin by giving you the details.”

The paper crumpled in his fist with a sound like snapping twigs before he tossed it carelessly into the wastebasket. A honeyed smile bloomed on his lips, artful and dangerous.

But Gale hardly noticed the smile. All he could think of was the promise of niu huang, rarest of treasures, dangling just out of reach.

“Understood.” He inclined his head, his voice steadying, almost reverent. “You need only tell me what you wish, Master Astarion.”

With that, he gathered up the abandoned sweets and the cold teacup, clearing space on the desk as though making room for whatever task might come next.

Chapter 12: Ritual

Summary:

Gale puts the pieces together

As instructed, Gale shut himself up in the archives the very next afternoon. The place was vast, a labyrinth of shelves and pigeonholes that smelled of dry parchment, dust, and the faint tang of ink. The air was always a little too cool, as though the stone walls themselves exhaled dampness. Light filtered down from narrow, latticed windows high above, so thin and pale that it only sharpened the gloom.

A pale-faced official appeared almost soundlessly, carrying armloads of scrolls with the careful reverence of a priest. He was the only other person Gale had seen in the chamber—a solitary figure whose position clearly amounted to little more than a sinecure. His skin was as wan as the paper he tended, his black hair falling lank about his face.

It wouldn’t hurt him to get out in the sun once in a while, Gale thought, watching the man retreat. The fellow looked almost like an inkblot come to life.

Gale turned to his work. The scrolls were of excellent paper, the characters fine and unhurried, each penned by an official hand long used to bureaucracy. They listed—succinctly, almost coldly—the accidents and crimes that had taken place within the palace precincts over the past decade. None of this was secret; the Empire’s records were deliberately public, in the name of order and accountability.

Most of the cases were ordinary enough. Servants scalded by boiling water, minor thefts, bruises and broken bones from accidents in the kitchens or stables. But occasionally something darker flickered among the records—entries that made Gale’s eyes linger.

Cases of food poisoning, for example.

He had expected such reports to be clustered in the summer, when heat and carelessness conspired to spoil food. But the records told another story: cases in every season, winter included. And in autumn—when people foraged more widely—there were deaths attributed to the consumption of poisonous mushrooms.

He frowned, and beckoned for another bundle.

To his mild surprise, the official responded almost eagerly, as though glad to be of use. Gale had expected indifference, even irritation, but instead the man seemed relieved to have his dull post interrupted. He wasn’t here simply to pass the time—there was curiosity in him, a hungry spark that kept flickering toward Gale’s work.

The wizard ignored it, rifling quickly through the stack until something caught his eye. He stilled.

A recent food-poisoning incident. The entry was brief, but the name of the victim and his office was there in stark, black ink.

The Board of Rites?

That was unexpected. As far as Gale recalled, the Board of Rites had to do with education and diplomacy. At least, that had been his understanding when cramming for the court omegas’ examination years ago. But his memory was hazy, and here he was brought up short.

“Having trouble with anything?” the pallid official asked in a voice almost too soft for the chamber, the question slipping into the silence like an echo.

Gale weighed the shame of exposing his ignorance against the need for clarity. Knowledge mattered more than pride. “Yes,” he said at last. “This title—what exactly does it signify?”

The official’s lips curled faintly upward. He seemed pleased to have been asked. “This person oversaw the observance of ritual,” he said, with the self-satisfaction of a tutor correcting a student.

“Ritual?” Gale repeated, his brow furrowing.

Suddenly the words of the report clicked into place. The poisoned man had been responsible for ritual implements, hadn’t he?

“Yes,” the official said, warming now that he was on familiar ground. “If you’d like, I could fetch a more detailed record on ceremonial offices—”

But Gale hardly heard him. His mind had already begun to race. Pieces shifted and locked together in new configurations. Poisonings. Implements. Ritual observance. His hands twitched, hungry for action.

He slammed his palm flat on the long table. The sharp sound reverberated off the stone walls. The official gave a startled yelp, his scrolls nearly tumbling from his arms.

“Do you have anything to write on?” Gale demanded, his voice taut with urgency.

“Y-yes! At once—” The man scrambled to produce a brush and several slips of paper.

Gale snatched them up and began scribbling furiously, cross-referencing names, positions, and years of service. A pattern began to take shape, the ink blotching fast beneath his rapid strokes. Coincidence upon coincidence, strung too neatly to be chance.

“Observance of ritual… Ritual implements…” Gale muttered to himself, lips barely moving as the connections spread out before him.

The Imperial calendar was crowded with rites, ceremonies ranging from small harvest blessings to grand processions legitimizing the Emperor’s reign. Minor rites could be left to local officials, but the great observances—the ones that sanctified dynastic power itself—were the exclusive domain of the Imperial family.

And these implements, the ones that had gone missing… they were no mere props for a village rite. They were fit for something greater, something mid-level at the very least. Perhaps even one of the high ceremonies that bound heaven and throne together.

If someone was tampering with those…

Gale sat back, his pulse quickening, the paper before him already dense with notes and underlined names. What had begun as a dull trawl through accidents now bristled with implication. Someone was playing a dangerous game in the shadows of the Court, and ritual was at the heart of it.

A mid-level ceremony, Gale judged to himself, scanning the inked lines on the parchment. He remembered Astarion once performing a purification rite in the palace gardens—every motion precise, every word of the chant delivered with deceptively casual elegance. If he had a question about something ritual-related, it might be quickest to ask the eunuch.

“Are you interested in ritual matters?” The official asked, shuffling closer. He was proving not merely bored, as Gale had first assumed, but in fact surprisingly eager for conversation. He carried a long scroll under one arm and unfurled it across the table with a certain pride.

“Hm,” Gale murmured. He bent to study the illustration, fingers brushing the crisp parchment. It showed ritual grounds rendered with a draftsman’s precision. An altar stood at the center, square and solid, flanked by railings on three sides. Above it, a banner hung in the air, caught as if in a perpetual breeze. At the foot of the altar, an enormous bronze vessel sat squat and heavy—almost certainly intended for a sacrificial fire.

“Unusual place, isn’t it?” the official said, watching Gale’s reaction.

“So it is...”

Elegant, yes. But imposing, almost oppressively so. The banner in particular caught his eye. Inked symbols ran the length of it in formal script. Gale frowned. Did they change the writing each time a new observance was held?

That seems absurdly troublesome, he thought. Hauling it down, rewriting it, hanging it again—what a production.

“They’ve a contrivance for that,” the official said, his voice taking on the brisk confidence of one proud to share hidden knowledge. “A beam, massive, suspended from the ceiling on a system of pulleys. It can be raised and lowered at will, so the banner may be inscribed for each new rite.”

“You seem to know a great deal about this,” Gale said, narrowing his eyes slightly at the pale man.

“I daresay I do.” The official straightened, his mouth curving with self-deprecation. “I was once employed in far more dignified work than marking mildew on scrolls. But a man can err at the wrong moment—or offend the wrong patron. And so I earned my exile to these dust-choked stacks.”

His words carried the weight of bitter memory. He admitted that he had once been attached to the Board of Rites itself, a post of considerable standing. That, Gale realized, explained the lively gleam that had entered his eyes when ritual matters arose. And then, as if compelled by old frustrations, the man added something that froze Gale’s blood.

“I feared, at first, that it might not be strong enough. But nothing has collapsed yet, thank the heavens.”

“You feared what might not be strong enough?” Gale pressed.

“The beam. The system that holds it aloft. Enormous weight, swinging high overhead. I shudder to think of the tragedy if it fell in the midst of a rite. I voiced my concern. The next day, I found myself banished here. Draw your own conclusions.”

Gale fell silent, his gaze locked on the drawing. If that beam were to fail, if it came loose from the ceiling—the one in greatest peril would be the officiant, standing directly beneath. Not just any participant. A figure of significance.

And he’s worried about its strength, Gale thought grimly. The beam must be fastened to something. Ropes? Iron supports? If those were tampered with...

His gaze slid back to the fire pot in the drawing, massive enough to hold a roaring flame. Another thought, sharper, more alarming, cut through him. And what of the ritual implements that were stolen? Could they—

He slapped his palm on the table with sudden force, making the official jump, his eyes wide as saucers.

“I’m sorry,” Gale said quickly but firmly, “when is the next ritual observance? And where is this structure shown in the picture?”

“The Altar of the Sapphire Sky, on the western edge of the outer court,” the man said, startled into hurried honesty. His fingers scrambled at a calendar, flipping pages with nervous haste. “As for the timing... let me see—ah. There is an observance scheduled for today.”

Before he had finished speaking, Gale was already running. Scrolls toppled from the table behind him, unfurled like abandoned serpents on the stone floor. He didn’t so much as look back.

The Altar of the Sapphire Sky. To the west. His thoughts surged as his boots pounded against the ground. This plan must have been prepared for months—no, longer. Woven with layers, each element ready to overlap with another, so that even if one thread frays, the design still holds. I’m only guessing. But if I’m right...

His heart lurched. If I’m right, the consequences would be catastrophic.

The western court opened before him at last, framed by lacquered pillars and red-tiled roofs. Rising above the complex stood a round pagoda, serene in its architecture, flanked by two smaller halls. Yet the calm beauty of the place only made the knot in Gale’s stomach tighten further.

A row of officials stood solemnly in front of the altar platform, their robes gleaming silk, their movements precise with ritual dignity. Pale smoke curled upward from the great bronze pot, sweet with the tang of incense. The ceremony was already in progress.

“Hey, you!” one of the officials barked, noticing him as he strode toward the altar. “What do you think you’re doing?”

That was only to be expected when a filthy maid tried to race past them. Gale gave a sharp cluck of his tongue, a brittle sound betraying his irritation. He didn’t have time for interruptions. If Astarion had been there, he might have charmed his way through the blockade with a smile, or else cut it down with a smirk and a blade. If Ulder had been present, his authority alone might have parted the crowd like a tide. But both were gone, leaving Gale—alone, disguised, and very much unwanted—to face the iron wall of resistance.

“Let me through, please,” he said, trying to lace his voice with urgency rather than desperation.

The warrior barring the way shifted his grip on a war club so scarred and pitted with use that it seemed to carry its own history of violence. “Absolutely not. A ritual is being celebrated.” His gaze was hard as hammered steel, and it pinned Gale like a specimen under glass.

The rebuke stung because it was true—what business did a servant have demanding access to sacred ground? Gale wasn’t good at the honeyed words that could soften suspicion. His voice was too blunt, his manner too impatient. He cursed himself inwardly for lacking the easy charisma that might have spared him what came next.

“It’s an emergency,” he pressed. “You must let me inside.”

The soldier’s lips curled. “A maid like you would dare impose yourself on the holy rites?”

The words were spoken with disgust, and Gale flinched inwardly though he refused to lower his gaze. On the surface, he was nothing more than a maid, an omega playing at duties far above his station. His borrowed uniform hung a little too loosely, sleeves smudged faintly with ink and dust from the archives where he had been working only hours ago. He had no badge of rank, no reason anyone should heed him. And if this alpha allowed him through without sanction, the soldier’s career—and life—might be forfeit.

But Gale couldn’t turn back. Not now.

Maybe nothing will happen, he told himself. But if it does… by the time anyone realizes, it will already be too late. It’s always too late.

The soldier loomed, broad-shouldered and immovable, but Gale drew himself up and locked eyes with him. He felt the tension ripple through the crowd of officials clustered nearby, their robes whispering with silk and authority as they exchanged sidelong glances.

“I’m not here to mock your rites,” Gale said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Someone’s life is in danger. You must stop the ceremony!”

Laughter slithered through the onlookers. One of the officials stepped forward, his perfume cloying, his smile sharp as a blade. “That’s not for you to decide. If you have opinions you’d like to share, we have a suggestion box.” The mockery was blatant, the insult deliberate. The others tittered behind jeweled hands.

Gale’s face burned. “You’d never see it in time! Let me through!”

“No.” The soldier’s refusal was iron, unshakable.

The moment teetered on the edge of futility. A wiser man might have withdrawn, swallowed the humiliation, and sought another way. But Gale was no wiser man, not today. His heart beat too hard, his nerves screamed too loudly, and instead of retreat, he felt his mouth twist into a cold, mocking smile.

“There’s a flaw in the altar’s construction,” he said, each word measured like the strike of a hammer. “And I believe someone has exploited it. If you don’t let me through this minute, you’ll regret it. Oh, how you’ll regret it. Imagine what will happen when they discover I warned you and you ignored me.” He clapped a hand theatrically to his cheek, eyes wide with feigned horror. Then, dropping his hand, he smirked. “Wait. I see now. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” He struck fist to palm as if a revelation had dawned. “You want it to happen. You’re stalling me because you’re in league with whoever booby-trapped the—”

The world cracked sideways.

A sharp thud reverberated through his skull as the soldier’s club connected with the side of his head. The ground leapt up to meet him, hard stone biting into his palms and knees. White stars burst across his vision, then blurred to a gray fog.

Stay conscious, he begged himself. Don’t let go.

But willpower alone was fragile. His hearing swam, distorted as though filtered through water. The soldier’s voice reached him, ragged and harsh, but the words slipped out of grasp. Still, Gale knew he had struck a nerve—insolence from an omega was intolerable. Anger had loosened the soldier’s restraint, made him careless enough to lash out.

Well. He couldn’t complain. He had invited it.

But if he collapsed here, if he blacked out even for a breath, it would all be over.

Through sheer grit, Gale rolled to a sitting position. His ear burned as though a coal had been pressed to it, blood thrumming there in a furious beat. His sight was still smeared and doubled, colors bleeding at the edges. Slowly, painfully, the blur receded enough for him to make sense of shapes: the soldier straining against his comrades’ grip, arm raised for another blow, face contorted with rage.

Thought provoking him might help… no good…

Music drifted over the courtyard, unbroken—chanting voices, strings rising, a deep pulse of drums. The ritual continued undisturbed, its rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Gale felt despair coil tight in his gut. He hadn’t even managed to delay it.

Staggering to his feet, he swayed but did not fall. Red drops freckled the stone at his boots. Nosebleed, he thought, detached. Not serious. The strike had caught him on the ear more than the skull—lucky, in its way. He pinched one nostril shut, bent, and blew the blood free.

Gasps rippled through the officials, scandal thickening the air. Blood on consecrated ground was an ill omen, a violation. He could almost hear their whispers—ill luck, corruption, curse.

But Gale had no words left to waste on apology. The altar was still ahead, the danger still mounting. Time bled away faster than the drops from his nose, and every beat of the drum pulled him closer to disaster.

“Are you quite satisfied?” Gale said, voice cracking slightly from the strain, his head still spinning. The officials around him were a blur of muted colors and anxious whispers. He could feel their eyes on him, some hostile, some merely curious, but there was no time to worry about them. Something had to be done.

His voice rose an octave, raw with urgency: “Let me through!”

I have to get in there! Gale’s vision wavered, edges blurring like ink in water, but the thought of what awaited him drove him forward. If I don’t reach the altar now…

I’ll never get my ox bezoar!

The Calculus Bovis, the rarest of medicinal treasures, gleamed in his imagination—its value, its power, the incredible rarity. It was more than desire; it was necessity. That thought steeled his legs, forcing them to carry him even as dizziness clawed at his balance and the dried blood on his face stung in the cold wind.

Gale leveled a glare at the guards blocking his path. “I’m not asking you to stop the ceremony,” he said, forcing his words through gritted teeth. “Only to let me by. Suppose a rat sneaked in unnoticed—the Emperor is compassionate. No one would punish me… except perhaps me. But what if something happens and you detain me here? Someone important is performing the ritual. You will be accountable if you refuse me passage!”

A few guards exchanged uneasy glances, whispered doubts flickering in their eyes, though most remained stubbornly unmoving.

“Why should we listen to a nobody little omega like you?” demanded the soldier with the war club, his voice rough and skeptical.

Gale didn’t reply. He only stared, daggers in his gaze, refusing to step back.

Then came the sharp, crisp clack-clack of boots on stone, slicing through the tension.

“Perhaps you would listen to me, then?” came a female voice, light but cutting, almost teasing. Gale didn’t need to turn—he recognized it instantly.

The soldier faltered, stepping back just a fraction. Officials paled, some gripping their papers and robes as if bracing against an unseen threat.

Gale ignored them. His temples throbbed violently, vision still fuzzy. He couldn’t afford to think about reinforcements or the identity of the voice behind him. The altar was all that mattered.

The commanding voice continued, sharp and cold: “I can’t condone hitting a young omega. Look—he’s injured. Who did it? Fess up!”

All eyes snapped to the soldier with the raised club, his face tightening in guilt and fear.

“For a start,” the voice went on, “why don’t you do as the omega says? I’ll take full responsibility for whatever happens.”

Gale gritted his teeth, ignoring the relief that bubbled inside him. Now wasn’t the time to think about allies. The altar was ahead. Danger was imminent. Hesitation could be fatal.

He sprinted forward, boots scraping against the polished scarlet carpet, the scent of incense thick and cloying in the air. Smoke curled around ornate banners that hung from the beam above, the delicate calligraphy of prayers rippling as the fabric flapped.

The sight of a bloodied, dust-streaked maid running through the ceremonial hall elicited murmurs and startled gasps. I must look ridiculous, Gale thought, streaks of dried blood across his cheeks and smudges of dirt across his uniform, but embarrassment was a luxury he could not afford.

At the far end, an alpha in black ceremonial robes stood rigid. A tall beaded cap of office hung from his head, pendants swinging with each deliberate movement. His voice boomed, carrying over the hall as he intoned the words of the rite with solemn precision.

The massive fire pot blazed at his feet, flames crackling and licking at the surrounding air, sending curls of smoke toward the high ceiling. Above, the beam supporting the banner swayed slightly, fasteners creaking under its weight.

The supports… Gale’s stomach tightened. If someone had tampered with them, if the beam gave way, the officiant would be directly beneath it. The consequences could be catastrophic.

Every instinct screamed for perseverance. Adrenaline sharpened his senses—he could hear the soft scuff of officials’ shoes, the rustle of robes, the snapping of the banner in the wind, and the faint, acrid smell of incense and fire mixing with the cold winter air.

Gale calculated angles, distance, and timing in his head as he ran. One wrong step could mean disaster. The rare ox bezoar flashed before his eyes, but it was no longer just about the reward; it was about preventing catastrophe.

He was nearly at the altar.

The beam quivered above, the banner flapping violently, the fastenings straining. His vision cleared just enough to focus. The fire pot burned fiercely, sending sparks upward. Each gust of wind could dislodge the beam. Each second counted.

Gale’s hands shook, but he ignored the pain, the exhaustion, the blood on his face. He had to reach the altar, had to inspect the supports, had to act—now.

Chapter 13: Thornapple

Summary:

Gale saves Astarion, to his own detriment

The officiant noticed Gale and turned. Gale paid that no mind; he flung himself against the man, wrapping his arms tight around Astarion’s waist and dragging him to the ground.

At almost the same instant, there came an earsplitting crash. A white-hot, searing sensation shot up Gale’s leg, ripping the breath from his lungs. He twisted to look back—only to see a massive metal beam pinning his calf. Blood welled where the jagged edge had split the skin wide open.

That’ll need stitches, he thought grimly. Pain lanced through him with every heartbeat, but instinct drove his hand toward the folds of his robe, where he always kept medicine and simple supplies tucked away.

Before he could reach them, a large hand caught his wrist and held it firmly. Gale’s head tilted up, vision swimming—and all he could see were the dangling beads of a ceremonial cap swaying above his face. Beyond them floated a pair of eyes, dark as obsidian, glimmering with both command and curiosity.

“And how do we find ourselves like this?” The voice was melodic, rich, almost celestial in its resonance.

Gale’s gaze flicked to the beam. It lay where it had fallen, the heavy length of iron sparking against the flagstones. If Astarion had been standing directly beneath it when it came down, the officiant would have been crushed instantly.

“Master Astarion…” Gale rasped, his voice hoarse from the smoke and strain, "Can I… can I have my bezoar now?”

Only then did he truly register what his desperate tackle had revealed: the gorgeous eunuch officiant was none other than Astarion himself. But what in the world was he doing here, of all places?

“A fine thing to think of at a moment like this,” Astarion murmured, his expression puckering as if he’d bitten into something sour. His hand—large, elegant, commanding—brushed across Gale’s cheek. The pad of his thumb traced lightly along the blood-streaked skin, lingering for an instant. “Look at your face.”

He winced as he said it, as though the sight pained him. Gale couldn’t imagine why.

The burning in his leg dragged his attention back to the immediate problem. “Would you let me stitch this up?” he asked, trying to shift for a better look at the wound. It didn’t hurt so much as it throbbed and burned, a deep fire under the skin. But when he twisted, his whole body shuddered violently.

“H-Hey, now—!” Astarion’s voice wavered, sharp with alarm.

But it was already too late. Gale’s head spun, his ears ringing. Ah. The blow to the head, he realized dimly.

His strength drained all at once. Darkness closed in at the edges of his vision, and Astarion’s voice seemed to echo from a great distance, urgent, frantic. Gale could no longer make out the words, but gods, how he wished Astarion would stop shouting.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

It felt pleasant at first, as if his body were rocking gently in a cradle. A faint sweetness of fine incense tickled his nose, clinging to every breath. The swaying lulled him, weightless and secure, but after a moment it ceased, and he felt himself lowered carefully onto something soft and yielding.

Time passed, though how much, he could not say.

Where am I? Gale thought when his eyes fluttered open. Above him stretched a glorious canopy, rich with embroidery he recognized instantly—because he had dusted it daily, without fail.

The incense reached him again: sandalwood, rare and expensive, Astarion’s favored scent. That meant this must be Astarion’s bedroom. And the bed he was lying in? His master’s own.

“Ah, you’re awake,” came a calm, gentle voice. It belonged to Estra, an attendant in the first flush of old age, reclining on a nearby couch. She rose with quiet grace, taking up a carafe from a round lacquered table. Water streamed smoothly into a cup before she pressed it into his hands.

“Master Astarion brought you here himself, did you know? He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you to rest in the medical quarters.” She chuckled softly as she offered the drink.

Gale brought the cup to his lips, only then realizing he was in a loose set of sleeping clothes. When had that happened? A sharp pain lanced through his skull, and a throbbing burn in his leg made him clench his jaw.

“Now, don’t strain yourself,” Estra chided gently. “You needed fifteen stitches.”

Gale pushed back the coverlet to see his leg swathed in neat bandages. The pain was dull and heavy, clearly dampened by some form of analgesic. When he lifted his hand to his head, his fingers brushed more wrappings, snug against his scalp.

“I’m sorry to ask so soon after you’ve woken,” Estra continued, “but may I bring the others to see you now? We’ll give you a few minutes if you’d like to change.”

His regular outfit was folded with care beside the bed. Gale gave a small nod of assent.

By the time Estra ushered in Astarion, Ulder, and Wyll, Gale had changed back into his day clothes. He greeted them politely but remained seated. A breach of formality, yes—but Estra had given her approval, and Gale decided, in this case, to accept the allowance.

Wyll was the first to speak, his voice sharp. “What in the world is going on here?” He was staring straight at Gale, eyes flashing with unusual anger.

“Wyll,” Ulder barked. The soldier clucked his tongue and slumped into a chair.

Astarion took a seat upon the couch, his expression carefully composed, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his robe. His stillness was deliberate, but the intensity of his gaze betrayed a master under considerable strain.

Gale met it coolly. He had done nothing to warrant reprimand. He sipped his tepid water, his own expression as calm and level as the drink in his hand.

“I’d like you to explain a few things for me,” Astarion said at last, his voice smooth but edged with command. “What brought you to that place at that time? How did you know that beam was going to fall? Tell me.”

“Very well, sir.” Gale set his cup aside and drew a steady breath. “First of all, these events lie at the confluence of a series of coincidences. When enough such coincidences occur together, one might begin to suspect that they are not happenstance at all. Perhaps, then, this was not accident but incident.”

He ticked the cases off in his mind as he spoke: Cullagh’s death, the fire in the storehouse, the theft of ritual implements. And then the official who oversaw them, struck down by a sudden bout of food poisoning.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed, sharp with interest. “So you believe someone caused all of these deliberately?”

“Yes, sir, I do. And I believe there is one further connection, which I had previously overlooked.”

The implements stolen from the storehouse… Gale didn’t yet know precisely what they had been, but they would surely have been objects meant for ritual use, crafted by no common hand. They would have required a master’s skill. And Gale had recently heard whispers of such a craftsman.

“You’re not suggesting…” Astarion leaned forward, eyes widening. “The metalworker’s family?”

Gale’s lips curved faintly. His master was quick. “That’s right, sir.”

Gale had a fairly good idea of what had killed the old craftsman. Lead poisoning, he suspected. The man had worked with the stuff daily—plates, cups, weights, ornamentation. It would be easy enough to dismiss it as the slow rot of his profession, the price a smith paid for mastery. And yet… the thought nagged at him. Occupational hazard, yes, but not the only explanation. One could make it deliberate. Give the man a fine gift, a gleaming cup lined with lead, pour him wine, and let him drink his way into ruin. A slow, wasting death—quiet enough not to rouse suspicion, cruel enough to erase him without blood or scandal. That would be one way to do it. There were others.

“The old master never personally taught his apprentices—his own sons—about his most secret discovery,” Gale said at last. His tone was measured, but the weight of the words hung heavily. “It’s entirely possible the knowledge would have gone with him to his grave, a riddle no one else ever solved. Someone might have found that very convenient.”

It implied, of course, that someone already understood what he had done. They would not need to know the precise sequence of steps, nor the ratios, nor the craft itself—only the result, and how best to use it.

“So you believe the stolen implements were produced by the dead craftsman?” Astarion asked, his pale brows lifting, eyes narrowing with a flicker of interest. His voice was smooth, but there was something sharp underneath.

Gale shook his head. “No, sir. In fact, I believe the opposite: that the stolen implements were not his work at all, but were replaced with something that was.”

He seized paper and brush, his movements brisk with thought, and began to sketch. Bold lines formed quickly into a diagram: the altar, broad and heavy, an iron fire pot set beside it, and above, a beam strung on ropes. He inked the loops, the pulleys, the fasteners driven into the stone floor. The picture was crude, but the geometry was clear.

“If several ritual implements disappeared,” Gale said, tapping the paper, “then we can presume that various structural components may have vanished with them. And not common fittings—elaborate ones. Specially designed.”

“That seems a likely possibility,” Ulder admitted, though doubt clouded his voice. He shifted his weight where he stood, uncertain. This was outside his scope, outside Astarion’s as well—more the province of smiths and builders than warriors and statesmen.

“As I recall,” Gale pressed, “the wires that held the beam aloft ran directly beside the fire pot. Suppose the fasteners anchoring them were crafted to give way when heated…”

“Ridiculous,” Wyll cut in, scoffing. He crossed his arms as if to dismiss the idea outright. “We would have noticed that long ago. No builder would be so reckless as to use vulnerable metal near an open flame.”

“And yet the beam did fall,” Gale countered, unshaken. “It fell because the fasteners gave way.”

Astarion’s voice was clipped, almost impatient: “They should not break, no matter how hot they get. They’re meant to endure stress and flame both. That is what they were designed for.”

“They didn’t just break,” Gale said. His voice sharpened, iron in his tone. “They melted.”

Gale let the silence stretch before he revealed what he had pieced together. “The craftsman’s hidden art was metallurgy. Many metals, in their pure state, require immense heat to melt. But when combined—when alloyed in the right proportions—they can yield a substance that flows at far lower temperatures. His secret was perfecting those ratios. His mixture could be undone by nothing more than the heat of a fire pot.”

He did not bother to disguise the gravity of it. The knowledge was dangerous. Subtle. A weapon not of swords or spears, but of hidden fragility—structures betrayed from within.

The chamber grew hushed. Only Estra moved, unconcerned, humming faintly as she prepared tea at the far table. The quiet clink of porcelain was jarringly mundane against the enormity of what had just been spoken.

The altar’s builders must have sworn by their reputations that the beam would never fall. They would have pledged their craft, their lives, that it was safe. Otherwise the structure would never have been approved. And yet Gale saw it clearly: one flame, one patient wait, and the whole system was undone. Important figures had stood beneath that beam to conduct their ceremonies. If Gale had not connected the pattern in time, Astarion might have been crushed where he stood.

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He had never expected it to be Astarion—of all people—caught beneath such a trap.

Who is this man, really? Gale wondered, studying him from the corner of his eye. But he did not ask. He doubted his station gave him the right. And he suspected that knowing the answer would only draw him deeper into dangerous waters.

Still, the conclusion seemed inescapable: there was a thread binding it all together—the craftsman’s quiet death, the missing implements, the tampered altar. Whether directly or indirectly, someone was pulling the strings, and with precision.

“I’ve said all I can say,” Gale murmured finally, lowering his brush. The weight of revelation lingered in the room. “The rest lies with you.” He suspected Astarion and the others would hunt down whoever had orchestrated this. For all he knew, Rolan was already one step ahead.

The image of the tall omega flitted through Gale’s mind.

Nothing to do with me, he thought, slowly shaking his head and lowering his eyes to the ground. Still, he couldn’t shake the memory of the omega’s detached expression: it was as if she no longer cared what happened, so long as something did. Gale was still troubled by what the omega had said to him in that small, neglected garden patch.

A medicine to revive the dead...

Word arrived from Rolan not long after. As Gale had expected, his message concerned the omega—Mystra. Mystra, it turned out, had taken poison and died.

The abruptness of it startled Gale. It didn’t quite compute, the idea of that remote, strangely fearless figure being gone. The Board of Justice—those charged with upholding law and judgment—had entered Mystra’s chambers with their evidence in hand, only to find her already collapsed on the bed. An overturned wine cup had been confirmed to contain poison. The doctor had been summoned, performed the inquest, and duly certified the death.

As a criminal, Mystra was to be punished in her coffin as she could not be in life. After one day and one night, she would be cremated. For now, she awaited that sentence in the place reserved for all who died in prison.

Gale didn’t know whether the Board had moved so swiftly because Rolan’s investigations had been thorough, or because they had been circling Mystra for some time already. Either way, only Mystra’s name appeared in the official record. No co-conspirators. No accomplices.

Gale frowned at that. Could Mystra really have orchestrated such an elaborate scheme entirely alone? It strained belief. Perhaps she was a scapegoat, convenient and disposable. That seemed possible—but Gale’s instincts tugged at him in another direction. Would Mystra really accept being cast aside like that?

They hadn’t known one another long, nor deeply, and Gale did not fancy himself a master of reading people. But Mystra’s apathetic manner had never felt like mere resignation. When she spoke, there had been the air of someone testing him, weighing his reactions.

No—I can’t go on instinct alone. I need certainty. But there was no certainty to be had, only the silence of unanswered questions. Gale returned to his daily duties as any servant must.

Supposedly, anyway.

But curiosity gnawed at him until he could no longer keep still.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“Master Astarion, I have a favor to ask of you.” He framed the request with careful formality. “I’d like to speak with the doctor who performed the inquest. At the mortuary, ideally.”

To Astarion’s bemusement, Gale’s face threatened to break into a grin as he spoke.

The mortuary was dim, the air thick with the sweet-sour stench of death. By law, no prisoner who died in custody was permitted burial. All must be burned. Several coffins stood stacked in one corner, containing criminals waiting for their fate. Mystra’s coffin lay a little apart, marked with a black-and-white tag.

Astarion and Ulder both stood with him. Ulder’s displeasure at Astarion’s presence was written plainly on his face, but he could not forbid it. The summoned doctor arrived looking as grim as the chamber itself. Gale didn’t blame him—an omega he had known was dead, condemned as a criminal besides. Still, Gale suspected the man’s sorrow might conceal something more.

He went straight to the point:

“The poison Mystra drank. Did the ingredients by any chance include thornapple?”

The doctor blanched before answering, paling so noticeably that it spoke louder than his words. Ulder had arranged a chair for Gale, mindful of his injured leg, and a hoe leaned against the wall nearby at Gale’s request. Astarion kept stealing glances at it, clearly baffled, but Gale let him wonder.

At last the doctor shook his head. “The poison contained a number of components. It’s difficult to determine any one precisely. From the state of the body, I would say thornapple is a distinct possibility... but I can’t be certain.”

His words were smooth, his tone measured, but Gale caught the lie in the blanching of his face. He thought the man an excellent physician—yet a poor liar.

“There’s a field on a hill behind the stables,” Gale pressed. “As you know, thornapple grows there. It may not be in season, but I imagine your pharmacy has it stocked.”

Thornapple was highly toxic, yet in measured doses it could serve as an anesthetic. Suppose Mystra had taken it from the doctor’s own stores...

Gale thought again of Mystra’s voice, calm and dry, sayidryshe planted morning glories in that field. Thornapple was called by another name: the Uncanny Morning Glory.

“Then let us be certain whether that toxin was involved,” Gale said. His fingers closed around the hoe’s handle as he rose. He stepped toward the coffin marked with the black-and-white tag.

Ulder tensed. Astarion’s brows shot upward.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ulder demanded.

“This,” Gale answered—and brought the hoe down.

Gale jammed the hoe under the coffin lid and leaned on it with a grunt. The wood resisted, nails squealing as they bent, then gave way one by one with brittle snaps. Dust and the faint sour reek of rot rose up as he worked. Every creak of the coffin made the others stiffen, like they half expected something inside to push back.

At last the lid came free with a dull crack. Gale shoved it aside, the sound echoing flat against the mortuary’s stone walls. The lantern light fell across the corpse within.

It wasn’t Mystra.

The body was that of an omega, sunken-eyed, lips blue and drawn back to show a flash of yellow teeth. His skin had the waxy sheen of a man who’d drowned, or died where the cold seeped into his bones. Whoever he was, he’d been dead long before Mystra’s "death".

The physician’s hand crept to his mouth. “It’s… not Mystra?” His voice quavered, too thin for the vaulted chamber.

Gale studied him, weighing the tremor in his hand, the pallor spreading under his skin. If this was an act, it was a flawless one.

“You were certain she was dead?” Gale asked, each word deliberate.

The physician swallowed. “Yes. Anyone would have seen it. She was—she was beautiful still, but there was no breath, no beat beneath the ribs. Cold as marble.” His voice cracked on the last word. He looked like a man dragged to the edge of a cliff and shown how far he might fall.

“You treated her carefully,” Gale said, tone almost gentle. “Didn’t cut, didn’t test too deep. Couldn’t bear to mar the body.” He tilted his head. “She counted on that.”

The physician flinched as though struck.

“In other words,” Gale finished, his voice quiet but sharp as a knife, “she used you.”

The doctor’s face twisted, mottling from white to red. He jerked forward, fury sparking at last, but Ulder was already there, an iron grip clamping down on his shoulder and dragging him back before he could do anything foolish.

Mystra’s trickery was becoming plain. Gale’s mind ticked through the details: thornapple to still the pulse, blowfish venom to mimic death, perhaps another herb to slow the breath until nothing stirred the chest. Substances rare and perilous, but well within her reach.

“Explain,” Astarion said suddenly. His voice cut through the chamber like steel drawn in a quiet room. His eyes glinted in the low light. “Why is there some gutter rat in her coffin, and not the woman herself?”

“Because,” Gale replied, a tired edge to his words, “an empty coffin would invite questions. She needed a body. Any body.”

They all turned, staring at the rows of stacked coffins lining the walls. Wood boxes marked with chalk, some nailed, some not. Lives reduced to inventory. It would be the simplest of tricks to slip one away, switch it, make the trade.

“Then where is she?” Astarion asked, softly now, with the barest curl of his lip. “She didn’t just vanish.”

“No,” Gale agreed. He looked down into the coffin again, then back at them. “But she didn’t have to be carried. She walked out.”

The words seemed to freeze the air. Even Ulder paused, his grip on the physician slackening as he processed the idea. The thought alone chilled more than the sight of the corpse.

“Ulder,” Gale said, his voice rough, “check those coffins at the back.”

Without hesitation, Ulder moved to the stack. His hands searched with brute certainty, and soon enough he found what Gale had guessed he would—one coffin bearing the scars of forced nails. He shoved the box above it aside with a grunt, dragging the heavy timber single-handed.

Gale limped forward, each step marked by the ache in his leg. He rested his fingers on the scarred lid. “See the marks? She lay here. Breathing shallow, heartbeat slowed to nothing. When her accomplices came, they lifted her out, slid another corpse in her place. And she…” He let the words hang. “…she walked out disguised as one of the undertakers. Wrapped, veiled, unseen. People avert their eyes from death’s attendants. No one would dare look twice.”

The physician’s breath stuttered in the silence.

Gale turned his gaze on him. “Tell me, then. Have you heard of medicines that feign death?”

The man’s lips parted, then closed. His eyes darted, betraying him. “I’ve… I’ve heard tales,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how. I swear it.”

“Pity,” Gale said, almost with a scholar’s detachment. “Because I hear thornapple and blowfish poison are quite effective. Together? They could still a woman’s heart for hours, perhaps even a day. Long enough for her to cheat a pyre.”

Once—just once—his mother had told him a story. Her voice had been hushed, as though even speaking of it invited danger. In a far country, she said, there was a medicine that could stop a heart and still call it back again. It required thornapple, blowfish venom, and several other toxins, each one potent enough to kill a grown man outright. Yet, combined in impossible precision, they canceled one another’s cruelty, and after a stretch of silence, the dead would stir and breathe once more.

Naturally, Gale’s mother had never brewed such a draught. She had dismissed it as myth, a curiosity at best, too risky and unreliable to pursue. Gale only knew of it because his mother had stolen glimpses of a foreign doctor’s journals. The pages had been thick with foreign script—characters from a land far removed from their own.

But discovery had its price. His mother had been caught before she finished reading it. The book went into the fire.

“Do you truly believe Mystra would stake her life on something so… uncertain?” the physician asked now, breaking into Gale’s thoughts. His voice trembled, betraying the weight of the moment.

“What did she have to lose?” Gale replied evenly. “She was already condemned. If I were in her place, I’d take the wager.”

“I don’t think it would take impending doom to make you try it,” came another voice, smooth and cutting.

Astarion had remained silent until then, lounging like a shadow given form, but his words landed with a knowing sting. Gale did not rise to it. If he acknowledged Astarion’s amusement, the thread of deduction might unravel. He kept his eyes fixed on the coffin.

“The absence of a body here,” he said, his tone sharpening, “suggests her gamble succeeded. Had we not checked until after cremation, she would have slipped beyond reach entirely.”

I didn’t let her get away, Gale thought, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

The corpse inside was an omega of no significance—nameless, forgotten before the grave even closed. Not the sort of thing one smiled over. Yet Gale’s lips curved all the same. Mystra had faltered. She had been clever, bold, audacious enough to play with her own death, but careless this time.

The smile broke wider, and then, before he realized it, laughter spilled from him. It was low at first, then grew, curling in his chest like smoke. Heh, heh, heh. The sound was wrong, bubbling up from some deep place inside him that felt too large, too alive. It wanted out, and for a moment he let it.

The physician shifted, uneasy. One of the alphas exchanged a look with the others. Even Astarion tilted his head, watching Gale with sharp curiosity, as though deciding whether this was brilliance or madness.

“If she truly lives,” Gale murmured suddenly, still half-laughing, “then I would dearly like to meet her again.”

Not to arrest her. Not for justice. Something else entirely.

Mystra had wit enough to disguise murder as accident, again and again. She had nerve enough to risk her own life, and the gall to succeed. What a waste, Gale thought, for someone like that to simply die. He could not mourn her victims, not when something greater gleamed in his mind like gold.

The resurrection drug. I must know how it is made.

The thought thundered through him, dizzying, intoxicating. His laugh came again, sharper this time, and the physician actually flinched. The three alphas in the chamber looked on warily, doubt and unease flickering across their faces.

At last, Gale caught himself. He pressed a hand to his mouth, clearing his throat as if he could smooth away the sound. He straightened, face composed once more.

“Forgive me,” he said lightly, as though nothing had happened. “Might I trouble you to stitch my leg? It seems I’ve torn the wound open again.”

He gestured casually at his leg, but the motion revealed more than he intended. The bandages were sodden, dark with blood that had seeped through layer after layer. Drops pattered faintly onto the floor with every shift of his weight. He had been dragging the limb the whole time, too absorbed in his thoughts to notice—or too stubborn to admit it.

The physician stared at the spreading stain, pale and shaken. Gale only smiled, as if his body’s failing were no more concerning than a torn sleeve.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The room was dark save for the soft amber glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Gale lay half-propped against the pillows, exhaustion pinning his body down more than any bandage could. His leg throbbed with a slow, petulant ache—dull until he shifted, then bright as lightning.

The door creaked. A familiar silhouette slipped through, light-footed, cautious.

Astarion.

“You are utterly insufferable,” Astarion hissed as he crossed the floor, voice pitched low but full of bite. His pale features caught the lamp’s glow, all sharp edges and sharper scorn. “Do you have any idea how close you came to tearing that wound wide open? Honestly, you should be grateful you still have a leg at all, the way you carry on.”

Gale tried to muster a retort, something wry about Astarion sounding like a scolding nurse, but fatigue held his tongue. Instead, he simply looked at him, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone too drained to defend himself.

Astarion stopped beside the bed, glaring down at him. The words seemed to falter on his lips.

“I hate seeing you hurt,” he admitted finally, almost grudgingly, as though the words themselves burned.

And then, with startling ease, he lowered himself onto the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, his body a line of cool presence beside Gale’s. He didn’t linger long—just close enough for Gale to feel the faint brush of his breath.

Before Gale could summon an answer, Astarion leaned in. A brief, startling touch—his lips pressing gently to Gale’s forehead. A kiss that carried no hunger, no demand, only the barest echo of tenderness.

And then he was gone. Rising as fluidly as he had come, leaving Gale with the faint trace of cold air where his body had been.

The door slid shut.

Gale lay motionless, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of that kiss warm against his skin. For once, he had no words at all.

Chapter 14: Ulder

Summary:

Astarion organises for Gale to return to his old role as poison tester

Astarion had just finished his bath and was savoring a cup of wine, his robe loosely tied, his hair still damp from the steam. The fire in the brazier glowed dully, and the scent of woodsmoke clung faintly to the air. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth soak into his bones. It seemed as if every day, without fail, some fresh headache was dropped into his lap.

He had long ago grown accustomed to juggling crises, but lately it had begun to feel as though the tide was unrelenting. As if matters weren’t already piled high enough, he had nearly been killed only days earlier. That brush with mortality still weighed heavily, even if he would never admit as much aloud.

The affair with Mystra had been handled as discreetly as possible, the threads of it tied off with care. For the court’s purposes, the matter was considered settled. Still, Astarion could not help revisiting the details. He had personally questioned the mortuary attendants who had supposedly received coffins during the time Mystra’s body was said to be there. They swore, however, that no such orders had ever passed through their hands. The lie—or the gap—gnawed at him.

Of Mystra herself, little was certain. The court omega’s closeness with the physician stemmed, he had learned, from her guardian—none other than the doctor’s own teacher. The old man had seen Mystra’s talent early on and adopted her as his daughter. Beyond that, the details blurred into rumor. Astarion disliked puzzles without solutions, and Mystra remained precisely that.

A crackle from the charcoal pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced toward the window, where the world had gone pale and muffled. Snow had begun to fall heavily, blanketing the gardens, softening even the sharp angles of the palace roofs. The air carried a sharp chill. With a small sigh, he slipped his robe over his shoulders, belting it tighter, and drew it close as if the silk alone could guard against the creeping cold.

The sudden metallic chiming from the entrance carried easily through the house. Astarion already knew who it would be, and sure enough, Ulder entered, his brow furrowed into its perpetual scowl.

“He’s safely back,” Ulder reported.

“Thank you,” Astarion murmured, setting his cup aside. “I know it’s a tiresome task to saddle you with.”

It had been Astarion’s instruction that Ulder see Gale home whenever it grew late. Gale had injured his leg while saving Astarion—an irony not lost on him—and the wound was at risk of opening again if left unattended. The thought of Gale suffering for his sake sat poorly with him, though he buried the feeling as he always did.

But Gale’s leg was not his only concern. There was Ysolde. The eccentric alpha who claimed to be Gale’s biological mother. Astarion believed her, though her word alone was thin proof. Even so, Gale’s cold and guarded manner whenever she was mentioned spoke volumes. Whatever blood bound them, theirs was not the easy, trusting bond of a mother and son. Around the palace, people whispered that Ysolde’s whims were dangerous—that she was unpredictable, volatile, and not to be underestimated. Astarion agreed. He preferred to take no risks where Ysolde was concerned.

It was not lost on him, either, that Ysolde had aided Gale’s desperate climb to the altar during the ritual. That memory still unsettled him. The soldier who had struck Ysolde during the chaos was, no doubt, already regretting the choice bitterly.

Ulder, for his part, was a rare comfort in the midst of such uncertainties. Unlike most in the court, he could read Astarion well enough to know when silence was required. He had been a steady presence since Astarion was a child, first as a tutor, then as a trusted aide. Save for a brief absence when duty had pulled him elsewhere, Ulder had always been there. That his wife had once served as Astarion’s wetnurse only deepened the peculiar tangle of debt between them. Sometimes Astarion wondered if he would ever be free of it.

“We’ll be at the rear palace tomorrow,” Astarion said finally, his tone smooth but deliberate.

“Yes, sir.” Ulder set a pot and two silver bowls upon the table. The thick, syrupy scent that rose from it made Astarion’s lip curl faintly.

It was their daily burden—an elixir they were required to drink if it was to retain its effect. Ulder poured the first bowl and took the obligatory sip. He paused, waited, then swallowed with visible distaste.

“I think it’s all right,” he said at last. “Nothing unusual.”

Nothing unusual, Astarion thought, save the taste—which was always foul. The concoction contained powdered potato imported from distant lands, chosen for its singular side effects. It was one of several unpalatable ingredients they were forced to endure each day.

“Very well.” Astarion lifted his own bowl. Pinching his nose, he drained it in one long swallow, the syrup clinging to his tongue and throat like rot. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing. Ulder passed him a cup of cold water immediately, which he accepted gratefully.

Five years of this regimen, and still the taste remained as wretched as ever.

“You shouldn’t hold your nose like that when people are watching,” Estra said, her voice soft but laced with caution.

“I know that.”

“It makes you look like such a little boy when you do.”

“I know that,” Astarion snapped, though the pout on his lips betrayed him. He threw himself down onto the couch with theatrical petulance, his silks pooling around him. His arms folded tightly across his chest, as if he could shield himself from her words. He hated how easily his habits betrayed him—small gestures, childish tics that undermined the authority he fought to embody.

Every word, every glance, every step he took in the palace was measured. He had to be aware of his tone, his posture, the cut of his stride. A single slip could unravel the illusion.

Astarion was twenty-four years old, though the role he played forced him to bend into shapes that were sometimes ageless, sometimes infantile, and never his own. He straightened, dragging the mask of composure back onto his face. But the taste of the medicine still clung to his tongue, metallic and bitter, curling his lip against his will.

Ulder, who had been watching him with steady disapproval, finally spoke. “You needn’t drink it, sir, if you detest it so.”

“This is what makes me who I am,” Astarion said flatly, his voice a careful monotone. “As a eunuch.”

The words hung between them, heavy with something darker than mere duty.

It had been nearly six years since the Emperor seized the rear palace. Six years that Astarion had swallowed the foul concoction every dawn, even though he no longer needed to. The Emperor had granted him leniency—among the lesser-ranked consorts and omegas he was permitted freedom, even indulgence. But still he drank. Still he bound himself to the role. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps out of pride. Perhaps because the mask had been worn so long it was easier to keep it than take it off.

Ulder’s brow creased, the lines in his face cutting deeper. “If you do this long enough, you’ll never regain the function.”

Astarion spluttered, nearly choking on his water. He spat it back into the cup and pressed a hand sharply against his mouth, glaring daggers at Ulder as if the man had just spat blasphemy in the middle of court.

Ulder met his look calmly, almost blandly, though the weight of his words lingered. There was no malice in him, just an uncomfortable honesty that only those closest dared show.

“Well, the same is true of you!” Astarion shot back, defensive and too quick.

“Not so,” Ulder replied smoothly, as if he had anticipated the outburst. “Only last month, a grandchild was born to me.”

The implication slid beneath Astarion’s skin. Ulder had already done his duty—he had sired children when he was still young and strong. His bloodline was secured. He could afford to speak of function and loss because his legacy was untouchable.

“How old are you again?” Astarion asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Thirty-seven.”

Astarion did the arithmetic automatically. Ulder had married at sixteen. By nineteen he had three children. His milk brothers. He remembered them clearly—boys he had once run wild with in the courtyards before duty and status had pulled him away. He was particularly close to the youngest, a sharp-eyed lad who had recently proven useful in the seaweed poisoning scandal. The same alpha who had accompanied Gale to the official’s house—that had been him.

“Which of the elder brothers fathered the child?” Astarion asked.

“My eldest son,” Ulder said, sipping tea with the ease of a man who had already won the argument. “And I think my youngest should be finding himself a wife soon.”

“He’s only nineteen,” Astarion muttered.

“Yes. Just the same as you, milord.”

Perhaps Ulder thought he was being subtle, but Astarion saw it for what it was: a prod. A push toward companionship, toward imitation of the Emperor’s habits. A veiled suggestion to bind himself to others before his youth slipped away entirely.

Astarion recrossed his legs with deliberate grace and regarded Ulder with wide, faux-innocent eyes. “I see,” he said, his tone perfectly smooth, the picture of obedience.

“I want to hold my grandchild,” Ulder said after a pause, his voice low and steady. “Soon.”

The words carried more weight than their surface meaning. Let us finish our task swiftly. Let this business end.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Astarion murmured.

Estra glided forward then, her hands steady as she poured steaming tea into porcelain cups. The scent of jasmine rose faintly into the air, softening the sharp edges of the conversation. Ulder accepted his with a nod and sipped with slow deliberation.

Astarion lifted his cup of water and drained it in one swallow, ignoring Estra’s subtle frown. He set it down with a click that echoed faintly in the quiet chamber.

Another circuit of duties had been completed. Another round of the Emperor’s omegas had been visited, watched, assessed. Consort Orin had integrated into the palace with less friction than expected, despite her forceful introduction. Astarion had half-expected sparks, but Consorts Jenevelle and Lae’zel were far too pragmatic to let Orin’s arrival disturb their carefully cultivated balance. There had been quarrels once, after the births of their children, but those had been the exception, not the rule. Since then, distance and courtesy had become their shield.

The palace breathed with its usual rhythm—fragrance, silence, and carefully measured words. And Astarion, mask firmly in place, remained exactly what the Emperor had shaped him into.

As for Consort Arabella, she was far too timid a creature to ignite conflict on her own. Soft-spoken and ever watchful of who stood near her, she reminded Astarion of a songbird who had once been caged and had never learned how to sing again. Left to her own devices, she would have faded into the silk wallpaper like a shadow. Still, Astarion knew better than to discount the vipers at her side. Her omegas-in-waiting, ambitious and eager for scraps of influence, might yet goad her into some pitiable scandal. He would have to keep an eye on them.

The residence that had once belonged to Consort Gisir had fallen into ruin—not through neglect, but through tasteless indulgence. Under Gisir, the pavilion had been a place of restrained elegance: muted screens painted with pale mountains, polished floors shining like water, furnishings carved but never ostentatious. A beauty that spoke softly. Now, every corner shrieked of excess. Gaudy silks clashed violently with gilded frames, ivory ornaments cluttered every flat surface, and crystal lanterns dangled so thickly from the ceiling that the air seemed to choke on their false brilliance. To Astarion’s eye, it was not refinement but a merchant’s parlor—someone desperate to prove wealth without knowing what beauty was.

Consort Orin, for all her father’s influence, fared little better. Her sire had been an omega well-beloved by the Empress Dowager, and it was under his tenure that the number of palace omegas had swollen to an absurd three thousand. Yet even with such pedigree, Orin herself seemed a curiosity the Emperor quickly tired of. Her Majesty made a show of visiting her at least once every ten days—enough to keep her from complaint—but Astarion suspected it was more duty than desire.

Still, the arrangement rankled the other consorts. Even if they were visited more frequently, the rear palace was not a game of tallies; it was a game of heirs. Who could say which womb would be blessed by fortune first? Who could say who would give the Emperor the child that mattered?

It was no mystery why Orin failed to stir Her Majesty’s appetite. Her identity seemed to shift with the changing of her clothes. One day she appeared in bright feathers from the southern wilds, the next in the furs of the north. She painted herself in the rich dyes of the east, then days later donned brocade from the western provinces. Each outfit remade her hair, her face, her entire air. To some men it might have been alluring novelty, but to the Emperor it was alienating. Astarion could imagine her frustration well enough—lying with a stranger each time you sought the familiar comfort of flesh. It was enough to cool anyone’s blood.

Arabella’s rejection, however, was colder still. His Majesty’s distaste for her was not simply indifference—it was visceral. She was too slight, too youthful of feature, her body soft with girlishness. She was child, and the Emperor despised anything that echoed her father’s predilections. Shee would not touch her, not even to feign courtesy.

The Empress Dowager bore proof of what that earlier appetite had cost. A scar split the pale skin of his belly, a mark carved when he was forced to deliver Her Majesty before his body had grown large enough to bear her. His hips had been too narrow, his frame too fragile, and so the child was cut free with steel. By all rights, both should have died, but fortune—or perhaps the surgeon’s foreign skill—intervened. Against the odds, father and daughter lived, and years later he even bore another. But the scar never faded, and Astarion often thought it lay across the court itself, a hidden wound everyone pretended not to see.

That same physician, rewarded for her miracle, attended almost exclusively to him thereafter, to the neglect of others. A consort of the crown princess labored at the same time and was left with only half-hearted aid. Her infant died for it.

Astarion wondered, not without some malice, how differently the palace might look had that child lived and the present Emperor retained an obvious heir. The thought had no use, yet it lingered, curling like smoke in the corners of his mind.

He dismissed it with a shake of his head. Fantasies were for fools. What mattered was the future, and the Emperor’s duty to produce an heir. On that point, he and Ulder were of one mind. Since Gale’s pointed “lecture,” His Majesty’s visits had grown frequent—urgent, even. Astarion suspected the court might soon have its long-awaited crown prince or princess.

During one such visit to the Jade Pavilion, Jenevelle’s chief omega-in-waiting, Nocturne, had confided her worry in Astarion. The Emperor had called on her mistress again the night before, and Jenevelle’s exhaustion was written plainly on her face. Even Nocturne, usually neat and composed, bore signs of strain—her ink-black hair falling in loose strands, her eyes tired from sleeplessness. She tried to hide it, but Astarion saw everything.

Ulder, of course, sympathized too easily, his gaze lingering too long, his voice softening around her. Nocturne did not seem entirely averse to the attention. But Astarion knew better. Ulder already had a wife at home to scold him and keep him in line, and Astarion himself would make sure Nocturne’s little flirtation went nowhere.

All of this, however, offered a neat solution. Astarion saw it at once, and when he proposed it, Jenevelle accepted without hesitation. Nocturne pretended to sigh and roll her eyes, playing the role of the dutiful servant put upon by greater schemes. Yet Astarion caught the flicker of relief in her expression. Later, she admitted as much to the three omegas-in-waiting who had, as always, been shamelessly eavesdropping outside the door.

Astarion allowed himself a thin smile. He had chosen well.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“The rear palace, sir?”

“That’s right. Back to your favorite job.”

Gale’s polishing cloth moved in steady circles, though his fingers were beginning to ache from the pressure. He studied the vessel’s shining surface until he could see his own reflection, pale and drawn, staring back at him. Only when he was certain not a single smudge remained did he return it carefully to its place among the others.

His leg throbbed, a dull reminder that he was not yet healed. Too proud to admit the pain aloud, he bore it silently. At least the chair Estra provided meant he could work without faltering, though he often caught the old omega’s sharp eyes on him—as if daring him to slacken, even for a moment. Estra tolerated no excuses.

Across the room, Astarion was the very picture of indulgence. He reclined like some crowned youth at his ease, one arm draped along the back of his seat, while Estra peeled a tangerine for him with unhurried care. She separated each segment, set them delicately on a small plate, and pushed it within his reach. Astarion plucked one, then another, eating slowly, letting the juice coat his lips. He looked as if he’d never lifted a finger in service to himself in his life.

Gale’s mouth tightened. An adult alpha—treated as though he were a fragile child. What self-respecting man would allow it?

But Estra seemed to delight in the ritual. She was forever tending to him in these small, intimate ways—wrapping him in a cotton jacket when the drafts crept in, cooling his tea until it was “just right,” smoothing his hair from his forehead with maternal familiarity. It was devotion, yes, but of the kind that made Astarion look every bit the spoiled brat he pretended not to be.

“It would appear Consort Jenevelle has ceased to walk the path of the moon,” Astarion remarked at last, plucking another slice and studying it as though it held more weight than the words themselves.

The phrase—“the path of the moon”—was a courtly way of speaking about menstruation. Gale’s hand faltered on the rim of the silver bowl he was polishing. Pregnant, then. Or soon to be.

A flicker of memory tightened his chest: the whispers of poison during Jenevelle’s last pregnancy, when she carried Princess Lingli. Two attempts. Two brushes with death for mother and child. The perpetrator had never been found. To this day, suspicion hung in the air like smoke no one could clear. No wonder Astarion’s tone, casual on the surface, carried unease beneath.

“And when am I to begin my new assignment?” Gale asked, keeping his voice level, though his pulse had quickened.

“Would today be possible?” Estra interjected smoothly, as if she had already decided the matter.

“Possible?” Astarion’s lips curved in something between a smile and a sneer. He savored another bite of fruit, sucking the juice from the pulp before setting the husk aside with theatrical care. “I would positively prefer it.”

For Gale, it was more than welcome. The rear palace meant freedom from accident—freedom from seeing the one face he could not bear. The one name he refused to think, even now. Whether Astarion had orchestrated the transfer for his sake or whether it was mere convenience for himself, Gale decided it made no difference.

He thought he had hidden his relief well, but Estra’s gaze was sharp as a hawk’s. “Ah, good news, my dear?” she teased, her lips stretching into a grin that showed all her teeth.

Apparently, Gale was not half as inscrutable as he fancied himself.

“Not to speak of,” he said curtly, willing his hand to remain steady as he set down the vessel.

“Too bad for me,” Estra replied. “I thought I’d finally found a protégé worthy of my training.”

There was a dangerous amusement in her eyes, a glimmer that suggested she saw more than he wanted. Gale ducked his head, returning to his work with renewed intensity, polishing as though the silver itself might shield him from scrutiny.

And all the while, Astarion lounged with the smug air of someone who had gotten exactly what he wanted, the citrus scent clinging to him like perfume.

Chapter 15: Rear Palace

Summary:

Gale returns to the Rear Palace and reconnects with palace gossip

Gale leaned back in his chair, running the cloth slowly over the silver vessel until it gleamed. He wasn’t in any particular rush—his leg still ached if he moved too suddenly, so sitting tasks suited him just fine. The rear palace had always carried an air of confinement, but now, strangely, he found it comfortable. Familiar, even. Surrounded by the bustle of omegas and the constant quiet rituals of daily life, he felt more at home than he’d expected. Perhaps it reminded him too much of his childhood—places where omegas gathered, talked, bickered, and whispered their secrets.

His duties hadn’t changed much: tasting dishes for the consorts, mixing medicines when needed, and strolling the shaded paths when his leg allowed. Estra had reminded him firmly not to overdo it, which he interpreted as no running, no lifting, no tumbling headlong into trouble. He liked to think he was following instructions—though truth be told, he tested the limits daily. His body was sturdier than most people assumed, and the thin scars on his arms proved it.

The more pressing matter was Consort Jenevelle. The whispers of her pregnancy grew louder each day, though no one dared speak of it directly. Gale remembered when she had been with Princess Lingli—no sickness, no fuss, barely any change in appetite. If it weren’t for the missed cycle, one might not have noticed at all. That same ambiguity was back now, and it put everyone on edge.

A gag order had been declared throughout the Jade Pavilion. One loose tongue could spell disaster if ill-wishers got wind of it. The memory of the poisoning attempts during Lingli’s gestation lingered like a shadow—unresolved, unpunished. Gale knew better than most that poison wasn’t the only danger, but it was certainly the easiest way to strike.

For that reason, the Emperor herself had been quietly discouraged from visiting Jenevelle’s bedchamber. Normally, Gale thought, that would have been easy enough. But the seminar lessons he’d once given Jenevelle had clearly stuck—because now the Emperor found herself even more drawn to her. That little wrinkle in the plan made things… complicated.

Perhaps I should have held back with those lessons, Gale admitted to himself, fingers absently kneading at the edge of his robe. But then again, if he hadn’t given her the tools to satisfy the Emperor, Jenevelle might have lost favor, and that would have put her in even greater danger.

It wasn’t a matter Gale could ever broach directly with Her Majesty. A palace maid—even one with a sharp mind and a healer’s hands—did not dictate royal conduct. Instead, Gale relied on Astarion to nudge things subtly. He never said outright what he wanted, but the request was clear: let the Emperor’s visits continue as before, steady and unremarkable, so no one would suspect the truth.

To his surprise, the Emperor complied. Not only did she visit Jenevelle, she spent time in simple ways—playing with little Lingli, chatting idly over tea, lingering with the comfort of routine. Gale began to reconsider his judgment of the woman. Perhaps she wasn’t merely a lecher in silks, but a ruler with a certain wisdom, aware of how her every move was weighed and measured. Some called her a sage-sage-queen, though Gale had assumed it was just a flattering title to contrast her with the buffoon who had ruled before. Watching her now, though, Gale wondered if there might be more truth to it than he’d thought.

Still, Gale mused, she isn’t immune to loneliness. He had seen the way Her Majesty’s eyes would drift, the hollow expression that came and went when no one else was paying attention. Out of something like pity—or perhaps practicality—Gale discreetly placed some of his “educational materials” where the Emperor was sure to notice them. They weren’t exactly moral reading, but they served their purpose well enough. When, a few days later, he received orders to prepare more of the same, Gale sighed and muttered to himself that perhaps “sex-crazed” wasn’t such an unfair description after all.

Meanwhile, gossip was the true blood of the rear palace. With too much routine and too few alphas to disrupt it, the omegas-in-waiting found release in chatter. On slow afternoons they gathered in the kitchens, nibbling at the remains of the consorts’ tea parties. Today it was Jongxutang—dragon’s beard candy, thin strands of sugar spun so fine they melted instantly on the tongue. This batch carried the earthy sharpness of tea leaves, giving the sweetness a gentle bite.

Emmeline, a sharp-eyed omega who never bothered to bite her tongue, popped a piece into her mouth and laughed. “I couldn’t believe that outfit, could you? Absolutely scandalous. You’d think she’d want to avoid drawing attention, but no—struts around like it’s the festival parade.”

Her words set off another round of giggles, the kind of laughter that came as much from relief as from amusement. Gale, listening from where he sat nearby, only shook his head faintly. Rumor might be dangerous, but here in the kitchens it was harmless—at least, until it wasn’t.

“It’s true. But that thing she wore a little while ago—I thought that was nice. Western clothing is so cool, isn’t it?” Nym said, her voice mild as ever. She leaned forward on her elbows, eyes unfocused in that absentminded way of hers, as though she were half lost in thought while speaking. A dab of syrup from her sweet still clung to the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t notice.

“Clothes like that choose their own wearers,” Sorn replied, tone low and even. He was lanky and loose-limbed where he sat, one long hand curled around his teacup. Unlike Nym, he had hardly touched the sugared confections on the table. Sorn had never cared much for sweets, and it showed in the way he swirled the tea idly, watching the steam instead of the cakes. “But hers have never looked bad on her.”

Emmeline gasped as though betrayed. She turned dramatically to her last ally, Gale, who had been quietly sipping his tea and staying well out of the argument. “Gale—” she began hopefully.

“Yeah, sure,” Gale said at once, more to deflect than to support. He gave her a vague nod, the kind one gave when one hadn’t really been listening, though in truth he had. Inside, he winced. Why do they always drag me into these spats? he thought, keeping his face neutral. That was as far as his involvement went.

Emmeline’s face fell. With no reinforcement, she puffed out her cheeks in indignation and snatched up her cup. “Well, I thought Consort Gisir was much cooler,” she said, sulky and petulant, before taking a noisy sip of tea—her cheeks still puffed like a squirrel hoarding nuts.

Nym covered her mouth, failing to hide a grin, while Sorn’s smirk deepened. The two shared a glance of conspiratorial amusement.

“Well, well! So you’ve been on Team Gisir this whole time, Emmeline!” Nym teased, her mild tone suddenly lilting with mischief.

“I—I was not!” she exclaimed, nearly sloshing her tea over the rim of her cup.

Sorn arched a brow, his smirk sharpening into something sly. “You don’t have to hide it. I know we serve Consort Jenevelle, but no one would blame you for feeling the way you do.”

“I don’t feel that way!” Emmeline snapped, her voice pitched high, the tips of her ears pink with embarrassment.

Gale nearly laughed into his cup, though he schooled his features quickly. He let the chatter ripple around him like harmless background noise. The sweets on the tray, all spun sugar and candied fruit, did little to tempt him. He found them cloying, leaving his mouth sticky and unsatisfied. What he longed for was something with salt and crunch—roasted soybeans, or rice crackers dusted with seaweed. Something to cut through all this sugar.

The others carried on, their voices rising and falling like sparrows quarrelling in a tree. Gale’s thoughts drifted toward the true subject of their gossip: the new consort, Orin.

She was impossible not to notice. Orin carried with her an unusual quality, though it had nothing to do with her face or voice—though they were an oddity themselves—it was her clothes. She seemed to reinvent herself every time she entered a room. One day in a sweeping western gown of rich velvet; the next, clad like a rider of the open plains, boots polished, cloak billowing behind her. Her appearances were like small performances, each outfit a costume in a play only she knew the script to.

I wonder what her story is, Gale mused, watching the tea swirl in his cup. Maybe she’s simply spoiled with wealth. At this pace, her pavilion must already be bursting with silk and leather. He remembered the Garnet Pavilion in its old, austere days under Gisir—so stark, so measured. Now it glittered and shifted under Orin, as though she had swept through determined to erase every trace of her predecessor.

It was clever and reckless in equal measure. In the rear palace, standing out was necessary to climb, but stand out too much, and you risked being hammered down. Orin might have been hammered quickly indeed, had her father not been an advisor of the old emperor’s court. His shadow still stretched long; there was, as Gale thought, no hammer large enough to strike her.

That explains Gisir’s fall, Gale realised, lips tightening faintly. More than enough reason to drive her out. And yet—perhaps the Emperor has lost more than she’s gained.

Gisir had never been destined to be mother of the nation, but her eyes had been sharp, her mind sharper still. She saw clearly, spoke wisely—one almost wished she had been born an alpha, so her talents would have been celebrated rather than tolerated. Now she was gone. And in her place: a young omega, bright, unpredictable, with the potential to influence not only the palace but the greater court beyond its walls.

Perhaps it wasn’t such an advantageous trade, Gale thought grimly. The Emperor couldn’t ignore Orin, but drawing too close risked its own dangers. A consort’s power only lasted as long as their child remained young. When they grew—when they sat the throne themselves—backers were forgotten, cast aside without ceremony.

So what did that mean for Orin? For the Emperor? For the rest of them?

Gale set his cup down gently, pouring himself another from the little clay teapot. Steam curled upward in delicate threads, and he stared into it, letting the chatter of his companions blur into the background while the questions weighed heavy in his mind.

Chapter 16: Paper

Summary:

Gale helps the quack doctor with a couple of problems

When Gale stepped into the rear palace’s medical office for the first time in weeks, it smelled exactly as he remembered: a sour mixture of dried herbs, dust, and ink that had gone stale in the air. The shelves sagged under the weight of jars and scrolls, drawers half-open like yawning mouths, cobwebs lacing the corners where no broom had dared to wander in months.

At the center of this chaos sat the doctor—plump, rosy-cheeked, and perfectly content, as though he lived in a place of order and cleanliness rather than this ramshackle den.

“Ah, Gale! Haven’t seen you in far too long,” the man chirped, tugging his loach-shaped mustache into a smile. He reached for the teapot and poured generously, balancing two cups atop a thick medical treatise as if it were nothing more than a tea tray.

Gale took both cups before they slid off, lips pressing into a tight line as he clutched the tome. “This is a rare treatise,” he muttered under his breath, fingers lingering over the worn leather binding. Blasphemy, he thought darkly. Serving tea on a book that could save lives.

The doctor either didn’t notice or pretended not to. He beamed and took a seat opposite, puffing a little as though even the short walk across the room winded him.

Gale glanced around again. No assistants, no patients, not even the faint smell of medicine brewing. Just the man, his dusty shelves, and an air of lethargy that clung to the place like mildew. How does he still hold his post?

“Oh, the weather has warmed up, don’t you think?” the doctor said, fanning himself lazily with a slip of paper.

“It’s still cold enough to bite through bone,” Gale replied, dropping a laundry basket heavily on the desk. The doctor’s teacup rattled against its saucer.

Outside, frost still lingered in the shaded corners of the courtyards. Butterbur buds curled against the ground, too cautious to open. Gale had felt the sting of the wind on his walk here. Warm, indeed. Perhaps the doctor only found it so because he had enough flesh to keep him comfortable in every season.

Before the man could ask another empty question, Gale began unloading the basket. Rags, brushes, sticks of bamboo charcoal. The doctor blinked, his mustache twitching like an uncertain caterpillar.

“Gracious heavens, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Gale snapped, setting down the supplies in a neat line. “We’re cleaning. This room.”

The doctor flinched as though Gale had cursed at him. “Clean? But surely someone else—”

“No.” Gale’s eyes sharpened, his voice ringing harder than he meant. He had been stewing on this for weeks. Ever since Estra had drilled discipline into him, he couldn’t walk into this pigsty without wanting to set fire to it. Dust and mold didn’t belong anywhere near medicine. If the doctor couldn’t see that, then Gale would force the matter.

The man’s round face drooped, the beginnings of a pout forming. “Ah… but it’s not so bad as all that, is it?”

Gale turned his head slowly and leveled a look at him, the same unimpressed, flat stare he reserved for Astarion when the elf was being especially infuriating. It was a look sharpened by exhaustion and silent judgment, one that could make even the boldest tongue falter.

“Heek!” The doctor squeaked, his loach mustache quivering violently. All the false gravitas he normally carried collapsed like a rotten reed mat.

For a long moment, the two simply stared at one another. Gale’s hands tightened on the rags. The doctor squirmed under the weight of his gaze.

Finally, Gale sighed, shoulders sagging. He’s not a bad man, he admitted privately. Kindhearted, perhaps. But kindness without competence is a liability.

He turned to the cabinets. Rows upon rows of drawers towered toward the ceiling, a paradise of potential for any healer worth the name. But Gale saw the dust, the faint tracks of bugs, the ominous damp darkening the lower shelves. Neglect hung over the place like a curse. If someone didn’t act now, the whole stock could rot with the season’s creeping humidity.

And so, without waiting for permission, Gale rolled up his sleeves and set to work.

Darn it, stop that, Gale scolded himself silently. The man might be a quack, but he was still his superior here. He had to at least pretend respect. Otherwise, the doctor might “forget” to put out the rice crackers next time Gale came by. In a palace full of syrupy sweets, those salty little wafers were worth more than gold.

“Yes, we could ask someone else,” Gale said, carefully dusting his hands, “but what if they accidentally switched some medicines around while cleaning? What would we do then?”

The doctor paused mid-sip of tea, the steam curling under his nose. He had no counterargument—though Gale noted that didn’t stop him from looking vaguely put-upon. It wasn’t exactly proper for a palace attendant to march in and declare the office filthy, but the old man wasn’t chasing him out either. He knew better.

Everyone remembered the scandal of Mystra’s former physician, stripped of rank over a misplaced jar of thornapple. Ulder had whispered that the punishment had been “merely” a reduction in salary, but even so, in the court’s eyes it was a humiliation worse than lashes.

Gale didn’t intend to follow that example.

He set to again work with grim determination. Dust clung to his fingertips, the earthy tang of old herbs thick in the air. One by one, he pulled the drawers open, cloth in hand, wiping out years’ worth of neglect. Some herbs had gone black at the edges, their scents collapsed into a sour, rotten tang—he threw those out with little ceremony. The rest he wrapped neatly in fresh paper, jotting their names on wooden tags in his clear, precise handwriting.

“Careful with that one,” the doctor said lazily as Gale reached for a drawer. “That’s foxglove.”

“I can read labels,” Gale muttered, already tying the packet shut.

Whenever the work required bending or heavy lifting, Gale barked at the doctor to do it instead. His leg still ached if he stood too long, and besides, the man’s size proved he wasn’t hurting for exercise. Each time the doctor heaved himself up with a groan and muttered complaint.

The paper they used here caught his attention next. Smooth, strong, with a faint luster—quite unlike the cheap, brittle scraps commoners wrote on. In the city, people carved their records on thin strips of wood, tossed into the fire once used. But here in the palace, whole drawers of medicine rested on paper finer than anything Gale had ever been allowed to touch outside these walls.

He paused, remembering the old stories: the empress dowager forbidding the cutting of the rare trees used for the finest parchment. No one had dared ask her why. Even now, decades later, the restriction lingered, and the result was paper so rare and costly that most healers were forced to make do with grasses or rags.

By the time Gale leaned back, fingers sore, half the drawers gleamed clean and orderly. He exhaled, sweat prickling his hairline. “Phew…”

“All finished, Gale?” the doctor asked.

“No. Only half,” Gale replied flatly.

The silence that followed was almost sulky. The doctor sagged, his loach-like mustache drooping with him. Gale ignored it. Half was as much as anyone could do in a day without sprouting extra hands. Tomorrow, he’d finish the rest. For now, he left sticks of charcoal tucked in the corners to drink up the damp.

The doctor, massaging his shoulders, shuffled off to fix a snack. His movements were slow, ponderous and unhurried, as though the world would simply wait for him. When he returned, it was with a ceramic bottle of fruit juice and two small mounds of mashed chestnut and sweet potato, spooned neatly onto thick squares of paper.

“A sweet treat—always the thing when you’re tired,” he said, handing one to Gale with exaggerated solemnity.

Rich tastes, Gale thought, raising an eyebrow. Chestnut and sweet potato both were luxuries this time of year, and here they were, casually laid out like market-stall sweets. He popped the potato into his mouth in a single bite, earthy and sweet at once, while staring at the paper it had rested on.

It was smooth, strong, faintly glossy even under the smudge of his fingers. Too fine to be wasted as a wrapper.

“This is excellent paper you’re using,” Gale remarked, turning it over.

“Oh? You can tell?” The doctor brightened, mustache perking like a whisk broom. “My family produces it. We even supply the court. Impressive, no?”

“It is,” Gale admitted, against his better instincts.

That explained the abundance. His mother had always settled for the cheapest usable scraps, saving money where she could. Better herbs than parchment—that had been the woman’s logic. And yet here, the doctor was feeding Gale pastries on paper that could outlast a season’s rain.

Only in the palace, Gale thought grimly, could such extravagance and such negligence exist in the same room.

Maybe I could get him to sell me some, Gale mused, half-smiling to himself. At a friendly discount, even. That was the unfair advantage of knowing a man in the trade. He sipped his juice—it was too sweet, too warm, and left a syrupy aftertaste that clung to his tongue. Not for him. With a quiet sigh, he pushed the cup aside and set about heating some water for tea. A fire was always smouldering in the medical office’s brazier, a rare convenience.

“The whole village used to pitch in to make it,” the doctor said suddenly, his tone drifting into the sing-song of an oft-told memory. He leaned back, rubbing his thick hands together as though warming them over his own story. “There was a time when we nearly gave it up, but somehow we scraped by. Barely.”

Gale hadn’t asked for his life story, but the man seemed determined to share it. That was the quack’s way: lazy, distracted, and yet sometimes full of words he couldn’t seem to keep to himself.

When he was a boy, the doctor explained, the village had been rich on paper. Everyone worked—cutting down the fine trees that grew nearby, shaving them thin, pressing them into pulp. Their paper was so valued abroad that traders came from far lands, and the village had flourished. “I could ask for sweets whenever I wanted,” the doctor said with a rueful grin, “and my father would buy them without blinking. Sweets every day, if I liked.”

Gale stirred the boiling water and thought of that—an entire childhood with sugar at hand. No wonder he looks the way he does now.

But the wealth hadn’t lasted. The former empress dowager had noticed their success, and with a single decree, forbade the felling of those trees. “That was it. Overnight, gone. We tried other materials, of course—but the paper was never the same. The traders stopped coming. The headman—my father—took the blame. Everyone turned on us.”

Gale poured the hot water into a cup and said nothing. He had heard stories like this before: fortunes made and lost, always at the whim of someone powerful.

“It broke my heart when my older sister came here,” the doctor went on, quieter now. “The village couldn’t support itself anymore, so she volunteered for the palace. Said the next time I saw her, she’d be a mother to the country.” His moustache twitched faintly. “I never saw her again.”

The younger sister had followed soon after. And finally, when even that wasn’t enough, he himself had come. “I didn’t want to,” he admitted, staring into the bottom of his empty cup. “But there wasn’t any other choice. At least eunuchs were in demand.”

Gale blew across the surface of his tea and studied him for a moment. For all his laziness and bumbling, the man had carried more weight than Gale had given him credit for.

The work stretched on. The more Gale cleaned, the more there seemed to be. By the second day, the medicine cabinets gleamed. By the third, he was on a stool dusting cobwebs from the rafters while the doctor grumbled and swatted half-heartedly at the shelves. Gale had discovered another room cluttered with neglected equipment, a treasure trove buried under years of dust.

“Why don’t you just throw this junk out?” Gale muttered, holding up a cracked clay jar.

“Junk?!” the quack sputtered, clutching it to his chest. “That’s… that’s a perfectly good jar!”

Gale laughed under his breath and kept sorting. He was oddly content, in spite of himself—days of small order imposed on chaos, with the quack trailing after him like a sulking child. Even Astarion had raised an amused brow when he’d stopped by, remarking that the medical office almost looked respectable now.

And then, on the seventh day, as the doctor was half-heartedly polishing a pestle, another eunuch shuffled in and pressed a folded letter into his hands.

“Well now,” the doctor said, eyes brightening with greedy relief. “What have we here?” He tore it open like a starving man falling upon a meal, already settling heavily into his chair.

Gale, rag still in hand, sighed through his nose. He knew that look: a letter wasn’t just news—it was the perfect excuse for the quack to stop working altogether.

“Who’s it from?” Gale asked. He told himself he was asking out of politeness, but his curiosity was genuine enough.

“It’s from my younger sister,” the doctor replied, already unfolding the paper. He showed it to Gale. The sheet crackled in his hands, its surface coarse and uneven—so thin in some places that light bled through. Gale wondered if it had been made from seaweed or some other cheap substitute. It was exactly the sort of low-quality stock an ordinary villager might use.

But I thought his family made paper, Gale mused, narrowing his eyes. Perhaps his sister thought a flawed batch was still good enough for family letters.

The quack’s eyes ran quickly over the lines, but almost at once his expression changed. His jovial features hardened, then sagged. The letter trembled in his grip. Gale stepped closer, but before he could read over his shoulder, the doctor slumped heavily into a chair. The letter slid from his fingers and landed on the table with a dry whisper.

A few words caught Gale’s eye as he glanced at the fallen page:

Our Imperial commission may be withdrawn.

His brows rose. Only days ago, the quack had been boasting that his family supplied the court itself with paper. If that commission were revoked...

“I wonder what could be the matter,” the doctor muttered, voice low and hollow. His plump hands twitched against the wood of the table. “And just when we had managed to produce more stock...”

Gale frowned, tracing a finger along the rough edge of the letter. “Producing more? They haven’t started cutting corners, have they?”

The doctor lifted his head, offended, but his protest was weak. “Never. Not my family. They’ve been more excited than ever since they got that ox—it does all the heavy work we used to do ourselves. Why should that change anything?”

Making paper, Gale knew, was backbreaking work—pounding, pressing, hauling, lifting. An ox should have eased their burden, not worsened their product. Yet the evidence lay plain before him. He held the letter between two fingers, giving it a small shake. “If this is what they’re sending the court, I can understand the hesitation. It tears too easily. Ink bleeds. The surface is uneven enough to turn beautiful calligraphy into a mess of scratches.”

The doctor groaned and buried his head in his arms, his shoulders heaving. “I just don’t know what’s gone wrong.” His voice was muffled against the table, stripped of all his usual bluster.

Gale leaned against the desk and studied the sheet more closely. Most common paper was a hodgepodge of fibers, cut carelessly and glued without thought. It rotted, it tore, it curled at the first hint of damp. But this… this had promise. The fibers were uniform, the thickness even. Care had gone into its making. And yet the surface was flawed, brittle in places, too fragile to withstand use. Something was failing in the process.

He tilted his head, reading the letter again. The sister claimed they were still following the old ways, using the same materials their family always had. She begged for advice, though, clearly expecting none would come. Gale glanced at the doctor—his round face, creased with worry, his moustache limp and damp where his breath had fogged it.

“She writes about using time-tested methods,” Gale said slowly. “What methods exactly do you use?” He dried the mortar and pestle he had been working on and slid them neatly back onto the shelf. Then he busied himself with the kettle, partly to fill the silence, partly to keep the man calm.

“The same as anyone else,” the quack answered stiffly. He shifted in his seat. “But our family is particular. We break down the fibers more carefully. We’re precise with the glue. I can’t say more.”

“Not so talkative on this subject, are you?” Gale murmured, though his tone was wry rather than unkind. He pulled down a jar of tea leaves, rummaging through it until something pale caught his eye. Arrowroot. He plucked out a pinch, tossed it into a cup, and set the kettle back on the fire.

“Are you particular about your water too?” he asked, half teasing.

The doctor straightened a little, puffing out his chest with a shred of old pride. “Mm. We use spring water, heated to a very precise temperature. That’s what makes the glue bind cleanly. I can’t tell you more—that much is a trade secret.”

Gale allowed himself a faint smile. That was the quack he knew—vague when it suited him, oddly proud when it came to his craft. He poured the hot water into the cup and stirred until the arrowroot dissolved into a thick, pale brew. The scent was mild, earthy, almost sweet. He slid the steaming cup across the table toward the doctor.

“Arrowroot tea,” Gale said simply. “Drink. It won’t solve your problems, but it will steady your hands while you think.”

The doctor looked up at him with weary eyes, surprised at the kindness.

“And the glue,” Gale asked, setting the kettle back on its stand, “do you boil it with water left over from washing rice?”

The doctor scratched at his moustache, hesitating before he answered. “No. We take the trouble to dissolve wheat flour into it, the way you’re supposed to. Otherwise it doesn’t stick well.”

As soon as he’d spoken, he clapped a hand over his mouth as though he’d let something slip that shouldn’t be said. Gale only raised an eyebrow. To him it made little difference whether it was rice water or wheat flour—the method wasn’t the point.

He pushed a teacup across the desk. “Here. Try this.”

The quack leaned over the cup of arrowroot tea as if it might bite him. The stuff clung thickly to the porcelain, pale and starchy. He wrinkled his nose and took a careful sip, then winced. “Young omega, you’ve botched the proportions. This is impossible to drink.”

Gale slid a spoon across to him. “My mistake. But there’s a way to fix it. Want me to show you?”

The doctor eyed him suspiciously. “…What should I do?”

Wordlessly, Gale dipped the spoon into his mouth and stirred the tea. He did it twice more, deliberate and unbothered by the doctor’s growing look of disgust.

The quack sniffed, offended. “Somewhat uncouth.” Still, curiosity got the better of him and he tried it for himself, spooning, tasting, stirring again. Slowly the arrowroot thinned until it swirled in the cup like proper tea.

“It’s less starchy,” he admitted, eyes narrowing in surprise. He tried another sip. “In fact, it’s practically drinkable now.”

“Arrowroot and glue have more in common than you’d think,” Gale said lightly.

The doctor’s moustache twitched. “I suppose… though now you have me wondering. Could saliva thin glue the same way it does arrowroot?”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed what?”

Gale let out a slow sigh through his nose. Do I have to spell it out for him? “Oxen,” he said at last, “produce a great deal of slobber.”

The doctor blinked at him, baffled for a beat, then gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “Yes, now that you mention it, I suppose they do.”

“What if you checked where the ox drinks its water,” Gale said, stacking the empty cups together with a faint clink. “Just to be sure.”

The quack went very still. Gale didn’t need to press further—he could see the idea finally land.

He left soon after, stepping out into the cool air with the faint smell of arrowroot still clinging to his hands. Behind him, the doctor scrambled for ink and brush, muttering to himself as he dashed off a hurried letter. By the time Gale reached the edge of the pavilion path, he heard the scuff of slippers—the doctor already rushing off to find a courier.

Chapter 17: Contract

Summary:

Gale appraises Rolan’s naked body until he's discovered

“So, how much does it cost to buy out a courtesan’s contract?” Rolan asked.

He and Gale were sitting in the long, drafty room that connected the rear palace to the outer courtyard. The question blindsided Gale so completely that his jaw went slack. He had assumed, since Rolan had summoned him in person rather than sending a letter, that the tiefling had uncovered some crucial lead about the recent incident. Instead, this—this—was what he wanted to know?

I knew he was a big, lovesick puppy. Gale thought.

Rolan buried his face in his hands and groaned. A moment later, he slammed his palms against the desk between them with a crack that startled the guards stationed at either end of the chamber. The eunuchs exchanged weary looks but otherwise stayed put, clearly deciding the outburst wasn’t worth the trouble of stepping in.

“You’ve got to tell me!” Rolan blurted.

Evidently, he had been unable to let go of something he’d overheard on his last visit to the Verdant House: talk that one of the three princes—Dammon, no less—might be bought out of his contract. Rolan, hopelessly besotted with the man, had gnawed at the thought ever since.

“There are any number of answers to that question,” Gale replied smoothly.

Rolan leaned forward. “For one of the very best courtesans, then.”

“I hear you,” Gale murmured, studying him. He gestured for a brush and inkstone from one of the guards, and when Rolan obligingly pushed paper across the desk, Gale ground the ink with slow, deliberate strokes. “Market price shifts in a heartbeat, of course, so think of this as a rough estimate.” He wrote 200 in bold strokes.

“That’s about what a farmer earns in a year,” Gale explained. “You could buy a middling courtesan for twice that. A bargain, if you don’t mind lacklustre company.”

Rolan nodded furiously, hanging on every word.

“That excludes celebration money, mind you,” Gale added, tapping the brush against the inkstone. “Even if you cover what’s left of his contract and his potential earnings, you’ll pay nearly double again for the send-off. Custom demands the grandest farewell. The district would consider anything less an insult.”

“Give it to me straight,” Rolan begged, his face open, almost boyish. “What can I expect to pay in all?”

Gale paused, unsettled by the man’s sincerity. It’s not an easy question to answer, he thought. Dammon had drawn countless patrons since his debut, bringing in a small fortune for the Verdant House. He owed the brothel nothing—his debts for clothes, ornaments, and training had long been repaid. His contract should have ended years ago. He stayed because he excelled at the work, because the role suited him, because his tastes aligned with the demands of the House.

If buyouts were only about debts, Gale mused, Dammon’s price would be almost nothing at all.

How old was Dammon now? Gale searched his memory. The eldest of the three princes, he had belonged to the House since before Gale himself was born. And yet his skin remained smooth, his voice warm, his body still lithe from decades of dancing. Rumours abounded that he kept his youth by draining the essence of men—nonsense, most likely, though not without precedent. The “arts of the bedchamber” promised longevity through carefully practised pleasure, and Gale had occasionally wondered if Dammon had mastered them.

Judged strictly by years, Dammon’s value ought to have diminished. Yet he remained as luminous as ever, and the old madam could not afford to let one of her princes linger indefinitely. On Gale’s last visit home, he’d overheard her muttering that it was nearly time to move Dammon along.

Dammon had carried the Verdant House through its lean years, but neither he nor the establishment could rest on old laurels forever. New faces had to be raised up before the current stars faded.

Gale scratched at the back of his neck and gave a low grunt. “If anyone were going to buy Dammon out, it would be one of two people,” he said finally.

One candidate came to mind immediately: the head of a prosperous merchant house, a lavish spender who had continued to patronise the Verdant House even in its darkest days. A kindly old man. He used to press sweets into Gale’s palm when he was a boy. The man seldom stayed the night; he was content to drink wine and watch Dammon dance, but his devotion had never wavered. He had spoken of buying Dammon’s freedom more than once.

Each time, Dammon had laughed him off with gentle greed. But if the man raised the subject again now, the old madam might be ready to listen.

The other possibility was a high-ranking official who had long been one of Dammon’s regular patrons. Still young, only just past thirty, Gale had never learned precisely what kind of official he was, but when he thought back to the jeweled ornament he had once glimpsed on the hilt of his sword, he realized that even then—years ago—he had already ranked higher than Rolan did now. Surely the man had risen even further since.

He seemed to be a good match for Dammon, at least in terms of nocturnal pursuits. Dammon was always in excellent spirits after spending a night with him.

And yet, one detail nagged at Gale. Compared to indefatigable Dammon, this second suitor often seemed... drained. Tired, as if their couplings took more from him than he could comfortably give. He worried what that might mean for Dammon in the long run, should he be bought out by such a man.

Dammon was a beautiful omega, a superb dancer, and infamous for never yielding second place in bed. When his frustrations grew too sharp, his appetites had been known to extend beyond the usual clientèle—to beta servants of the brothel, or even to the other courtesans and apprentices. Insatiable, in short.

It was this very nature that gave the madam pause. Should Dammon be sold, or should he, instead, be groomed to take over the Verdant House itself? There was also the unlikely possibility of retirement—though Dammon’s restless nature made that solution seem fanciful.

Even so, Gale thought, perhaps it would be the most peaceful way. He could retire in name only, accepting customers on special occasions, while otherwise enjoying a freedom he had never truly known. That liberty would surely please him more than any gilded cage, however finely kept.

Gale’s eyes flicked back to Rolan. Mid-twenties, he guessed. Broad-shouldered, with brawny arms that would not go unnoticed by Dammon. More to the point, Gale recalled the first time Rolan had come to the Verdant House. He and Dammon had vanished into a room for two full days, and when at last they emerged, Dammon was glowing, and Rolan hadn’t looked even slightly worn. That spoke of stamina. The kind of stamina Dammon valued.

“Master Rolan,” Gale asked smoothly, “how much money do you make?”

“That question seems a little forward,” Rolan said, shifting in his seat, his tone half-embarrassed.

“Eight hundred silver a year?” Gale pressed.

“Hey, don’t go slapping numbers on people like that,” he muttered, frowning—but not with much force. A little too defensive, Gale thought.

“Twelve hundred, then?”

This time he said nothing. Silence, Gale knew, often spoke louder than words. That suggested a figure somewhere in the middle. A thousand silver a year, give or take. A respectable sum for his age and station. But to buy out a courtesan of Dammon’s rank, one ideally needed at least ten thousand silver in hand. After all, omegas of his stature could command a hundred silver simply for pouring tea, and three hundred for a single night’s company.

Rolan had since returned for two or three more nights with Dammon, but on his income, sustaining that habit would require stretching his purse to breaking. Gale suspected the madam had allowed it, likely to keep Dammon’s famously voracious appetites satisfied and thus spare the other courtesans too much trouble.

“Not enough?” Rolan asked, his voice quieter now.

“I’m afraid not,” Gale said.

“What if I promised to pay it back once I’d made it in the world?” he tried, leaning forward.

“They’d never agree. They would expect at least ten thousand in hard coin, and nothing less.”

“T-ten thousand?!”

Rolan froze in place, stunned, as if the very weight of the number had pinned him to the chair. Gale studied him, uncertain. If he could somehow raise that kind of money, he would not be such a poor match for Dammon. His endurance, at least, was a quality Dammon would not fail to value.

Yes, Dammon would value it—but would he call it love? Gale wasn’t sure.

He let his gaze linger on Rolan, who was staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, utterly dejected. A long breath slipped from his lips.

He seemed to arrive at the same uncertainty he had. He lifted his eyes, red-rimmed with strain, and asked haltingly, “If—hypothetically—I managed to gather ten thousand silver, would I be able to buy out his contract?”

“Are you asking whether Dammon would simply turn you down?” Gale said coolly.

The moment he spoke, Rolan’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together, his eyes burning just a little redder. Gale had only raised the possibility—he hadn’t said it would happen. But clearly, the thought stung him.

Okay then, just one thing to do, Gale thought. He rose from his seat and planted himself directly in front of Rolan.

“Please stand up for a moment, sir.”

“All right...” Rolan muttered, dejectedly. He looked for all the world like a disappointed hound, but perhaps that was why he obeyed so readily.

“Good. Now take off your shirt, raise your arms to shoulder height, and flex.”

Rolan blinked at him, then gave a weary shrug. “All right.” He reached for his buttons, though the motion instantly roused the suspicions of the eunuchs on guard. They stepped forward, alarm plain on their faces, and barred him before he could get very far.

“Don’t worry,” Gale said smoothly, turning to them. “Nothing improper is happening. I only want to assess him.”

Despite his assurances, the eunuchs stayed where they were, tense.

Still looking more than a little dispirited, Rolan returned to his chair, shoulders slumping. “If I take it off, he won’t reject me?”

“If I know nothing else,” Gale said calmly, “I know Dammon’s tastes.”

That did the trick. Rolan sat up straighter, determination flashing in his eyes. “Then I’ll take it off.” He stripped his shirt off in one swift movement, flashing the insignia of his office to silence the eunuchs’ objections.

Gale began to circle him slowly, hands clasped behind his back, studying him with the same careful eye he might use on a rare specimen. Occasionally, he formed a square with his thumbs and forefingers, peering through the frame as though sketching an outline in his mind.

Rolan’s body was exactly what one expected of a disciplined soldier: broad chest, shoulders squared, nothing sagging or slack. His muscle was clean, evenly sculpted, his right arm slightly thicker than the left—a mark of a swordsman’s training. Dammon might claim to devour anything when his hunger struck, but he was no fool; he had his preferences. If Dammon had been present now, Gale suspected he would have been licking his lips.

“Very well,” Gale said at last, expression unreadable. “Now the bottom half.”

“The bottom half?” Rolan echoed, his voice plaintive.

“I insist.” Gale’s gaze remained cool, utterly serious.

Rolan hesitated, then sighed and shuffled out of his trousers. He looked none too pleased about it, but he did as told, until he stood there in nothing but a loincloth. Gale, for his part, kept his composure. His face betrayed no flicker of judgment, only the detached focus of a man taking stock.

Rolan’s lower half told the same story as his upper body: legs powerful, hips sturdy, thighs smooth with muscle. His calves swelled cleanly, no imbalance to mar the symmetry. He carried none of the wine-swollen bellies Gale so often saw among clients of the Verdant House. His skin was a healthy red. Just Dammon’s type.

“Hmm,” Gale mused. He had Rolan strike pose after pose, and as the soldier warmed to the exercise, his confidence grew. Soon he was flexing with surprising vigor, moving as though he were on parade. Gale found himself thinking that perhaps—just perhaps—the man really did have what it took.

Finally, Gale was ready to inspect the most important part. “Now, if you’ll remove your loinclo—”

The door banged open.

Rolan froze, all color draining from his face. A moment ago he had been almost enthusiastic; now he stood like a boy caught in mischief. The eunuchs stiffened as if they might be executed on the spot.

Gale’s mouth simply hung open.

“What in the hells are you doing in here?” thundered the overseer of the rear palace, a vein standing proud on his temple. At his side stood his aide. Astarion. A cluster of palace omegas who had been loitering in the hopes of catching Astarion’s attention scattered like pigeons, a few even swooning theatrically as if the sight had been too much to bear.

“Good day to you, Master Astarion,” Gale said mildly, as though he hadn’t just been caught undressing a soldier in front of a small audience.

Some things in life were mysteries, Gale reflected. For instance, why on earth had he chosen to sit so formally just then, spine stiff as a rod? And why was Astarion looking at him with such an icy stare that it could have frozen the marrow in his bones?

Rolan, meanwhile, had bolted—barely dressed, clutching his discarded clothes, stumbling out of the chamber like a man fleeing a doomed battlefield. Gale thought the whole display absurd, and yet... vaguely unfair. Still, letting the soldier remain would only have complicated matters even further. Perhaps, in the end, it was just as well.

“What were you doing?” Astarion reiterated, his tone sharper now.

Gale looked up at him, quietly noting that the beautiful were always the most terrifying when angered. Astarion had crossed his arms, his posture elegant yet forbidding, and he loomed over Gale with the air of a predator coiled to strike. Behind him, Ulder stood with his hands folded serenely, the very picture of monastic detachment. The eunuchs had resumed their posts by the door, though Gale caught them sneaking nervous glances at their radiant master, as if half-afraid the full brunt of his fury might fall on them next.

“He simply came to me for advice,” Gale said evenly. He had, in fact, followed protocol—informing Nocturne at the Jade Pavilion that he was receiving a guest. His chores were already finished: laundry done in the morning, no tea parties scheduled, and no need for a food taster until evening. He had been free of duty, and thus free to advise.

“Advice, eh?” Astarion’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Then why was he half-undressed when I walked in?”

Ah, Gale thought, so that was the crux of the matter. Even with guards present, appearances were damning: an alpha from outside the rear palace, stripped down in private, was scandal waiting to happen. It looked very bad indeed. Still, this was a misunderstanding, and Gale resolved to set it straight.

“It was nothing inappropriate, sir,” he said firmly. “I never touched him. I was only… looking.” He leaned on the word, willing Astarion to understand. “That’s all. A good look, nothing more.”

But Astarion reacted as if Gale had said something worse: his eyes went wide, and his jaw twitched as if he were about to stagger backward in disbelief. Ulder, on the other hand, looked almost amused; he’d ascended from his monk-like Emptiness into the gentle calm of Liberation, regarding Gale with the serene compassion of a bodhisattva watching a wayward child.

“A good look?” Astarion asked, his tone like ice.

“Yes, sir. I was only looking.”

“To what end?”

“I should think that was obvious,” Gale replied coolly. “I needed to see if his body would be satisfying. Examining him in the flesh was the only way.”

Gale meant it honestly. The matter at hand was Dammon’s buyout, and if such a step were taken, Dammon’s feelings had to be weighed above all else. Dammon was a courtesan of rare talent and ferocious appetite, an omega who loved deeply and often. If he was to leave the Verdant House, it would be best if he went to an alpha he truly cared for. Gale would never waste time on a man Dammon would dislike, and he certainly wouldn’t encourage false hopes.

He thought back to his own youth. He had been raised in the Verdant House, until he was torn away from his mother. Back then, the household had been ruled by the old madam, and it was the three courtesans—Dammon, Lakrissa, and Amek—who had taken on much of Gale’s upbringing.

Dammon had been special. Though he had never borne a child, his body still produced milk, and that milk had sustained Gale as an infant. By the time Gale was born, Dammon had only just graduated from apprenticeship, but his figure was already lush, his presence maternal. Gale had always called him “Brother,” but in truth it was closer to “Dad.” The name was informal, a safeguard—lest Lakrissa and Amek bristle at the deeper truth.

And perhaps that was why Gale was so adamant now. Dammon deserved more than to end up like the madam, drained by years of service. Many courtesans, after years of contraceptives and abortifacients, lost the ability to carry children. Gale didn’t know if that fate had already claimed Dammon, but when he remembered being rocked in Dammon’s arms, soothed to sleep by his warmth, he couldn’t bear the thought of Dammon never having children of his own. Dammon’s lust was vast, but so too was his paternal heart.

As for Rolan—Rolan was hopelessly in love. Gale had seen it clearly: the soldier was smitten beyond reason. He knew Dammon wasn’t his alone; he knew Dammon’s bed was shared with others. Yet Rolan remained steadfast. For all his puppyish eagerness, he was diligent, serious, and determined. His ambition to rise in the world for the sake of one omega was, in Gale’s eyes, equal parts foolish and endearing.

That determination mattered. His endurance mattered. Rolan was unlikely to tire of Dammon quickly, and even if the flame of love dulled over time, Gale was confident he could smooth over the aftermath. What mattered most was that Rolan, unlike so many others, had the stamina and strength to meet Dammon’s voracious needs.

And that, Gale thought, was not nothing.

And just as Gale had been appraising the specimen before him, Astarion had arrived. As the one charged with overseeing the order and affairs of the rear palace, he probably wasn’t thrilled to find one of its omegas consulting with a visiting alpha from outside. He had the oddest sense of timing, Gale thought—always appearing when passions ran hottest, always choosing the strangest moments to assert his authority.

“His body—satisfying?!” Astarion’s voice cracked.

“Yes, sir,” Gale replied steadily. “Appearance is only one part of a person, of course, yet one may certainly hope it might be to one’s liking.”

From what he had seen so far, Gale could give Rolan passing marks. The soldier’s physique was undeniably strong, balanced, and well-trained. He was already considering how he might explain to Dammon that he hadn’t been able to examine the last and most important feature of all.

He had told Rolan it would take ten thousand in silver to buy Dammon out, but Gale knew—depending on how the negotiations were handled—that the actual sum might be half that. Much would rest on how Dammon himself felt about the man.

“Is outward appearance that important?” Astarion asked. Finally he broke from his stance of looming disapproval, taking a seat across from Gale. His leg crossed elegantly, but his foot tapped the floor with restless irritation. He was trying to look composed, but the tension rippling from him was obvious.

“I should say so,” Gale answered, finding it almost vexing that Astarion of all people should pose the question.

A faint, mirthless smile flickered over Astarion’s lips. “I must admit, I never expected to hear that from you. So? What did you make of his looks?”

He’s just full of questions, Gale thought. But as always, an underling bore the burden of answering to those above.

“His body shows excellent proportions,” Gale explained, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Lean all around, with no wasted flesh. It’s clear he has a superb physical foundation, and I believe it fair to assume he’s diligent—he must work at his training every day. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s capable even by strict military standards.”

Astarion blinked, momentarily taken aback. Gale thought he caught a spark of genuine surprise in his eyes—quickly masked, replaced by a scowl that deepened until his face was a mask of irritation.

“Can you truly judge a man’s character solely from his body?” Astarion pressed.

“More or less,” Gale said. “The fruits of habit appear in the flesh. The body records a man’s discipline, his vices, his strengths. An apothecary must read such signs, especially when a patient won’t speak plainly. It’s a skill one learns whether by intent or necessity.”

Astarion’s lips thinned. His gaze was sharp, yet his next question came out with a surprising edge of… insecurity? “And would you be able to evaluate me by my body?”

“Huh?” Gale said before he could stop himself. For just a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flicker of sullenness in Astarion’s expression.

Wait.

Could it be… he was jealous of Rolan? That would explain the mounting displeasure, the restless tapping, the cold stares. Astarion wasn’t angry about impropriety; he was bristling because Gale had praised another man too highly.

I can’t believe this guy, Gale thought with a mental sigh. He just needs reassurance that he’s the more attractive one.

And to be fair—Astarion had a beautiful face. So beautiful, in fact, that had he been an omega, he could have ensnared a kingdom with a smile. Even as a man, Gale suspected it wouldn’t have been impossible. And Astarion knew it. His beauty was a weapon he wielded as deftly as any blade. But to see him sulk because someone else’s body had been complimented…

Still, the glimpse Gale had once gotten of Astarion’s body left little room for criticism. He was surprisingly muscular beneath the finery, his form toned and precise. Attractive? Certainly. But was he suggesting Gale should recommend him to Dammon, on the basis of physical beauty alone? Had Gale ever even mentioned Dammon to him?

While Gale turned these thoughts over, Astarion leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His lips were pursed, his gaze fixed like a hawk. The eunuchs on guard looked utterly cowed—tense as bowstrings, yet unable to look away from his stormy visage. Ulder, meanwhile, still wore the unshakable tranquility of a monk lost in contemplation, watching the exchange with serene detachment.

Gale felt a twinge of sympathy for Astarion. But the truth was simple, and it had to be said. Astarion, for all his physical perfection, lacked the one quality Dammon valued above all else in a partner. Without it, beauty was irrelevant.

“I did see your body, Master Astarion,” Gale said at last, his tone reluctant but steady. “But I’m afraid there’s no point in further comparison. You’re simply not a match for my elder brother.”

The air in the room seemed to freeze solid. The eunuchs stiffened; the crackle of tension was palpable.

Ulder, who had moments ago looked like a saint in nirvana, now looked more like the thief Kandata as the spider’s thread snapped beneath him.

“I’m sorry to say it, sir,” Gale continued, bracing himself for the fallout, “but Dammon would never choose you.”

“Huh?” For once, it was Astarion’s turn to sound utterly flummoxed. His mask of composure slipped, leaving behind genuine disbelief.

Ulder pressed his forehead against the wall as though in prayer—or perhaps to keep from laughing.

Chapter 18: Blue Roses

Summary:

Gale helps everybody, he needs a break

Rolan could only wonder what in the world was going on. The eunuch who had given him the glare of a lifetime over his blunder the day before was now standing before him—and on his flawless, almost unnervingly lovely face was a smile.

The man’s name, Rolan recalled with a start, was Astarion. He seemed a touch younger than Rolan, yet his position in the Emperor’s confidence made him untouchable. Rumors occasionally circulated of some dalliance between Astarion and the Emperor; even if such whispers were idle gossip, they carried weight. At the very least, Astarion took his role with deadly seriousness—there was nothing in his record to suggest negligence. And yet… that gorgeous face, that dangerous allure, meant he could make virtually anyone—alpha or omega—fall head over heels for him with little more than a glance. It was a gift, or perhaps a curse. To Rolan, though, it was merely unsettling. He was not the kind of man to be swayed by beauty alone.

All the same, when Astarion appeared without warning and fixed that dazzling smile on him, Rolan was at a complete loss. He was only thankful no one else was present to see. They were in the officers’ building—a place rarely frequented by many, for one particularly eccentric commander had made it his base of operations, and most preferred to give the man wide berth.

Word had it the eccentric had been away on errands of late, which perhaps explained why Astarion was here. Maybe he had been pressed into assisting with the commander’s strange duties. Rolan had done his best to submit his paperwork quickly and leave before getting caught up in any of it, but just as he stepped out of Ysolde’s office, he’d walked straight into Astarion. And now here he was, facing that enigmatic smile that seemed capable of piercing through armor.

And as if the situation weren’t strange enough, the aide standing silently behind Astarion was the very same alpha who had once asked Rolan to act as his go-between at the Verdant House. Allegedly, the man was an old acquaintance of one of Rolan’s superiors. Rolan had always wondered how the fellow knew Gale, the freckled palace omega, but with the pieces aligning now, the picture was beginning to make sense.

“Might I have a moment of your time?” Astarion asked. His tone was polite, even gentle, but Rolan knew better than to think he had a real choice. Though younger than him in years, the jeweled ornament on Astarion’s hip gleamed with a rank higher than Rolan’s own. Refusal would mean career suicide; cooperation, perhaps, the only way to keep alive the dream of promotion.

“As you wish,” Rolan said carefully, bowing his head, and followed when Astarion and his aide turned away.

They crossed into one of the palace courtyards, a place officers sometimes visited to enjoy the breeze on summer evenings. Rolan was not often among them—he had never had much eye for aesthetics—but he had to admit the garden was striking, even now in the cold season. In summer, the bigleaf hydrangeas planted here would bloom into great clusters the size of embroidered handballs, their colors shifting between blue and pink depending on the soil. They were rare imports from an island country to the east, introduced at the insistence of the eccentric commander. Now, in late autumn, they had withered into stubby, skeletal bushes, stripped bare by chill winds. Rolan sometimes thought too much indulgence had been granted to the commander, but rumor said even the general had trouble reining her in.

Astarion took a seat beneath the roof of a small open-air pavilion, gesturing for Rolan to do the same. Reluctantly, Rolan sat opposite him.

Astarion propped his chin on his clasped hands and regarded him with a smile so radiant it bordered on dangerous. His aide, standing a respectful pace behind, looked utterly unmoved—as if he had grown long accustomed to such theatrics—but for Rolan, it was deeply unsettling. The brilliance of that smile was such that he found himself wanting to avert his gaze, as though it might scorch him. Now he understood why people said Astarion could have bent the nation to its knees had he been born an omega.

But he was not. He was an alpha—though perhaps one missing something many considered essential. Still, there was no mistaking his designation: beneath the delicate smile and silken hair, his broad shoulders and the strength in his frame gave him away. Not to mention his scent. Bnnn

Every movement Astarion made carried an elegance that was almost inhuman, yet none of it was wasted. Anyone deceived into thinking this man fragile would learn their error swiftly and painfully. Even as Rolan followed him into the courtyard, he had noted the economy of his stride, the perfect poise.

And still—he thought he knew that face from somewhere. A flicker of familiarity gnawed at him. He had glimpsed Astarion before, certainly, in passing within the palace halls, but never up close like this. That sense of recognition nagged at him, persistent as a thorn. Where had he seen this man before?

And more importantly—what business could someone of Astarion’s stature possibly have with him?

“My attendant informs me that you, my boy, have your heart set on somebody.”

Would it be overthinking it, Rolan wondered, to think that the casual crack of 'my boy' was a deliberate twist of the knife? A reminder of hierarchy, of power? It stung, and Astarion had to know it.

It took him a moment to realize who Astarion meant by “attendant.” Then it clicked—the freckled omega. Gale. Rolan remembered now that Gale had done a stint in the outer palace as a personal servant. He’d been working under this eunuch, of all people. Rolan rubbed his chin, uneasy.

It had always seemed like it would take a person with… particular tastes to take Gale into their service. He never would have imagined that someone like Astarion—this impossibly composed, devastatingly beautiful man—would have those tastes.

And yet, what unsettled Rolan more was that Gale had apparently told Astarion of his private wish to buy out Dammon’s contract. He hadn’t thought Gale the type to gossip, but here he was, exposed. Perhaps that was why Astarion was smiling so intently at him now. To a man like him, Rolan’s dream must look laughably childish. To aspire to buy out one of the most beautiful, most celebrated courtesans in all the land at his age—it was absurd, wasn’t it?

Rolan could endure being thought a fool himself. Let Astarion laugh at him if he wished. But if he mocked Dammon, if he belittled the omega Rolan loved—that would be another matter entirely.

Dammon was a good omega. Not merely a good courtesan—a good man. Rolan saw him in memory, smiling in bed with that unstudied warmth, or moving with effortless grace on the dance floor, lifting the hem of his robe with two fingers. He pictured him pouring tea, every gesture precise, as though the act itself were sacred.

Others might scoff and say this was simply Dammon doing his job. That every detail of his charm was calculated, rehearsed, sold. To such cynics, Rolan had nothing to say. He didn’t care if it was real or illusion. What mattered was that he believed it.

He’d watched enough colleagues lose themselves to pleasure houses and gaming tables to know what people thought of men like him. To those around him, he was surely just another weak fool throwing his money and his future away on an omega. Some told him as much, gently, as if trying to protect him from himself. He appreciated their concern—but wished they would stop interfering.

He went to the Verdant House of his own volition. Often he didn’t even see Dammon; he was content to sit in the front room, drinking tea served by an apprentice. That was enough. It was part of Dammon’s worth to remain unattainable, a flower high on a distant peak. If Dammon charged a month’s silver for a single cup of tea, who was anyone to call it greed? Dammon poured all of himself into being a courtesan. He was living artistry. To cheapen that with complaints of cost was to fail to understand.

That was why Rolan clenched his hands now, trembling, trying to master his temper as he stared across at Astarion. If this man dared belittle Dammon, Rolan was ready to get physical. He knew such defiance could cost him his career, perhaps even his head, but he could live with that—figuratively speaking. He had never compromised his principles, never bent to ridicule. Loving Dammon, defending him, suited the blunt, uncompromising way he lived his life. If people called him mad for it, let them.

With an effort, he pressed his palms together, forcing composure, and met Astarion’s amused gaze.

“And what if I do, sir?”

He kept his voice calm, restrained. It took every ounce of will not to add something sharper, like It’s none of your business.

Astarion’s radiant smile didn’t waver. He looked almost angelic, as if utterly untouched by Rolan’s barely restrained anger. Then he said something that knocked the breath from Rolan’s lungs:

“What would you do if I said I would shoulder the cost of purchasing him for you?”

For a moment, Rolan couldn’t breathe. The words made his head spin. Then he surged to his feet, fists slamming the granite table so hard that the impact shivered up his arms and rattled his teeth. He stood shaking, every nerve lit with disbelief.

“What do you mean by that?”

Astarion’s tone did not change. Calm—as if he were merely discussing the weather:

“Precisely what I said. How much would it take to buy him out? Twenty thousand. Do you think that would be enough?”

The number fell from his lips as if it were meaningless. Twenty thousand—enough to bankrupt most men for life—rolled from Astarion’s tongue like loose change. Rolan gulped, his knees threatening to give way.

Had Astarion already spoken to Gale about the probable cost? Or was twenty thousand so trivial to him that it truly was no more than a passing thought?

Rolan sank back down, burying his face in his hands. A dangerous idea flickered in his mind—if Astarion could speak so casually of twenty thousand, then surely ten thousand would be nothing. Half of that would be less than nothing.

But no. He clenched his jaw. He would not indulge a fantasy so naive. Not with Dammon’s future, not with his pride.

“I’m overjoyed by your words, sir,” Rolan said carefully, “but I must wonder what would prompt such generosity toward someone you hardly know.”

Offers that were too good to be true always carried a hidden sting. Even children understood that much. Rolan wasn’t naive enough to forget a basic rule of survival. He leaned back in his chair, studying the alpha across from him. Astarion’s expression had not shifted in the slightest, even after casually offering a staggering sum of money. Only his aide behind him betrayed anything—a faint, almost weary exasperation in the tight line of his mouth.

“My Gale is most wary,” Astarion said lightly. “Yet not only was he willing to speak to you, he seems to be earnestly considering you as a possible match for an omega he thinks of as an elder brother.”

The way Astarion referred to that omega as "his Gale" was curious. Gale didn't seem the type to willingly waste themselves on a eunuch, even one as beautiful as Astarion. But there was a both affectionate and possessive nature to his tone.

“You’re saying that when someone as mistrustful as Gale trust someone, that’s reason enough to have faith in them,” Rolan ventured.

At that, Astarion gave the smallest flinch—so slight Rolan might have imagined it. A moment later, the soft, devastating smile was back in place, as flawless as ever.

“I did a bit of asking around about you,” Astarion said smoothly. “I learned that you’re the son of a provincial official. To rise up the ranks in the capital must have taken quite a bit of work.”

“A fair amount,” Rolan admitted.

There were factions and cliques everywhere in the city, and his father, while an official, had been little more than a provincial civil administrator. That had meant years of being underestimated, shouldering uphill battles before anyone in the capital took him seriously.

“They say you were noticed by a commander with an eye for talent,” Astarion went on, “and entrusted with a unit of your own.”

“Yes, sir,” Rolan said, hesitant now. Just how much had this alpha learned about him? Officially, he had been promoted when the commander of a small unit left the service. That was the story, at least.

“And who wouldn’t want to be on good terms with a promising young soldier?”

Many might, yes—but not usually to the tune of twenty thousand silver.

Rolan’s throat tightened. He only truly needed half that amount. If he added his own savings and begged every last favor, even a quarter of it—five thousand—would suffice. Would Astarion really give it? He was nearly sick with longing at the thought, the cruel sweetness of wanting it so badly. But he forced himself to shake his head, crushing the temptation before it could take root.

He drew in a long breath, squared his shoulders, and met Astarion’s gaze. “I truly do appreciate your vote of confidence,” he said gravely. “And I confess I am almost beside myself wanting to accept your offer. But I cannot take your silver. To you, Dammon may be simply another courtesan. To me, he is an omega. An omega I wish to take as my partner. And if I cannot accomplish that with my own means, then what kind of alpha am I?”

It wearied him, choosing every word with care, mindful of tone, careful not to overstep. He had expected Astarion to take offense at his refusal. To mock him, perhaps. But the eunuch’s smile did not falter. If anything, Rolan thought it softened a fraction.

And then Astarion laughed. A low, musical sound, as polished as everything else about him. “I see. I’ve been quite rude.”

He rose, unhurried, every line of his body effortlessly elegant. His fingers swept through his pale hair, settling it with a grace that seemed rehearsed yet utterly natural. Standing there, backlit by the lantern light, he looked less like a man and more like a figure from some master’s painting—a vision of impossible beauty.

His lips curved in a satisfied smile. “I think there may be something I will wish to speak to you about later. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“Whatever you wish, sir.” Rolan stood up as well; he pressed a fist respectfully into his open palm and bowed. The gorgeous eunuch responded with a short nod, and then he and his aide departed. Rolan watched Astarion’s retreating figure, almost bewitched by the elegance of his gait, until they were out of sight.

Finally, he murmured, “What was that all about?” and scratched at his scalp, frowning in genuine puzzlement. His heart sank when his fingers brushed over the bald patch still left raw from the fire that had scorched away his hair. He sighed, shoulders slumping, before lowering himself back onto the chair. “What am I going to do...?”

He knew he would have to present his best self at the next training session—his superiors would settle for nothing less. Perhaps he could take on more work, grind out an extra wage to build up the sum he so desperately needed. No—no, there was something more pressing, something that gnawed at him more insistently than silver. He needed to send a letter to the omega he hoped to be joined with one day.

Rolan wouldn’t simply claim him as if he were already his. He wanted to know his feelings, his heart, before daring to dream further. Even if his reply was bound by politeness, he would cling to it as though it were gospel. That small token of faith would sustain him.

“Alright.” Rolan tucked his hands into his sleeves and left the courtyard at a brisk trot, already wondering what sort of branch he might use to make his letter more presentable—something sturdy, but still delicate enough to carry the weight of sincerity.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“Gale, you’ve got a letter.” The eunuch held out a bundle of polished wood writing strips. Gale accepted it with quiet curiosity and loosened the tie. The strips were covered in flowing, delicate script—a reply to the message he’d sent to the Verdant House several days earlier.

“Ethel can say what she wants, but I’m still earning plenty.”

It was actually from Dammon. Gale could practically hear his older brother’s voice as he read the words.

'Besides, I’m still waiting for a prince on his white horse to come and get me.'

In distant lands, princes were said to ride white horses when they came to rescue trapped maidens. Dammon still dreamed in that vein, holding fast to the fancies of a true omega heart. Perhaps it was late to call him a maiden—he had been with more men than Gale could count—but he clung to that dream with the same stubbornness that seemed to preserve his beauty. That refusal to surrender had always been part of Dammon’s charm.

I suspected as much, Gale thought. For the right suitor, Dammon didn’t need ten thousand silver. The alpha simply needed to play the role of “prince”: a show of strength, stamina, virility—things eunuchs lacked—and a touch of theatricality. Add a handful of coin to celebrate the occasion, and the part was convincingly played. The buyout itself wasn’t essential. What mattered was the performance, the impression, the communal acknowledgement.

The old madam herself had once told Dammon, “If you want to retire, I won’t stop you. But we’ll throw a farewell to be remembered.” A striking admission from a woman as notoriously frugal as she was. Dammon’s final bow would be marked as befitted one of the quarter’s brightest stars. A courtesan had his pride, after all. And so, for any alpha who suitably impressed him, even the madam would not squeeze too tightly. But five thousand at least—for the celebration, for the honour.

Yes, Gale thought, if ten thousand was out of reach, five thousand might suffice. With Rolan’s steady rise through the ranks, he could likely save that much within a few years. The rest would come down to chance. But if the madam poisoned Dammon’s thoughts against him, that would end everything. Rolan needed to act before that happened.

There was no real role for Gale in this—except the quiet, nagging worry that lingered at the edges of his thoughts. Surely Rolan wouldn’t resort to debt? If he borrowed silver, the madam would discover it in an instant. “How could I let Dammon go to an alpha mired in debt?” she would sneer. Gale trusted Rolan’s good sense, but unease still prickled beneath his ribs.

And then, at the very end of the letter, came something more troubling still:

“A certain someone was coming around talking about buying out a contract. I think the apprentices got the wrong idea.”

A certain someone. Gale’s mouth tightened. Dammon rarely cloaked his meaning, but Gale knew exactly who he was referring to. He tied the strips shut again and set them carefully on the shelf in his room, his mind stirring uneasily.

When he stepped into the hallway, he found Astarion waiting in the Jade Pavilion. It had been several days since their last encounter. Then, Astarion’s expression had been sharp, storm-dark. Today, however, he looked altogether lighter, as though something had shifted. Gale retreated to the kitchen to brew tea, all the while wondering what had brightened him so.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The cold was gradually loosening its grip on the world, and the first hints of spring stirred in the air. As Gale stood outside drying bedding, he felt the warmth of the sun soaking into his skin. For a moment, he nearly gave in to the drowsy temptation of it—how pleasant it would be to close his eyes and simply bask. But he shook his head, chiding himself. With a brisk snap of the fabric, he forced his attention back to his work.

The days were full and satisfying, yet somehow the two months he had spent in Astarion’s employ felt both endless and fleeting, as if time itself had learned to contradict.

Sometimes, he still longed for the neatly stocked shelves of medicines in the outer-palace physician’s office, but here he could at least remedy that lack. Through the quack doctor he had to work with, he was gradually raising the rear palace medical office to something resembling competence. And when knowledge failed, he leaned on Ulder to fetch him whatever he needed from the archives. True, it would have been far better if he were free to leave the rear palace at will—but one couldn’t have everything. While he served here, he had to accept the walls as his boundaries.

Consort Jenevelle’s pregnancy was now more and more apparent. Her monthly cycle had not resumed; fatigue weighed on her, and her temperature ran a little high. She complained of using the privy more often than before. Little Princess Lingli sometimes pressed her ear to Jenevelle’s belly and grinned with a knowing sort of pride, as though she truly understood.

Can babies tell? Gale wondered, bemused, watching as Lingli waved solemnly at Jenevelle’s belly before Nocturne led her away for her nap.

Children, he reflected, were mysterious creatures.

The princess had begun toddling about on her own. The Emperor had gifted her a pair of bright red shoes, and she wore them proudly as she stumbled through the halls. The omegas-in-waiting adored her, though her newfound freedom gave them headaches enough. She was learning to express herself with startling clarity—if handed a soft bun, she would beam with delight. None of the Jade Pavilion’s omegas-in-waiting had children of their own, but their instinct for care was undeniable, and Lingli basked in their attention.

Nocturne, in particular, had grown fond of saying, “Perhaps I’ll have one of my own sooner or later,” though she always looked half-troubled when she did. The others—including Gale—never quite knew how to answer. None expected the devoted head omega-in-waiting to leave her post, not even if a promising offer were to appear. Without her steadying hand, the Pavilion would hardly function.

Ah, Gale mused, even too much talent could be its own burden.

Because of his injured leg, Gale often took charge of entertaining Princess Lingli. It made sense, after all—why burden the able-bodied omegas-in-waiting with yet another task when Gale, with less physical work to occupy him, could keep the little girl busy?

And so, on this day, he found himself once more watching Lingli stack lightweight wooden blocks into little towers, only to knock them down again with squeals of triumph. She showed curiosity toward illustrated books as well, so Gale copied pictures from texts Ulder borrowed for him, writing simple words beneath each drawing. She was only two, but surely it was never too soon to begin.

Unfortunately, Nocturne quickly caught wind of this “educational project” and confiscated the drawings. “Draw flowers like a normal person,” she scolded, pointing out toward the courtyard. Evidently, however accurate Gale’s renderings were, poisonous mushrooms did not make acceptable teaching material.

And so the days passed, quiet but not idle—until trouble arrived in the form of a familiar figure.

Astarion appeared at the Pavilion for the first time in some while. His beauty was undiminished, even though he wore an expression of faint distress.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“Blue roses, sir?” Gale asked, unable to keep the fatigue from his voice.

“Oh, yes,” Astarion replied smoothly, though with a flicker of unease. “Everyone seems to be quite fascinated, you see.”

He did, indeed, look like a man caught in some sort of bind, though his poise was never less than immaculate. To the palace omegas watching through a crack in the door, his elegance only seemed heightened by the tension. Three pairs of eyes peered in, wide with unabashed curiosity.

Gale ignored them. A moment later, Nocturne appeared, exasperated but efficient. With impressive dexterity, she seized two of the spies by the ears with her right hand and one with her left, dragging them away squawking.

Gale ignored that too, turning his gaze back to the gorgeous eunuch in front of him.

“Such capable handling,” Ulder commented dryly, pouring tea with the grace of someone who had seen far too much palace foolishness to be impressed anymore. Gale tucked the remark away and chose not to respond—Ulder’s little observations had a way of lingering if you let them.

Back to the matter at hand.

“Everyone seems rather eager to admire some of these flowers,” Astarion said, his tone casual. And, of course, it was Gale who was apparently expected to provide them.

I knew this was going to be trouble, Gale thought grimly.

“You want me to find some?” he asked, arching a brow.

“I thought you might know something about them,” Astarion replied, his voice light, almost coaxing.

“I’m an apothecary, not a botanist.” Gale folded his arms.

“It just seemed like something that might be in your wheelhouse...” Astarion trailed off, his confidence faltering for once.

“Oh, very convincing, sir,” Consort Jenevelle interjected with a laugh from where she lounged on a couch. Princess Lingli was beside her, sipping juice and watching the adults with the keen, unblinking stare of a child absorbing everything.

As it turned out, someone—Astarion claimed not to know who—had suggested that one of Jenevelle’s omegas-in-waiting might have some useful knowledge of the matter. That, at least, explained why he was here.

Was it the quack? Gale wondered. It wouldn’t be impossible. The kindly old fool had a tendency to overestimate other people’s abilities, sometimes disastrously so.

Not that Gale was completely ignorant. He knew roses could be useful—the petals yielded an oil prized for softening and perfuming the skin, a favorite among courtesans. He himself had made a little pocket money once upon a time by steaming wild rose petals to draw out their rich scent. But blue roses? That was another matter entirely.

“I’m given to understand such flowers once bloomed on the palace grounds,” Astarion said, folding his arms elegantly. At that moment, Nocturne swept back into the room, clearly having finished disciplining the eavesdroppers, and set down a tray of fresh tea with just a hint of exasperation in her movements.

“Someone was seeing things, surely.” Gale bit back a groan.

Gods, my calf itches again.

The wound on his leg was healing, but it plagued him endlessly. He shifted, surreptitiously scratching at it with the toes of his other foot beneath the table. That only seemed to invite new itches elsewhere.

“I only heard one person say it, but upon investigation I discovered several more who swore they had seen them,” Astarion went on.

Gale frowned. “Was opium ever widely used here?”

The eunuch’s composure cracked. “It would be the end of the damn country if opium ever spread through these walls,” Astarion snapped, sharp enough to make Consort Jenevelle and Nocturne stare. Ulder coughed discreetly into his sleeve.

The anger lingered for a heartbeat more, and then Astarion’s face smoothed over as though nothing had happened. That radiant, celestial smile returned, and Gale hated how it made his stomach twist. He could never tell if it was meant to charm, mock, or simply unsettle. Jenevelle, however, was openly amused, watching the interplay as though it were a play staged for her entertainment.

“Can’t you possibly?” Astarion asked, leaning forward in a way that made Gale instinctively lean back.

Yeesh, personal space! Gale thought, suppressing a grimace.

He didn’t want Astarion any closer than he already was. With a sigh, he relented. “What exactly is it you want me to do, sir?”

“I’d like them ready by the garden party next month.”

Gale blinked. The spring gathering. Had it really been nearly a year since the last one? His emotions wavered, the thought pulling him back toward memories he didn’t care to sift through—but then another thought cut through.

Next month?

“Master Astarion, were you aware?” Gale asked carefully.

“Of what?” Astarion tilted his head, genuinely curious.

Of course he didn’t understand. How could he? There wouldn’t be blue roses, and couldn’t be blue roses—and the problem wasn’t simply one of color.

“It’s going to be at least two more months before any roses come into bloom.”

“I’ll turn them down… somehow,” Astarion said at last, his shoulders slumping as though the admission had cost him.

“May I ask you one thing, sir?” Gale said carefully. Astarion glanced at him, a flicker of hope in his pale eyes.

“Would this request,” Gale continued, “happen to have come from a certain military commander?”

It was the only conclusion that fit. The timing, the urgency, the impossible demand—it all reeked of her. Even before Astarion could answer, Gale’s skin prickled with a crawling itch that ran down his leg. The reaction was instinctive, visceral. His body knew what his mind refused to name.

“Indeed. Ysol—”

Astarion caught himself too late, clapping his hands over his mouth. Jenevelle and Nocturne both turned toward him, puzzled, but neither pressed.

He had been about to say her name. Ysolde.

His mother.

Gale closed his eyes briefly. No way around it now. If Ysolde was involved, then the burden fell—yet again—upon him.

“I don’t know if I can help you,” he said, voice tight, “but I’ll try.”

“Are you sure?” Astarion asked, his expression softer now, the question more genuine than Gale would have expected.

“I’m sure,” Gale answered, though his chest felt like it was caving in. “But there are a few things—and a place—I’ll need.”

Running away would have been easier. Tempting, even. But to flee from the challenge when it bore Ysolde’s shadow? That was unthinkable. He could picture her sharp smile, the monocle glinting, her eyes brimming with cold amusement. The thought alone made him want to tear that smile from her face and crush it beneath his heel.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

The spring garden party had been pushed back this year. Normally it was held earlier, but guests had complained of the cold, and precedent had grudgingly given way to comfort. Now the peonies stood in full bloom, spreading their fragrance thick across the air.

A red carpet unfurled down the garden paths, leading to long tables draped in white linen and flanked by ornate chairs. Musicians tuned their instruments, their notes tangling restlessly in the air, waiting for the moment the first guest would require them. Omegas hurried back and forth, balancing trays of delicacies, while young military alphas—barely past their boyhoods—stroked their patchy beards and eyed the scene with clumsy bravado.

Behind a curtain set up as a makeshift blind, someone was causing a stir. An omega staggered forward, clutching a vase nearly as large as himself. Cradled within it were roses. Roses that should not have existed.

“You really did it,” Astarion breathed, staring at the impossible sight.

The buds had not yet opened, but their colors blazed even in their infancy: crimson, gold, white, blush pink, deep violet, even black. There were greens, too, and—most astonishing of all—the impossible blue.

When Gale had agreed to attempt blue roses, no one had truly expected success. Certainly not this. A veritable rainbow stood in the vase, each bud a quiet defiance of nature.

“I can tell you, it wasn’t easy. And I didn’t even get them to bloom properly,” Gale said, regret threading his voice. The disappointment was not for Astarion’s sake but for his own—for falling short of the vision he had chased so stubbornly.

Astarion already knew Gale was like this, driven to perfection, but it still irked him. Irked him more than he cared to admit.

“No, this will be just fine,” he said at last. He reached out and lifted one of the roses, watching as droplets of water ran down its stem. Something about it seemed strange, unsettling even, but he dismissed the thought and returned it to the vase.

He couldn’t deny it: the display surpassed all expectation. Gale had agreed to one miracle and delivered a dozen. Even if his hands shook faintly with exhaustion, even if his shoulders sagged with the effort, he had done it.

Astarion handed Gale over to the care of the Jade Pavilion’s omegas, who rushed to steady him as though he might collapse at any moment. He himself carried the vase to the seat of honor.

The roses—mere buds though they were—stole the very air from the peonies. Guests gasped, whispers darted between lips, and eyes lingered on the impossible colors. Amazement rippled through the gathering like a tide.

Murmurs rippled through the hall, accompanied by a few derisive snorts. The request was absurd. Impossible.

Astarion was a eunuch in Her Majesty’s good graces—more than that, his beauty was enough to steal the breath from nearly anyone who looked at him, though he would never say so aloud. Yet for all his charm, he had enemies. A young eunuch exerting influence with the Emperor was bound to rouse resentment. Few officials were so devoid of ambition that they could simply smile and endure it.

He held his nymph-like smile in place as he approached the dais, posture perfect, every movement calculated. The Emperor, with her long white hair, sat surrounded by glittering, perfumed omegas, their presence as much for ornament as for counsel.

The stares that followed Astarion up the carpeted steps brimmed with unspoken thoughts. Lust—he could work with lust. There were endless ways to turn desire into leverage. Jealousy too was useful, if blunt. The real danger came when a person’s heart was a closed book.

Astarion’s gaze slid to the man seated at the Emperor’s left: full-cheeked, his eyes unreadable. If Astarion felt a prickle of unease under that steady look, it was no shame. Anyone might.

Sarevok. The name alone was enough to explain the tension. Father of Orin, one of the newer consorts housed in the rear palace. Once, Sarevok had basked in the affection of the late Empress Dowager, and even now he lorded that lingering influence over the current Emperor. His smile was sly, ambiguous—mocking one moment, empty the next. Impossible to pin down.

Not good. Not good at all.

Still, Astarion’s smile did not falter. At least, not yet.

Then his gaze drifted across the dais to the Emperor’s right, and there she was.

Ysolde.

A monocle glinted over one sharp, fox-like eye as she gnawed on a chicken wing with deliberate nonchalance. With all the solemnity of court around her, she made a show of taking a bite, sliding the meat into her sleeve, then sneaking another bite moments later. As if anyone failed to notice.

This was the woman Astarion considered most dangerous. Not Sarevok, not the ambitious sycophants circling the throne, but Ysolde—Gale’s mother.

At that moment she leaned forward, plucked the cap from a high official’s head, and held it aloft. A wad of black fluff clung to the underside. Gasps followed. When the man’s wig was revealed, three officials across the chamber fell into startled silence.

It was a cruel prank, exposing something so carefully concealed, and in full view of the Emperor. A ripple of reactions coursed through the hall—some chuckled nervously at the sheer audacity, others muttered in exasperation, while a handful seethed with restrained fury.

Even Astarion nearly betrayed himself. The corners of his mouth twitched dangerously. He wanted to laugh—gods, he wanted to—but he forced composure, channelled it instead into the deep bow with which he presented the vase of roses.

The Emperor fiddlee with her hair and accepted the gift with undisguised pleasure. Astarion withdrew smoothly, though inwardly he exhaled with relief.

Behind him, Ysolde plucked a dried grape from a dish and studied the roses theatrically, rolling the fruit between her fingers. As ever, she behaved as though rules of civility simply did not apply to her. And the worst of it was, nothing ever seemed to come of her insolence.

Why? Astarion’s smile thinned. Why did she always get away with it?

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

“You mustn’t go to the Crystal Pavilion anymore.”

Gale’s head rested on Emmeline’s knees. They were seated together in a quiet open-air pavilion, well away from the banquet’s noise and chatter. The night was cool, the moon silvering the leaves overhead. Emmeline’s hand moved absently through his hair, though her brow was furrowed with concern.

She had been watching him too closely of late. He could see the worry etched in the lines of her face, hear it in the softness of her voice. Every visit to the Crystal Pavilion left him paler, gaunter, worn thin by some burden he refused to talk about.

With her pregnancy beginning to show, Consort Jenevelle had excused herself from this event, yielding her place to Orin. The younger consort’s debut was the talk of the evening, though Gale hardly cared. What unsettled him more was Emmeline’s sharp eyes, the way she seemed to see through his practiced composure.

“Every time you return from there,” she whispered, “you look as if the place has drained the very life out of you.”

Gale closed his eyes. He wanted to argue, to laugh it off, to tell her she worried too much. But the truth weighed heavily. She was right. The Pavilion did take from him—always had.

That was where Gale had been for the past month or so—Astarion had made the arrangements himself. The omegas-in-waiting of the Crystal Pavilion continued to watch Gale with sidelong glances, as though he were some sort of specter intruding on their refined little world, but he ignored them. He had no time for their gossip or their fears. There was something in the Pavilion he needed, something essential for the creation of his blue roses.

The “place” Gale had requested of Astarion was the Crystal Pavilion’s sauna, the very one he had once petitioned to be built during Consort Lae’zel’s convalescence. Gale knew Lae’zel’s pride could be formidable, but he also knew she had a generous streak hidden beneath that sharp exterior. So he had asked—politely, deferentially—if he might make use of her sauna for his own work. To his relief, Lae’zel had agreed at once, granting permission without the faintest hint of annoyance.

Still, Gale had been raised to repay kindness with something tangible. He felt uneasy at taking advantage of the consort’s generosity, so he had presented her with a little gift—a book recently acquired from the Verdant House. “This is Her Majesty’s favoured reading material,” he said when he handed it to her. The Emperor had a taste for unusual “texts,” and Gale reasoned that one more could hardly hurt.

Lae’zel’s face did not flicker when she realized the nature of the book. With perfect composure, she slid it into the sleeve of her robe and carried it off to her private chambers. Her omegas-in-waiting, however, were buzzing with whispers behind their hands, scandalous curiosity plain on their faces. Gale regarded them with cool detachment. No one would have guessed that a woman of Lae’zel’s aristocratic poise might conceal such reading matter within her sleeves.

Having secured the consort’s goodwill, Gale was permitted to construct a small wooden shed in the Pavilion’s courtyard, designed so the sauna’s steam flowed into it. The building was peculiar to look at—tall windows, even one on the roof, catching every stray ray of light. It had been costly to arrange—costly, at least, for Astarion, who had paid for it entirely from his own purse. Gale still wondered sometimes just how large the eunuch’s salary must be, to casually fund projects like this.

Into the little glass-and-wood chamber, Gale carried roses. Not one or two, but dozens. Hundreds. Pots of them lined the floor, the benches, even hung in slings from the rafters. Amid the steady warmth of the steam and the filtered light from above, he tended them tirelessly. On good days he wheeled them out into the sun, and on bitter nights he refused sleep, staying awake to pour water over the hot stones, feeding them heat so that frost would not claim them.

More than once, the exertion split open the half-healed wound in his leg. When Ulder discovered the bloodied bandages, he had insisted on assigning Gale an assistant. To Gale’s surprise, the chosen helper was Mayrina. How Ulder had discovered her existence was a mystery, but the arrangement worked better than expected. Mayrina was easily motivated: excused from her usual chores and bribed with a steady stream of sweetmeats, she accepted her role with glee. Her cheerful chatter and willingness to haul buckets were, in the end, the only things that kept Gale from collapsing outright.

The principle was simple enough in theory. Flowers bloom according to their season, but now and again, tricked by weather or care, a rose might bloom when it ought not. Gale’s task was to coax that disobedience deliberately—to convince his roses it was time. He had chosen species known to flower early, mixing varieties to hedge against failure. Even so, he had only a month to work. Success was far from certain.

So when the first buds swelled at the ends of thorny stems, his relief was so sharp it nearly undid him. He knew well that coaxing buds at all was the true victory—color, by comparison, was easy.

Astarion had assigned several eunuchs to assist him, but only Gale could handle the delicate adjustments of heat, light, and air. The smallest miscalculation, the faintest draft, and the whole fragile experiment would wither into nothing.

From time to time, the Crystal Pavilion’s omegas crept around the shed, peering in at him. Some were genuinely curious. Others seemed to treat approaching Gale as a sort of game, a test of their courage—as though daring themselves to look upon the “ominous spirit” everyone whispered about.

Their presence irritated him. He could not afford to waste attention fending them off. So he devised a distraction.

The idea came when he glanced at his hands. He took a pot of rouge, painted his nails with care, then buffed them to a glossy sheen. A simple manicure—commonplace enough in the pleasure district, but rare here in the rear palace, where most work required bare, practical hands.

Sure enough, the omegas noticed. Eyes widened. Whispers spread. Within days, they were darting back to their quarters to attempt the same with their own rouge, delighted at the novelty.

“That worked out very nicely,” Gale mused. Then a slyer thought occurred. Why not suggest the same to Lae’zel herself?

The rear palace thrived on its own fashions, its own fads. The women who held the Emperor’s attention inevitably became trendsetters, their habits copied by every omega who hoped to be noticed. And if something so small, so frivolous as polished nails could catch Her Majesty’s eye… well, then even the most lowly maid might one day be raised to a consort’s rank.

Gale smiled faintly at the thought. He had no use for such ambitions himself. But the distraction it offered was a gift worth giving.

Chapter 19: Nails

Summary:

Gale outsmarts his mother

The disgustingly multicolored roses had stolen the show at the garden party. Their garish hues clashed like spilled paint on silk, loud against the more subdued splendor of the evening. Ysolde stared at them with a vacant expression, her foxlike eyes half-lidded as though she were struggling not to yawn. The music—pleasant, refined, endlessly repetitive—had virtually lulled her to sleep.

She realized, somewhat belatedly, that she was holding an official’s cap in one hand, a wad of fuzz still clinging to its underside. She had no memory of when or how she’d acquired it.

Oh well, Ysolde thought indifferently, and set the cap back on the table beside her. Immediately, the official next to her snatched it up with both hands, hastily setting it atop his bare head. His reproachful look at her was so earnest it was almost comical. Ysolde, for her part, had no idea what she’d done to provoke him. Shrugging inwardly, she tugged her monocle from one eye, polished it idly with a handkerchief, and then placed it in the other eye instead, as though that solved the mystery.

The roses, the dreadful centerpiece, had been positioned directly in the middle of the banquet as if someone had deliberately wanted to flaunt the arranger’s lack of taste.

She was at a banquet—that much she remembered. Music twined around the air, silk streamers fluttered with every breeze, and platters of delicacies appeared at her elbow one after another, each dish more elaborate than the last. The smell of wine was everywhere, heavy and heady, drowning the subtler perfumes of the garden.

But Ysolde had never been good at remembering things that didn’t matter to her. Events she could recall; the emotions behind them, rarely. The result was a strange sense of detachment, as though she were watching the evening through a pane of cloudy glass.

Before she quite realized it, the proceedings had ended. Two consorts—one robed in black, the other in blue—stepped forward to receive roses from the Emperor, the colors of the blossoms matching their attire. Whispers passed among the officials, noting how beautiful the two omegas looked beneath the lantern light. Ysolde didn’t bother to follow the line of their gazes. Beauty, ugliness—faces had never meant much to her.

Gods, this is tedious, she thought. Wasn’t he supposed to be here? Why go to the trouble of provoking me if he isn’t even going to show his face?

Bored and restless, she turned her attention elsewhere. If her true quarry had decided not to appear, she could at least amuse herself by teasing someone else. There were still plenty of faces scattered around the banquet hall—far too many for her liking.

She hated crowds.

Most people’s faces, to Ysolde, looked like little more than Go stones scattered across a board. She could tell alphas from omegas easily enough—alphas as black stones, omegas as white—but beyond that, their features blurred together into caricatures. A few of her comrades in the military had managed to become slightly more distinct in her inner vision, advancing from stones into Shogi tiles. The nameless grunts were pawns; those who rose in rank acquired the shapes of lances, knights, or at best silvers. Rarely did anyone earn the dignity of a gold general.

That was what strategy meant to her: arranging the pieces where they were best suited. Pawns in front, knights on the flanks, generals behind. It was all just placement—nothing difficult, nothing requiring genius. Even if she herself was a talentless hack, as some whispered, if she placed her pieces well enough the battle would be won by their efforts, not hers.

And that pale alpha—him, the one people whispered was beautiful as a celestial nymph? Ysolde could only take their word for it. She could no more judge the beauty of a face than she could tell the quality of a pearl by sight. All she knew was that in her mental game board, she needed a gold general paired with a promoted silver, and he would serve.

Argh—her eyes throbbed suddenly, red and sore, burning worse than usual tonight. It didn’t help that everywhere she looked, every omega seemed to be flaunting crimson-tipped fingers.

This so-called “red polish” had become the newest craze in the rear palace. They called it fashionable, daring, elegant. To Ysolde, it was gaudy, too thick and glossy, lacking subtlety. The polish she remembered—the one that floated back into her mind like a half-forgotten song—had been something else entirely. A thin, translucent stain. The red of balsam.

The word itself tugged at her heartstring. The name of a courtesan, whispered in her youth, as delicate and bitter as the plant itself.

Even as the ache of recollection stirred, someone stepped directly into her line of sight—a diminutive palace omega. Small, frail-looking at first glance, but with a stubborn determination in the set of his jaw, fragile as woodsorrel but no less resilient.

She turned hollow eyes on him. When she caught his gaze, she moved almost imperceptibly, as if to say, Come with me.

Out beyond the peony garden, in a quiet corner screened from the revelry, a Shogi board had been laid out inside a small open-air pavilion. Upon the lacquered board rested a paulownia-wood box, its lid slightly ajar. Inside lay what looked like the withered remains of a rose—dry petals curled in on themselves, their faded color a ghost of what they once had been.

“Might I ask you for a game?” the omega said. His voice was flat, affectless, the words stripped of tone, as he reached down and began setting the pieces in neat rows.

Nearby stood the gold general, his promoted silver close at hand.

What possible reason could she have to refuse? How could she ever deny a request from this fragile little omega—her fragile little omega?

Ysolde’s lips curled into a sly, cunning grin.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

What in the world does she hope to achieve?

Gale had asked Astarion to return home if at all possible; Astarion, predictably, had ignored him. Gale looked deeply displeased but allowed him to remain on the strict condition that he hold his tongue. Afterward, Gale had her silent invitation to the commander, and now here she was—seated before the board, lining up the Shogi pieces with mechanical precision.

His face was utterly without emotion; even his usual cold reticence would have been warmer, more humane, than this mask of blankness. From time to time, he scratched absently at the back of his hand, as if distracted by a bite or an irritation under the skin.

“So—who’ll go first?” Ysolde asked. Her monocled eye gleamed with a rare spark of genuine delight, proof enough of how consumed she was by this game.

“Before we decide that,” Gale replied evenly, “we should set down the rules—and the wager.”

“That should be easy enough.”

Behind him, Astarion leaned closer, staring over Gale’s shoulder at the board. Ysolde’s grin flickered wider as she caught sight of him. It was an unsettling expression, sly and unblinking, the look of someone who always believed herself in control. But if she thought to bait Astarion, she would be disappointed. He responded with a smile of his own, as sweet and honeyed as any mask he had ever worn.

The rules were simple: best three out of five.

To Astarion, the choice of game seemed madness itself. The commander’s reputation was infamous—she had never once been defeated at Shogi. What chance did Gale truly think he had? Even Ulder, frowning in silent disapproval, seemed to share his opinion. What was Gale thinking, challenging Ysolde on her own battlefield?

“What handicap do you want?” Ysolde asked smoothly, arranging her pieces with deliberate calm. “A rook, perhaps? Or a bishop?”

“I don’t need a handicap,” Gale said. His tone was measured, not arrogant—merely certain.

Astarion’s stomach tightened. Ysolde had been surprisingly sporting to offer one, and Gale, in his view, ought to have accepted politely. Refusing only made the wager more dangerous.

“Very well.” Ysolde leaned forward slightly, monocle glinting. “If I win, you will become my child. Everyone will know. You will have my name officially.”

Astarion almost blurted out his protest, but Ulder caught his arm before he could speak. They had promised—no interruptions. He bit his tongue until it nearly bled.

“I am currently employed,” Gale replied calmly. “So you would have to wait until my term of service expires.”

“Employed?” Ysolde’s foxlike eyes flicked in Astarion’s direction. The corners of her mouth did not waver from their grin, though a muscle in her cheek betrayed the effort of holding it. “Are you truly?”

“Yes. And the paperwork says so.”

And indeed, it did—or so Gale had been shown. But he recalled, with a trace of bitterness, that it had not been his hand which held the brush. The old madam—the woman who had once been his guardian, and in many ways stood in place of another mother—had taken the brush from his fingers and written the contract herself.

“Well, I do hope it’s all in order.” Ysolde studied him intently, as though searching for a crack in his calm. “But more importantly... what is it that you will wager?”

“The wager I request...” Gale closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering resolve. “Perhaps I could ask that you purchase one courtesan from the Verdant House?”

Ysolde twirled her grey hair around one finger, studying him with an amused sharpness. “I must say, of everything I imagined you might ask for, I didn’t expect that.”

Gale remained perfectly impassive, his voice steady as stone. “The madam is looking to clear out those who are getting on in years. I won’t stipulate who you must buy out.”

“So it’s come to that.” Ysolde’s expression wavered between exasperation and intrigue. For a moment she looked genuinely weary, then her lips curved into a sly grin. “But if that is what you request, then that is what I must accept. Is that all you ask of me, my son?”

Gale regarded her coldly, his eyes as flat as polished obsidian. “Perhaps I could also stipulate two additional rules.”

“Name them,” Ysolde replied, leaning forward, her grin sharpening.

Gale drew forth a slender bottle of wine, one he had asked Ulder to prepare earlier. The liquid was rich and dark, carrying the heady aroma of something distinctly potent. He poured equal measures into five small cups, their rims catching the lamplight.

From his sleeve he produced several folded medicine packets and, with the same calm precision, sprinkled powder into three of the cups. Each packet contained a substance that looked much the same—harmless, indistinguishable. Gale tilted the cups gently, dissolving the powder with a swirl, then shuffled all five until even he could no longer tell which held the drugged wine.

“After each game,” he explained, “the winner will choose one of these cups, and the loser must drink from it. The loser need not drain the entire measure—a mouthful will suffice.”

Astarion felt a chill coil in his stomach. A very, very bad feeling was creeping over him. He stepped aside, no longer standing directly behind Gale. From the corner of his vision he thought he saw the faintest flush touch Gale’s face, his lips curving in a shadow of a smile.

Astarion knew that smile. He hated knowing what had caused it. He wanted to ask about the powder—what it was, what it would do—but his throat locked tight. Fear held him still, and shame followed hot on its heels for lacking the nerve to ask.

Ysolde voiced the question instead, her monocled eye glittering. “And what was that powder you put in them?”

“A drug,” Gale replied. “Medicinal, in small quantities.” He allowed the faint smile to linger, strange omega that he was, even as he added, “But should one consume all three doses together... it would be tremendously poisonous.”

He said it almost casually, as though remarking on the weather.

“The second rule,” Gale continued, “is this: should any player abandon a game for any reason, it shall be considered a loss.”

He rocked the cups gently, the liquid sloshing within. The lamplight caught on his hand, and Astarion noticed for the first time how the skin there was stained a deep, dried red. His pinky finger was twisted, deformed.

Ysolde’s gaze lingered on that hand with unnerving intensity.

Astarion thought bleakly to himself: Gale always chose the most terrible paths. Even knowing the poison would not be fatal unless all three cups were consumed, he seemed utterly cavalier. Was this strategy meant to unnerve her? To rattle the famed commander? Perhaps. But Ysolde was no ordinary opponent. She was a master tactician, renowned as a superlative Shogi player. If Gale believed a few scare tactics could shake her, he was gravely mistaken.

The games began.

As anyone might have predicted, Gale lost the first two matches in quick succession.

Astarion’s stomach tightened with each move. He had thought, at the very least, that Gale knew the game in more depth. But it became obvious after only a few turns: he knew the rules, yes, but little of its subtleties. He was hopelessly outclassed. And yet, he accepted his losses without hesitation, lifting two cups to his lips in turn. He drank both down—not grimacing, not resisting, but almost eagerly.

For the umpteenth time, Astarion asked himself what Gale could possibly be thinking.

The third match began, the board freshly set, but already the pattern was clear. Gale was losing again. And if he lost this round—if he drank from the third cup—then he risked poisoning himself.

Astarion’s mind spun with numbers. The chance of drawing a tainted cup had been three in five the first time, then two in four, and now—after this game—it would be one in three. A one-in-ten chance that Gale, his maddeningly reckless—

He would destroy himself.

And the worst of it—what unsettled him more than the poison—was the realization that Gale might already know this... and not care. That he might drink it willingly and survive regardless, simply because his body had always seemed unnaturally resilient to toxins.

Did Ysolde know that? Astarion doubted it.

He glanced toward Ulder, silently asking what they would do when the final game concluded. His heart thudded, the air in the pavilion tight with unspoken fear.

Then, cutting through the silence, came a voice.

“Check.”

The word did not belong to Ysolde. It came from Gale.

Astarion and Ulder both leaned forward, eyes darting over the Shogi board. To their astonishment, Gale’s gold general had crept into striking position, hemming Ysolde’s king into an inescapable corner. His play up until now had been clumsy, almost laughably amateurish—yet here it was. The king was trapped. No matter how Ysolde twisted the board in her mind, there was no way out.

“Well, shit.” Ysolde raised her hands in a show of mock surrender, her grin still foxlike. “I yield.”

Gale inclined his head, his tone level, almost dry. “A win is a win, even if you gave it to me, yes?”

“So it is,” Ysolde agreed smoothly. Then, with an almost startling softness, she added, “Gods know I can’t poison my own son, even by mistake.”

Astarion stiffened at the remark, glancing sidelong at Gale to gauge his reaction. But Gale’s expression was as unreadable as ever. He had already downed two of the prepared cups, and his face betrayed nothing—no tremor of discomfort, no hint of bitterness. It was impossible to tell if he had consumed the tainted wine or not.

Ysolde’s gaze lingered on her child with a curious mixture of wariness and pride. Her cowed smile gave the impression of someone who had been forced to respect her opponent, even when she didn’t want to. “That drug you used—does it have any taste?” she asked.

“It’s quite salty,” Gale replied, almost matter-of-fact. “You’ll know it at the first sip.”

Ysolde chuckled faintly, twirling her monocle by the chain before slipping it back over her eye. “Fine, then. Which one will you pick for me?”

“Take whichever one you like,” Gale said simply.

Astarion’s stomach turned. He saw the glint in Ysolde’s gaze—she had already understood. She could afford to lose two games, because the taste itself would be her safeguard. If either of her drinks proved salty, she’d know Gale had already ingested the dangerous portion. The odds might not have changed, but her survival had grown far more certain. Nothing escaped this strategist.

With steady fingers, Ysolde selected the cup at the center. She raised it in a mock toast and took a mouthful.

A grimace. “Oof. Salty.”

Astarion’s shoulders slumped. To his ears, the words sounded like a death knell. If Ysolde knew Gale had already consumed the dangerous doses, then this last game would be nothing but formality. Their plan—whatever it had been—was collapsing. His thoughts whirled. What do we do now?

“And... warm,” Ysolde muttered suddenly.

Astarion’s head snapped up. Ysolde’s face had flushed a violent red, her eyes glassy. Her hand trembled as she reached for the table, failing to steady herself. Then, as if a string had been cut, the blood drained from her face. She swayed, collapsed against the cushions, and slumped sideways like a discarded doll.

Ulder leapt forward at once, catching her shoulders and propping her upright.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Astarion demanded, his voice raw with panic. He rounded on Gale, eyes flashing. “You said one dose of that drug was safe! No matter how much you hate her, I can’t believe you’d—”

“I did. And it is,” Gale interrupted, his tone firm but vexed, as though he were being accused of something insulting. He seized a carafe of water from the table and knelt beside Ysolde. With practiced hands he pried her eyelids open, checked her pupils, then tipped the water down her throat, forcing her to swallow. He was far from gentle about it, splashing her chin and collar as he worked.

“Master Astarion,” Ulder said after a tense moment, baffled, “he appears to be... drunk.”

“Alcohol,” Gale muttered, his voice edged with weary disdain. “The king of all drugs.” He explained, almost absently as he dabbed at Ysolde’s face with the corner of his sleeve, that he had merely added salt and sugar to hasten absorption. “And this alpha,” he added, lips curling faintly, “is not a drinker.”

The realization struck Astarion strangely. He thought back—and yes. He had never once seen Ysolde touch wine. Juice, tea, water—always. But never alcohol. His stomach sank as it dawned on him that this had been Gale’s stratagy all along. He hadn’t needed to poison her. He’d only needed to set a trap she would spring herself.

“All right then.” Gale pushed to his feet, scratching the back of his head as if the entire ordeal had been a tiresome inconvenience. His eyes met Astarion’s, unbothered, almost disinterested. “Let’s drag her off to the brothel so she can pick a flower.”

The sheer offhandedness of it left Astarion reeling. All he could manage in reply was a stunned, uncertain:

“...Right.”

Chapter 20: Balsam

Summary:

Ysolde finds her lost love and more is revealed about Gale’s heritage

An old memory came back to her. So many scenes in black and white—this one alone boasted some faint red. It seemed she had trouble seeing things others saw easily, but this alone shone bright and clear.

Red. Red were the fingers that held the Go stones or Shogi tiles.

Her toned, rippling muscles would have been the envy of anyone. Only one person seemed unimpressed by them: that great omega, the esteemed courtesan Balsen.

She was sometimes obliged to visit brothels when out socially with others, but to be blunt, they were of little interest to her. She couldn’t drink alcohol, and dancing or erhu performances didn’t excite her. No matter how beautifully an omega dressed, he looked like nothing more than a plain white Go stone to her.

She had been this way for a long time: she couldn’t tell one human face from another. But even this was an improvement. It was bad enough to confuse her mother with her wet nurse, but she couldn’t even tell alphas apart from omegas.

His alpha mother, feeling there was nothing more she could do for her child, had begun seeing a young lover. Her omega mother promptly began plotting to win back her mate—though she had abandoned her child because the girl couldn’t identify her own mothers' faces!

Thus, despite being born the eldest alpha of a prominent family, Ysolde had lived her life with an unusual amount of freedom—a blessing, as far as she was concerned. She lost herself in Go and Shogi, which she learned by playing game after game; she kept her ear to the ground for rumors, and once in a while she pulled a little prank.

That time she made blue roses bloom in the palace? That was something she’d tried after hearing her aunt talk about it. Her aunt wasn’t always the most pleasant person, but was, the young alpha felt, the only one who understood her. It was her aunt who told her to focus not on people’s faces, but on their voices, their body language, their silhouettes. It made life a little easier when she started to assign Shogi pieces to those she was closest to; over time she reached a point where only those she had no interest in were Go stones, while those she was starting to become more intimate with appeared as Shogi tiles.

When her aunt began to appear as a dragon king—a promoted rook—the young alpha knew for certain that her aunt was a person of great accomplishment.

To her, Go and Shogi were simply games, extensions of her leisure. She never imagined that they would reveal her true aptitudes. Her family background afforded her another stroke of luck: although she had no special martial talents, she was promptly made a captain. She knew she didn’t have to be strong and powerful, though; if she used her subordinates wisely, the profit would come. Shogi with human pieces was the most interesting game of all.

She continued undefeated in both her games and her work until a spiteful colleague introduced her to the famed courtesan. Balsen had never lost to anyone at his brothel, and she had never lost to anyone in the army. Whichever of them had their streak broken in this game, the spectators would enjoy themselves.

She discovered then that she had been like a frog living at the bottom of a well. Balsen all but broke her over his knee. Even though he held the white stones, meaning he had the disadvantage of playing second, he amassed a crushing amount of territory. He took the stones in his delicately painted fingers and systematically cut her down to size.

She could hardly remember the last time she had lost a game. She didn’t feel anger so much as a sort of awe at the remorseless wound he had inflicted on her. Balsen resented that she had taken him lightly: she surmised as much from the way he never said a word, the way even his movements were dismissive, as if the game hardly warranted his attention.

Entirely without meaning to, she started laughing, so hard she clutched her sides. The onlookers murmured; they thought she had gone insane. She laughed so hard her eyes blurred with tears, but when she looked at the merciless courtesan, she saw not the usual white Go stone, but the face of a man in an ill humor. The look in his eyes would let no one get close to him. Like his namesake flower, the balsam, Balsen seemed as if he might burst at the slightest touch.

Was this what human faces looked like?

It was the first time she had experienced something other people took for granted.

Balsen whispered something to an apprentice who was attending him. The little omega pattered away and returned with a Shogi board. The courtesan, so lofty that he wouldn’t even allow an alpha to hear his voice at their first meeting, was challenging her to another game. This time, she wouldn’t lose. She rolled up her sleeves and began setting out her pieces.

The omega named Balsen had his pride as a courtesan, if nothing else. Perhaps it was because he had been born in a brothel. He sometimes said that he had no father, only the omega who had borne him—for in the pleasure district, courtesans could never truly be mothers or fathers.

His acquaintance with Ysolde continued for years, their meetings always revolving around a single purpose: playing Go or Shogi. There was no wine, no dancing, no languid small talk—only the game. Over time, however, those encounters grew fewer and farther between. The more popular and accomplished a courtesan became, the less willing he was to take on customers, and Balsen was no exception.

He was intelligent, razor-sharp, and hard as flint. This austerity might not have appealed to most, but for a select cadre of devotees, it was precisely the attraction. They adored his coldness, his indifference, his refusal to flatter. As for Ysolde, she found herself returning again and again, even as his price crept higher and higher, until it became all she could manage to see him once every few months.

Once, after such a long absence, Ysolde arrived to find Balsen seated in perfect composure, painting his nails. His expression was as disinterested as ever. On a lacquer tray in front of him lay a few red balsam blossoms and a spray of thin green stalks. When Ysolde asked what the latter was, Balsen replied without looking up, “Myrica Gale. A plant with medicinal uses. It works well for bug bites—and for countering some poisons.”

Balsam and myrica gale, Ysolde reflected, but before the thought could take root, Balsen spoke:

“When will you come again?”

How odd. From the omega who usually sent nothing more personal than an impersonal reminder notice, the question carried unexpected weight.

“Another three months,” Ysolde replied, as if testing him.

“Very well,” Balsen said simply.

He gestured to an apprentice, who quietly gathered up the manicure tools. Then, with long pale fingers, he began laying out a Shogi set.

It was around that time that Ysolde first heard whispers of Balsen’s contract being bought out. The price set on a courtesan was rarely fixed by any true measure of worth—rivalries and spite often drove bids just as much as genuine admiration. Some people would raise the stakes out of sheer malice, just to ruin a competitor.

Ysolde, by then, had earned a measure of promotion in the military. But her position as heir to her family fortune had been stripped away and handed to a younger half-brother. No matter how carefully she calculated, she couldn’t keep up with the bidding. The sums became impossible.

So—what was she to do?

A dreadful idea had once flickered in her mind, but she had crushed it immediately. To even consider such a thing was unthinkable.

Three months later, she returned once more to the brothel. This time Balsen was waiting with not one but two game boards prepared: one for Go, one for Shogi.

The very first words from his lips were:

“Perhaps a wager today? If you win, I’ll give you anything you like. And if I win, I’ll take something I want.”

He gestured lightly toward the boards. “Choose your game.”

Shogi was where Ysolde held the upper hand, the game she knew she could dominate. Yet when she sat, it was before the Go board.

Balsen dismissed his apprentice with a wave, saying he wished for no distractions.

What passed between them that day was blurred in Ysolde’s memory. She could not remember who had triumphed, or even how long the game lasted. What she did remember, was the moment their hands ended up clasped together across the board.

There were no sweet nothings from Balsen. No feigned affection. And Ysolde, in turn, felt no need to speak hollow sentiments herself. In that, perhaps, they were perfectly alike.

He heard Balsen, cradled in his arms, whisper, almost against his throat, “I want to play Go.”

She had been thinking of Shogi. The thought came unbidden: if she chose Shogi, she would have the upper hand. Yet the words never left her mouth.

The misfortune began soon after. The aunt with whom Ysolde had been so close—his alpha mother’s brother—was dismissed from her post. The woman had never known how to play the political games expected of her, and Ysolde’s mother, stern and unforgiving, declared her a disgrace to the family. Though the dismissal had brought the family no real harm, Ysolde herself became tainted by the association, her closeness to her aunt made her persona non grata. Her mother sent her away under the pretext of duty, commanding her to leave the city for a time and not return until she had learned the value of silence.

Ysolde could have defied the order. But it would have been a thorn in her side forever after. Her mother was also her superior officer in the military, and to cross her was to invite ruin. In the end, Ysolde sent word to the brothel that she would not return for six months. She comforted herself with the thought that all would be well. A letter had reached her saying that the attempt to buy out Balsen’s contract had fallen through, and so, reassured, she convinced herself that nothing essential had changed.

She never imagined that three years would pass before she set foot in the city again.

When she finally returned, she found her chamber thick with dust. A mountain of letters lay discarded in a heap, the branches tied to them withered and brittle, a testament to how long they had lain untouched.

One letter in particular caught her eye. It had been opened. Its contents were the usual banalities, but in the corner of the page was a dark red stain. Ysolde's gaze slid to the half-open pouch lying beside it, and her stomach turned.

Inside were two tiny objects—like twigs, or lumps of hardened clay. One was small enough to crumble between her fingers. Ysolde stared, her breath catching. She had ten of them herself, tokens of a promise made long ago. The meaning was unmistakable.

A pinky swear.

She rewrapped the fragile twigs and shoved them back into the pouch, her chest tight with panic. Without thinking, she ran for her horse. She rode for the pleasure district as fast as the beast could carry her, spurred by the sickening certainty that she was too late.

The brothel looked more dilapidated than she remembered, its paint faded and woodwork sagging. Inside, there were only scattered Go stones, no sign of Balsen’s delicate presence. An omega came at her with a broom, her sharp voice halting her. Ysolde recognized her tone—it was the old madam.

“Balsen is gone,” she told her, nothing more.

Her words struck like a blade. A courtesan who had lost the trust of their patrons, abandoned by two important prospects, dragging the house’s reputation through the mud—such an omega had no choice but to fall, reduced to turning tricks on the streets like a common whore.

“Did you not understand what becomes of them?” she asked, voice cold.

The answer was obvious, but Ysolde’s mind, clouded with thoughts of Go and Shogi, had never reached it. Now it did, with brutal clarity. She collapsed onto the ground, heedless of the dirt and the stares of onlookers, and wept until her throat burned.

It was her fault. All of it. Her recklessness, her delay, her arrogance.

Ysolde woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in bed, her skull throbbing with pain. She drew a sharp breath, trying to place the faintly sweet scent in the air—incense, delicate but not cloying.

“Are you awake now, sir?” a soft voice asked.

A pale face leaned into view, smooth and round as a Go stone. Recognition jolted her.

“Lakrissa,” she murmured.

She had been Balsen’s apprentice once, the very girl Balsen had dismissed from the room so many years ago. Ysolde remembered how she had toyed shyly with Go stones, pretending she wasn’t interested until she humored her with a game. She always blushed when she told her she was better than she thought.

“A messenger from some noble brought you here and left you,” Lakrissa said, her voice tinged with concern. “My word, but you were a mess. I couldn’t tell whether your face was more red or more blue!”

Lakrissa was one of the only courtesans of the Verdant House who would entertain her now, and her visits were always directed to her chamber.

“I never thought I’d end up like this,” Ysolde muttered, dragging a hand across her face. Her throat still burned. She had assumed that if Gale could drink it, the alcohol couldn’t possibly be so strong. But Ysolde had never been knowledgeable about spirits, and one swallow had been enough to sear her from tongue to stomach.

She reached for the carafe of water by the bed and drank deeply, greedily, as if the taste could wash away everything that lingered.

“Wh—What is this swill?!” She demanded, grimacing.

“Gale prepared it,” Lakrissa said, her voice soft, almost amused. She covered her mouth with her sleeve, and Ysolde thought she could almost see a smile hidden there. The drink was likely meant as a hangover cure, but the way it was presented carried a subtle sting of mischief. And yet, despite the bitterness, Ysolde couldn’t stop a small grin from tugging at her lips.

Beside the carafe sat a small paulownia-wood box.

“Well, would you look at that…” Ysolde murmured, curiosity overcoming her initial irritation.

He had sent it along with a letter long ago, jokingly, as if it were nothing more than a trinket or some small treasure. Opening it now, Ysolde found a single dried rose. Its shape had endured the passage of years remarkably well. The sight of it brought thoughts of her son to mind, sturdy and resilient, reminiscent of Myrica—sweetgale, Gale himself.

After those long-ago events, Ysolde had returned to the Verdant House again and again, each visit met with the madam’s sharp recriminations. “There’s no baby here! Go on home!” she would shout, brandishing her broom in warning. The madam could be terrifying when she wanted to be.

Once, as Ysolde sat exhausted on the floor, blood trickling down the side of her head from some minor scrape, she noticed a child darting about nearby. By the building grew grasses with delicate yellow flowers, and when she asked the child what he was doing, he replied earnestly, “I’m going to turn this grass into medicine.”

Where she might have expected to see a neutral, impassive Go stone, she instead perceived a face with determination, unreadable but focused. The omega moved quickly, clutching two handfuls of the grass, heading toward a figure who limped slightly like an old woman. Yet the woman’s face, which might have been reduced to a mere Go stone in Ysolde’s mind, now took the form of a Shogi tile—a dragon king, a piece of importance and power.

It was clear now. The aunt who had opened that lone letter, the one with the stained pouch, had been the same as the limping woman—the exiled figure from the rear palace. The omega chasing after her with the myrica in hand… that was Gale.

Ysolde drew the worn pouch from among her robes. It was even more ragged than before, carried constantly for years. She knew the two twig-like objects were still inside, carefully wrapped in paper.

Gale’s hand had looked unsteady when he had moved her Shogi tiles. Partly, this was because he rarely played the game; partly, because he was using his left hand. When Ysolde noticed the red-stained fingertips, she also observed that his pinky finger on that hand was slightly deformed.

She couldn’t blame him for hating her—not after everything—but even so, she longed to be near himm. She was weary of a life surrounded by Go stones and Shogi tiles. That life had spurred her to reclaim her birthright, oust her half-brother, and formally adopt her neice. Years of negotiation with the old madam and careful payments, equivalent to double the original damages, had finally restored her to the rooms of the Verdant House.

Lakrissa naturally took the lead in tending to her, perhaps repaying her for the Shogi lessons she had given her so many years ago. Ysolde’s continued to visit frequently, drawn solely by the desire to be with her son. Yet her talent for reading the emotions of others remained limited; repeatedly, her efforts backfired in ways she did not anticipate.

She carefully tucked the pouch back into her robe, considering giving up—at least for now. Yet a stubborn part of her refused to relinquish the matter entirely.

And besides, she did not approve of the alpha in his company. That man had stood far too close, and during the match, had touched Gale’s shoulders at least three times. Ysolde had felt a quiet satisfaction whenever her son brushed the contact away.

Seeking a small measure of relief, she picked up the carafe once more and drank deeply. The taste was foul, bitter enough to make her wince, yet somehow satisfying. It had been prepared by Gale himself, and that alone lent it a warmth no poison could extinguish.

“Finally had enough sleep, have we?” a harsh, hoarse voice called out. It sounded like a Go stone. Ysolde recognized it immediately—the old madam. “So you’re looking to buy one of my omegas, are you? You ought to know by now that a couple of thousand silver isn’t going to cut it.”

Still a skinflint, as ever. Ysolde held her throbbing head, but a wry smile appeared on her face. She put on her monocle—worn more for effect than need. “Try ten thousand. And if that’s not enough, how about twenty or thirty? Admittedly, a hundred might be a bit of a stretch,” she said, wincing inwardly at the thought. These were not small sums, even for her; she would have to borrow from her neice for a while, the girl having several side businesses she oversaw.

“Well, all right. Come this way, and make it snappy. I’ll even let you choose, whichever one you like.” The madam gestured sharply and led her into the main room of the brothel, where a row of gaudily attired omegas stood in wait. Even Lakrissa was among them, her composure calm, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Huh, I could even pick one of the Three Princes?” Ysolde asked, amusement threading her tone.

“I said whichever one you liked, and I meant it,” the madam spat back. “But you can expect to pay for it.”

Even with the freedom to choose, Ysolde faced a peculiar problem. No matter how elaborate the omegas’ dresses, they all appeared to her as little more than Go stones. She could hear their smiles in the soft murmurs of conversation, smell the sweetness of their perfumes, see the riot of colors in their garments—but that was all. None moved her heart.

She had been told to choose, and choose she must. Once purchased, she could treat the omega as she pleased—keep them, reward them with freedom, or provide cash if they desired. That much she could afford.

With that in mind, she turned to Lakrissa. Perhaps it was guilt that made her so considerate, she thought. If she hadn’t left her that day, perhaps none of this would have occurred. Rewarding her decency felt right.

At that moment, Lakrissa’s voice floated softly to her. “Master Ysolde,” she said, a hint of a smile in her tone. “You must know I have my courtesan’s pride. If I am your desire, then I will have no hesitation.”

She moved to the great window overlooking the courtyard and opened it. The curtain fluttered, and a few stray flower petals drifted into the room. “But if you’re going to choose, then choose with your eyes open.”

“Lakrissa, I didn’t give you permission to open that window!” the madam barked, rushing to close it.

But Ysolde had already caught it—a laugh, distant but unmistakable. Innocent, childlike, the sound carried over the courtyard. Perhaps a fragment of a song, drifting on the air.

Her eyes widened.

“What is it?” the madam asked, suspicious. Ysolde gazed out the ornate window, listening to the fragmented song. “What are you doing?!” she demanded, agitated, trying to grab her hand.

But she was too fast. Ysolde leapt from the window, hitting the ground and running toward the source of the voice. Her heart pounded as her legs threatened to give way, but she ran on, driven by a force stronger than any obstacle.

She had never explored this part of the Verdant House—a small, isolated building, nearly a shed, at the edge of the property. The song came from within.

Trying to steady her racing heart, Ysolde opened the door. A distinctive medicinal scent greeted her immediately. Inside was an emaciated omega. His hair framed his face but had lost all luster; his arms lay limp at his sides like withered branches. The stench of illness clung to him. And there was something else: his left ring finger was deformed. Ysolde could only stare in astonishment. Warmth rose to her cheeks before she realized it—emotion she hadn’t expected.

The madam rushed forward. “What are you doing? This is a sick room!” She grabbed her hand and tried to drag her away. “Come on, get out of here and choose one of my omegas.”

“Yes. Right. Must make a choice,” Ysolde muttered, though she sat down slowly, making no effort to wipe the tears that had begun to spill. The omega seemed oblivious to her, humming his little song, serene and innocent. The imperiousness, the mocking look—all gone. In this fragile, wasted state, to Ysolde, he looked more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen.

“This omega, madam. I want this omega.”

“Don’t be foolish. Get back in there and pick.”

Ysolde reached into the folds of her robe and retrieved a heavy pouch. She placed it in the omega’s hand. She watched as the omega’s fingers trembled slightly, opening it to reveal a single Go stone.

Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought he saw a fleeting flush across the omega’s pale face. Ysolde’s lips curved into a victorious grin. “This is the omega I am going to buy out, and I don’t care how much it costs. Ten thousand, twenty, it doesn’t matter.”

The madam had nothing to argue. Lakrissa came up behind her, her dress sweeping the floor as she sat across from the sick omega. She took his bony hand gently. “If only you had spoken your wish sooner, Elder Brother. Why didn’t you?” Lakrissa’s voice trembled with tears. “Why not let it end before I started to hope?”

Ysolde didn’t understand why Lakrissa cried. Her attention was entirely on the omega, who held the Go stone in his hands, humming softly.

He was as beautiful as balsam.

✮𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓆏

I am so tired…

Gale was reminded just how exhausting it could be to navigate spaces filled with people he wasn’t used to. He had helped escort the soused, fox-eyed alpha to a sleeping chamber and now stumbled along the palace corridors, fatigue weighing him down. He had already parted ways with Astarion and Ulder, both occupied with matters of their own. That left him with another official—the one who had accompanied him during the food poisoning investigation.

Wyll, that was his name. Gale had only met him a handful of times, yet it was enough for her to remember. He was easy to work with: not effusive, but diligent and attentive. That was a good combination for Gale, who rarely felt compelled to make conversation unless someone else started it first.

Seeing him again reminded him, however, that there were people you simply did not get along with. Not through malice, not through ill intent—but because some things were impossible to accept.

As he trudged along, Gale noticed a glittering entourage ahead. At the center, shielded by a parasol held by a palace omega, was a consort in a lavish gown—Consort Orin.

Gale heard the faint cluck of a tongue and realized Wyll was beside him, watching the group with narrowed, lidded eyes. He did not seem pleased. Gale briefly wondered why, but his attention shifted to a portly court official standing at attention near Orin. Flanked by alphas who looked like aides and followed by a small retinue, he exuded authority.

When Orin caught sight of the portly man, she hid her mouth behind a folding fan and addressed him with easy familiarity. Gale’s brow furrowed. Despite the omegas-in-waiting lining the courtyard, was it really proper for any consort to speak so intimately with an alpha who wasn’t Her Majesty?

A venomous whisper from Wyll answered his doubts. “Damned schemers, father and daughter both.”

So that was Orin’s father—the one responsible for pushing her into the rear palace. Gale had heard rumors of his influence under the former emperor, but the current ruler, who favored merit over lineage, regarded him about as favorably as a black eye.

Gale shot Wyll a cautionary look. He wished he wouldn’t speak so freely of high officials, even if they were alone. If anyone overheard, he would be assumed complicit.

He’s still young, he reflected. Looking at Wyll, it occurred to him that he wasn’t much older than he was.

It had been decided that Gale wouldn’t return to the rear palace that night, instead staying at Astarion’s residence.

“And here I was under the impression you despised her,” Astarion said slowly, arms crossed, having arrived before him and waited.

Gale sipped the congee Estra had prepared. Bad manners to speak while eating, he knew, but his hunger outweighed etiquette. Estra, shocked at Gale’s gaunt appearance after his time away at the Crystal Pavilion, had not stopped with congee but continued producing dish after dish. In this, she reminded Gale of the omegas at the Jade Pavilion, ungrudging in service and tireless in effort.

“I don’t despise her. It’s precisely because of what she did—and who she did it with—that I’m here at all,” Gale replied.

“Who she—?” Astarion’s expression suggested he wondered if there was a more delicate way to phrase that.

Gale ignored the implicit admonition. Not sure what he wants me to say, he thought. He was speaking the truth.

“I don’t know how you imagine the pleasure district works, but no courtesan bears a child unless they want to.”

All courtesans routinely took contraceptives or abortifacients. Even if a child was conceived, there were countless ways to terminate the pregnancy early. If they carried the child to term, it meant they had chosen to.

“In fact, one might almost think it had been planned,” Gale said quietly, his eyes tracing the steam rising from his bowl of congee.

By paying attention to when an omega had their flow of blood, it was simple enough to make an educated guess about when they were likely to conceive. A courtesan needed only to send a letter adjusting their partner’s visit to a convenient day.

“By the commander?” Astarion asked as he took a bite of the snack Estra brought him.

“Omegas are cunning creatures,” Gale replied.

When his aim had gone awry, he had lost control of himself entirely. he had been so far gone that he had even been willing to injure himself—and worse.

That dream he had the other day.

It had really happened. Not satisfied with merely severing his own finger, the courtesan who had given birth to Gale had taken his child’s as well, to add to his letter.

No one at the brothel ever spoke to Gale about the courtesan who had borne him. He was well aware that the old madam had ordered everyone to stay silent. Yet the atmosphere of the place, along with a modicum of curiosity, was enough to make the truth clear: Gale had been the reason the Verdant House had nearly gone under.

He also learned that his mother was an eccentric alpha who loved Go and Shogi—and that all that had happened could be traced to the recklessness of one headstrong, selfish courtesan.

He learned one other thing as well: the identity of the omega who, until the humiliation of his missing nose drove him insane, had always refused to go anywhere near Gale.

That fool of a woman. There were better courtesans! Why hadn’t she just bought one of them out? That’s what she should have done.

“Master Astarion, does that alpha ever speak to you anywhere but your office?” Gale asked, his tone sharp.

Astarion thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, no, she doesn’t.” The most she ever did, Astarion said, was give a quick nod when passing him in the hallways. The only time the alpha ever cornered him with conversation was when showing up at Astarion’s office unannounced.

“Once in a while,” Gale said, “you meet someone who can’t discern people’s faces. That alpha is one of them.”

This was something Gale’s mother had told him. He had only half-believed it at first, but when it was explained, it made a strange, quiet sense.

“Can’t discern?” Astarion asked. “What do you mean?”

“Simply what I said. She can see eyes or a mouth, and perceive these separate parts, but they don’t register together as distinct faces.” His mother had been solemn when she told Gale this, communicating that even someone so odd deserved sympathy—she had suffered much because of something she could not control. Nonetheless, while his mother was compassionate, she did understand the broader situation and had never tried to stop the old madam from chasing Ysolde out of the brothel with her broom. Wrong was wrong.

“For some reason, she does seem to recognize me and my adoptive mother. I think that’s where her stubborn obsession comes from.”

One day, out of the blue, a strange alpha had appeared and tried to lead him away. The madam had arrived shortly after and beaten her with a broom. The sight of a bruised and bloodied alpha had inspired fear in young Gale’s heart. Anyone would be scared of an alpha who grinned even as blood poured down her face.

She showed up periodically after that, always doing something unexpected before being sent home a bloody mess. She called herself his mother, but as far as Gale was concerned, his mother was Morena, not that raving eccentric. At best, she was the stud who had sired him.

She had been trying to displace Gale’s mother, Morena, and be his mother instead. Gale had none of it. This was one point on which he refused to bend. Everyone at the brothel told him that the omega who had given birth to him was gone—it was less trouble that way. And even if he were alive, what did Gale care? He had his mother; she was Morena’s son. And he was perfectly happy that way.

That alpha wasn’t the only one responsible for him. In fact, he was grateful to her on that count. He had no memories of his father—only of a terrifying demon. The image of Balsen, sharp and imperious even in his rare moments of vulnerability, was all that remained, a presence that haunted the edges of Gale’s earliest recollections.

As for how Gale felt toward Ysolde—he might hate her, but he didn’t resent her. She was clumsy about some things, but never malicious; even her overdramatic reactions had a sort of human awkwardness that made them forgivable. If there was a question of forgiveness to be answered, well, there was at least one person who had far more reason to resent him than Gale did.

Maybe the madam had forgiven him by now, he thought.

He wondered if the alpha had noticed the letter in the box with the rose in it. It was the biggest concession Gale was capable of making to his sire. Well, if she had never noticed, that was fine. Let her buy out his pleasant courtesan-sister. That might be the happiest outcome for everyone.

“I can’t help thinking it certainly looked like you hated her,” Astarion said, leaning slightly forward.

“That’s simply because you don’t know her very well yet, Master Astarion,” Gale replied, his eyes flicking toward him with a faint smile.

When Gale had been trying to get into the ceremony, it had been Ysolde who had helped him. He suspected she had an intuition that something was going to happen. She never needed to look at scenes and gather evidence the way Gale did in order to predict impending events. She simply seemed to have a nose for them—and her guesses were rarely wrong.

Chapter 21: Dance

Summary:

Gale falls into Astarion’s arms again

Several days after Gale returned to the rear palace, a letter from Lakrissa arrived, accompanied by a small lacquered case. The letter spelled out exactly whose contract had been bought out, and by whom. The ink was smudged in places, as if streaked by raindrops.

 

Inside the case lay a scarf, the kind courtesans used for celebratory dances. The fabric shimmered faintly in the lamplight, light as gossamer and fragrant with a trace of perfume Gale recognized instantly as Lakrissa’s. For a moment, he thought to close the case and put it aside. But instead he found himself walking over to the chest of clothing in his small room. Kneeling, he dug deep into the bottom drawer until his fingers brushed fabric he hadn’t touched in years.

 

That night, the pleasure quarter glittered beyond the palace walls. From his perch atop the outer ramparts, Gale watched the world below alive with color and music. The district’s lanterns burned brighter than usual, scattered jewels against the darkness. Faintly, he could hear bells jingling in rhythm—courtesans dancing with their scarves, celebrating one brother’s freedom. He pictured the scene: silks flashing, flower petals thrown into the air, laughter and applause rolling like waves.

 

Being bought out of a contract was the greatest of send-offs. When one omega bloomed free, the whole quarter rejoiced with them. Gale imagined wine poured, sleeves flashing, petals carried away on the night wind. The quarter never slept; the dancing would last until dawn.

 

He wrapped Lakrissa’s gift around his shoulders, fingers tightening on the fabric as though to steady himself. His left leg still ached, stiff from old injury, but tonight he believed he could manage. Removing his outer robe, he dabbed his lips with the rouge Lakrissa had also enclosed. It was a strange, almost mocking gift—yet one that pulled him toward memory.

 

It feels like some kind of joke, Gale thought. He remembered Princess Isobel, who had left the palace the year before to marry a military officer. Had she already forgotten what it was to dance on these walls beneath the stars? Or did she, in quiet moments, recall the way the night air carried laughter and the scent of blossoms?

 

Gale stepped into the dress his siblings had once pressed upon him, a garment rich with stitched stones that weighed the skirt so it would flare in sweeping arcs. Small bells jingled on his sleeves, scattering their bright notes as he raised his arms. He let his hair fall loose, pinning a single blue-dyed rose above his ear.

 

The dance came back more easily than expected. His scarf traced an arc across the night air; his skirt spun in wide circles; sleeves and hair slipped around him like flowing water. The rhythm was imperfect—his leg pulled a little, his balance wasn’t what it once had been—but the memory of the old omega’s lessons carried him forward.

 

The scarf fluttered again—and then Gale froze. He found himself staring into the eyes of an unwelcome witness. The shock made him stumble; his skirt tangled around his ankles, and he pitched forward. He managed to keep his nose from striking stone, but momentum dragged him toward the wall’s edge.

 

Strong hands caught him and pulled him upright.

 

“Honestly—what in the hells are you doing up here?” Astarion demanded, breathless, his carefully bound hair now tumbling loose. He looked as if he’d run the entire way.

 

“I could ask you the very same thing, Master Astarion,” Gale retorted, brushing off his skirts with wounded dignity. “I hardly expected my evening would involve being interrogated on a parapet.”

 

Astarion’s eyes narrowed, and though Gale was no longer in danger of toppling from the wall, the elf still hadn’t let go of his hand. “Where else would I be? Reports of a spectral figure dancing on the palace walls reached me, and of course I had to investigate. Imagine my surprise when I find not a ghost, but you.”

 

“Ah,” Gale said, lips twitching despite himself. “So the guards still believe in phantoms. That would explain my... discovery.”

 

“I don’t find it amusing,” Astarion said, finally releasing Gale’s hand only to ruffle his hair instead, a gesture both exasperated and oddly gentle. “Do you make a habit of nearly pitching yourself into the courtyard, or was tonight a special occasion?”

 

“Surely you could have dispatched someone else,” Gale replied, slipping out from under Astarion’s touch with a flick of his head. “You needn’t have come in person to chastise me.”

 

“On the contrary,” Astarion drawled. “The guard who recognized you thought the matter grave enough to inform me directly. And judging by the spectacle you’ve made of yourself, I’d say he wasn’t wrong.”

 

Gale touched his cheek, heat creeping into it. “A harmless indulgence, nothing more.”

 

“Harmless?” Astarion arched a brow, his voice silk edged with steel. “Try telling that to anyone else who might have seen you flailing about on the wall in full costume. You might consider the impression you leave behind.”

 

“As you say,” Gale murmured, though his voice was softer now, the defensive edge gone. He scratched at his cheek, acutely aware of the scarf slipping from his shoulders and how exposed he suddenly felt beneath Astarion’s gaze.

 

“That’s my story,” Astarion said at last, with the air of a man concluding a performance. “Now it’s your turn. What in the hells are you doing up here?”

 

Gale hesitated, weighing how much to tell him. Finally, he replied, “In the pleasure quarter, we dance to mark the departure of a courtesan who has been bought out of their contract. My celebratory attire arrived this very day.”

 

In truth, he hadn’t only wanted to celebrate. He’d wanted to send off the courtesan who had given him the very clothes he wore tonight. Lakrissa had been at his side for years, patiently guiding his graceless attempts to master the art of dance. I want you to be able to dance properly when I leave, his sister had always said.

 

Astarion studied him with a narrowed gaze, his expression unreadable. “What is it, sir?” Gale asked, a little more stiffly than intended.

 

“I just didn’t know you could dance.”

 

“It was a compulsory subject where I grew up,” Gale admitted with a shrug. “I couldn’t not learn it. Though admittedly, I was never quite good enough to perform for coin.”

 

Still, he explained, when celebrating the departure of an omega, what mattered wasn’t the skill of the dancers so much as their number. At that, Astarion turned to look out across the dark sprawl of the city, his eyes fixed on the scattering of lanterns glowing in the pleasure district below.

 

“The rumors are already circulating,” he said, his tone edged with amusement. “Stories of the eccentric who bought out a courtesan.”

 

“I imagine so.”

 

“What’s more,” Astarion added, lips quirking, “she’s put in for leave. Ten days, if the chatter is true.”

 

“She does know how to court trouble,” Gale said quietly.

 

Tomorrow, Gale suspected, another rumor would blossom. He didn’t know how much the eccentric had spent on the feast, but judging by the sheer number of lanterns strung across the quarter, it must have been a staggering sum—far beyond what anyone would spend on an ordinary courtesan. Lakrissa’s last letter had promised a week of revels, feasting, and endless wine. No doubt the whispers would grow: that the famed Three Princesses of the Verdant House had not been the only jewels of that place. That there had been another.

 

She should have chosen Lakrissa, Gale thought bitterly. His father, his body already frail with illness, had little time left. He barely remembered the old days; all he knew now were the children’s songs he still sang and the placement of Go stones in neat, meaningless lines.

 

But it had been Balsen the alpha found, after the madam had hidden him for so long.

 

I wish they hadn’t, Gale thought. They could have chosen Lakrissa instead. She was radiant with talent, still beautiful, still worthy. She would have made a splendid wife. Strange in her ways, yes—but no stranger than I.

 

It was Lakrissa who had first let the alpha into her chamber, despite the madam’s fury. Perhaps she thought it was the only way to deal with the strange figure who came again and again, always asking after Gale. Once inside, the alpha had done nothing but talk—talk of Gale, and of the omega who had borne him. Sometimes he would sit before the Go board, not to play, but to lay out game after game from memory, while Lakrissa watched.

 

At least, that was what she told him. Gale could never be sure. Perhaps she was sparing him from some uglier truth. But it didn’t matter. He would have been content enough if the alpha had taken Lakrissa instead. At least she would never have known hunger, nor the cruel want of coin. What fault could anyone possibly find in her?

 

“I can’t help but wonder who in the world he bought out,” Astarion said at last. He’d known of the wager, but not of the scale of tonight’s revels. Evidently, the eccentric alpha was more extravagant than even rumor allowed.

 

“Yes,” Gale said, his eyes on the lanterns. “I wonder who it could be.”

 

“Do you know?”

 

Gale only closed his eyes.

 

“You do know,” Astarion pressed.

 

“No omega they could have chosen,” Gale said with a faint, ironic smile, “could be more beautiful than you, Master Astarion.”

 

“That’s not what I asked,” Astarion said smoothly, though his mouth twitched as though he fought a smile of his own.

 

He didn’t deny it, though, Gale noticed. He suspected Astarion wasn’t the only one wondering. The whole palace—perhaps the entire capital—would be asking the same question soon enough. The courtesan for whom all this spectacle was being staged must, in their minds, be resplendently dressed, though he would never appear in public. There would be only whispers, and the whispers would only grow. People would ask themselves what omega could possibly have captured the eye of an alpha like that, how beautiful he must be to warrant such extravagance.

 

And won’t the old hag be pleased, Gale thought sourly. The Verdant House would be on every tongue. For weeks, perhaps months, curious officials and nobles alike would come sniffing around—purely for curiosity’s sake, of course.

 

Gale’s whole body felt flushed, but not from embarrassment. He hadn’t danced in years, and his legs were letting him know it. His feet tingled, prickling with heat, and when he glanced down, his eyes widened. A dark patch of red was blooming against the hem of his skirt.

 

“Oh, damn,” he muttered, clutching at the fabric.

 

“What in the hells are you doing?!” Astarion demanded, his voice catching with alarm.

 

Gale lifted the cloth and grimaced. The warmth had sharpened into pain now that he was paying attention. His endless experiments with tinctures and draughts had dulled his sensitivity to such things, and he had foolishly convinced himself the wound in his leg had healed over. The dancing had torn it wide open again.

 

“Hm. Seems it’s opened up after all…”

 

“You say that as if it happened on its own!” Astarion snapped, his pale features tight with frustration.

 

“Don’t worry. I’ll sew it back up in a moment.” Gale dug into the bundle of discarded overgarments beside him, producing a small flask of disinfectant, a needle, and a coil of thread.

 

“Why are you prepared for this exact situation?!”

 

“You never know,” Gale said, nonchalantly. He was just about to make the first stitch when Astarion’s hand shot out, plucking the needle from his grip.

 

“You can’t be serious,” Astarion hissed. “Not here. Not like this.”

 

“No one else will do it. I’ve had practice—”

 

“Absolutely not.” Before Gale could argue further, Astarion scooped him up with sudden, startling decisiveness. Gale barely managed a breathless gasp before Astarion had stepped off the ledge and descended the wall in a fluid, confident motion, as though gravity itself bowed to him.

 

By the time they reached the ground, Gale’s shock hadn’t worn off enough to muster a protest. He expected to be set down immediately, but Astarion merely shifted his weight in his arms, adjusting him into a more secure hold.

 

“What are you doing that for?” Gale asked stiffly.

 

“It was becoming uncomfortable to carry you like that.”

 

“Then put me down.”

 

“And let you tear it open worse? Hardly.” Astarion pursed his lips, tightening his arms around him. Gale, mortified, found his face uncomfortably close to Astarion’s.

 

How do I end up in these situations? he thought. Still, aloud he said, “What if someone sees us, sir?”

 

“No one will. It’s too dark. Besides—” Astarion shifted him again, lifting him slightly higher in his arms with a strength that seemed effortless. “This is the second time I’ve carried you like this.”

 

“The second time?” Gale blinked. Oh.

 

It must have been the day of his injury. He’d been unconscious when someone carried him away from the scene. If it had been Astarion, then… then he’d been lifted before an entire hall of witnesses.

 

But something else pressed at him more insistently than embarrassment—something he had been meaning to say for far too long. Blood trickled steadily down his calf, and he pressed a handkerchief to it, forcing himself to steady his breath.

 

“Master Astarion,” Gale began, his voice low. “I know this is hardly an ideal moment, but if I may… there is something I have long meant to ask you.”

 

“Why so formal all of a sudden?” Astarion asked, glancing down at him with a faint frown.

 

“Because I must say it, sir.”

 

“Well then, out with it!” Astarion’s voice carried equal parts exasperation and curiosity.

 

“Very well,” Gale said, forcing himself to meet Astarion’s gaze head-on. His voice dropped lower, almost hesitant. “Sir… please give me my ox bezoar.”

 

A sharp crack followed before he even realized what was happening—Astarion’s forehead colliding with his own. Gale saw stars burst behind his eyes.

 

“A headbutt?!” Gale spluttered, half-dazed, half-outraged. Right out of nowhere! For the briefest, wounded moment, he thought perhaps Astarion had been mocking him this whole time, only stringing him along for his own amusement.

 

“Sir… don’t tell me… you don’t actually have it?” Gale managed, his hand pressed to his brow.

 

“Please,” Astarion drawled, his lips curving faintly. “Surely you have a little more respect for me than that.”

 

When Gale looked at him searchingly, he caught it—the faintest smile playing at the corner of Astarion’s mouth. The quicksilver shift from irritation to amusement was disorienting. At times, Astarion could appear boyishly immature, exasperating in his teasing—but perhaps that was what made him easier to speak with. Even now, cradled in his arms, Gale felt strangely unburdened.

 

“Master Astarion,” Gale tried again, more carefully this time.

 

“Yes, my Gale,” Astarion replied without hesitation.

 

The words sank in like a hot coal pressed to skin. Gale flushed, heat creeping up his neck. My Gale. He swallowed, the question on his lips feeling far too heavy for his tongue.

 

“Could I…” He hesitated, feeling foolish. “…Could I have another kiss?”

 

It sounded childish, desperate even, and he cursed himself the instant it was out. Astarion was a eunuch, an alpha without heirs, without the future he claimed to want. Gale knew that. He knew it and still—still the memory of that first kiss lingered, soft and warm and achingly human. And gods, Astarion was beautiful. Far too beautiful.

 

“Another?” Astarion echoed, brows arched.

 

Figures, Gale thought bitterly. He doesn’t even remember. He had been drunk at the time, after all.

 

“Never mind, sir,” Gale muttered, turning his face aside.

 

“No,” Astarion's smile quirking into something sly. “Tell me.”

 

That playful tug at his lips—oh, he remembered. He was just toying with him, drawing it out.

 

Prick.

 

“Master Astarion, I—” Gale began, but the words never finished.

 

In a fluid motion, Astarion adjusted his grip, sliding his hands beneath Gale’s thighs and lifting him so that his legs straddled Astarion’s hips. His hands cupped Gale securely, holding him with effortless strength until their faces hovered only inches apart.

 

“I liked it too,” Astarion murmured simply. And then, without another word, he closed the distance.

 

The kiss was sweet, softer than Gale had braced himself for, as though Astarion wanted to savor it rather than consume. Gale leaned into it hungrily, wishing it could stretch on, but it broke all too soon. Astarion shifted him again, careful of his weight, and cleared his throat.

 

“We really need to stitch up your leg,” he said.

 

 

Notes:

To be continued...

Eventually.

Notes:

Updates may not be as regular this week as the Rear Palace was, my Grandfather just died and the funeral and everything will be happening this week.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Arcane Diaries