The Lord of Dawn

Tanas sat back on the gilded throne, one long, slender leg crossed over the other. The very picture of insouciance: his oil-dark hair cascaded over his narrow shoulders, his gloved fingers playing carelessly with a silken strand. His clothing, a rosed waistcoat over a burgundy blouse, was mostly obscured by his pearl and pitch cape.

He looked down his straight nose at the man kneeling by his foot. His lips curled into a satisfied smile. ‘Be more thorough, Day.’ His smirk, blasphemously beautiful on those full, pink lips, was all for the kneeling man.

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Day risked a glance up at the man, haloed by his golden throne, totally at home in the lap of power. He leaned forward and continued to polish Tanas’s boot, the highest quality of leather.

‘Lord Tanas.’ The great doors burst open and Dosia, captain of the Lord’s Knights, stood awash in the firelight from the hall beyond, twisted licks of flames reflecting in her silver armour.

‘What is it? I’m sure you can see I am busy, Captain.’

Day retreated from Tanas’s boot.

‘Lord, it is urgent. The peasants are revolting—they claim the tithe is too high.’

Tanas uncrossed his leg, his second, already shining boot coming down to coyly join the other. Day watched the muscles under his dark leather breeches tightened, lithe and enchanting, as he stood. Day shuffled back, keeping his eyes lowered. He was a large man, and even kneeling, he came to Tanas’s hip. But he did not raise his head higher than his Lord’s slim ankle.

‘Where have you learned this information from?’ Tanas’s voice was smooth as water over rocks, but there was something hidden in it, something with a sharp edge.

‘They have a leader, a farmer. He expressed their demands.’

‘Their demands,’ Tanas repeated.

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘Well, if my subjects are so displeased, I suppose I must see what I can do, mustn’t I?’ He tipped his head to the side. Most of his hair was contained in a long braid, but at the front countless strands escaped, draping over his collarbones in an artful way. When Day was permitted to look, he often found himself thinking that Tanas was as beautiful as the classical statues of the goddess of beauty. Curving and smooth, that serene expression carved in ancient, cold marble. ‘Bring this farmer to me. Day, go with her. I want him to be personally escorted by his Lord’s most loyal subject.’

Day stood and bowed deeply. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

The Dawn Palace of the Lord of Aranas was a towering, gleaming structure worthy of the gods. Gold and silver spires reached up to scrape the very heavens, and the sun reflected off its extravagant display of glass windows and art in a spectacular play of light. But the city gathered beneath the palace was cast in near permanent shadow, huddled in the dark like a beggar under an awning.

Day’s childhood home was made of mud, and he didn’t even know what glass was until Lord Tanas found him. Looking back at the palace now, he felt a certain tug in his gut. How magnificent and heavenly, how worthy of the unworldly creature who resided there, in those silent glittering halls and room upon room of treasures. How blessed Day was to live there with him. And how terribly dark it was here in the city. Narrow dirt paths and crooked earthen buildings, almost comical when juxtaposed with the grand palace. How many lived in the cramped, shadowy city, while only his Lord and his retinue roamed the echoey Dawn Palace.

‘You coming, dog?’

Day turned away from the palace and hummed. Dosia rolled her eyes. Her heavy plate armour clinked as she moved, but the soft chainmail under it allowed her easy movement. She was a tall woman—not as tall as Day, but taller than Tanas. She kept one hand on her xiphos, its leaf-shaped scabbard embossed with scenes of golden slaughter. Her back was laden with spear and shield. She looked ready to go to war at any second.

The atmosphere in the city of Aranas was usually gloomy, but today it was like it had been whipped into a frenetic frenzy. The scent of burning thatch roofs was thick on the air, glinting embers dancing on the breeze like fiery butterflies. Dosia must have noticed his attention. ‘It’s nothing so terrible. Some of the townspeople started a bonfire to burn late notices and warnings. The wind turned, and a few buildings caught aflame. I’m sure it’s under control now.’

‘It has already gotten so bad—why was my Lord Tanas only now informed?’ Day kept his voice even, hoping to sound impartial.

‘Hah. You really are nothing more than his loyal dog now, aren’t you? It’s not bad, it is merely the people expressing their demands. The tithe really is far too high.’

Evidently, Day had not succeeded in sounding impartial. He sighed. ‘My Lord is reasonable. The tithe is high so he may venerate the heavens and the gods.’

Dosia glanced over at him, her dark eyes steely. She did not answer.

When they reached the main square that the protest was being held in, Day caught his breath. Several buildings were half-burned and half-dripping, Lord’s Knights and townspeople alike passing up buckets from the well to contain the remaining patches of lacklustre flame. In the centre of the square, gathered around the corpse of a bonfire, were hundreds of people. And above them, shouting from the balcony of a building still alight, was a burly man with a rough farmer’s beard and a rusting pitchfork in one hand.

‘Why should we have to pay that noble fool when he already steals our food and forces us to labour for him? He robs us blind and yet we are the ones building his palaces and shrines and temples! I ask you, is this right?’

A roar, cacophonous and full of righteous rage, rose from the crowd. They all pushed against each other, like fowl straining towards crumbs. Day had heard enough. He skirted around the crowd and grasped the bottom of the balcony, hauling himself up. The crowd went quiet, the farmer staring at him with confused eyes. Despite his ragged clothing and poor grooming, there was a spark of intelligence in those eyes.

‘My Lord Tanas is a just and humble Lord,’ Day called. His voice was even and deep, and it carried. The crowd seemed too shocked to react. ‘My Lord builds palaces and temples to venerate the gods, to gain blessings for our noble land. He collects food in case of siege or famine. He takes money so he may pay our city’s fearless defenders.’ Day gestured to Dosia and the other Lord’s Knights. ‘My Lord Tanas takes so he may give back. And even so, he has agreed to speak with your leader and hear out your demands. My Lord Tanas is a great and noble Lord!’

There was mumbling and confused shuffling.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, get down from there.’ Dosia’s voice floated up from beneath the balcony. Day easily swung over the banister and landed on the sun-patterned tiles. He turned and offered a hand to the farmer.

Once they were all on the ground, Day spoke. ‘What is your name?’

The farmer squinted at him, wrinkling a face that seemed yet too young to wrinkle. ‘I am Leander. And who might your honourable self be?’

It was obvious from Day’s clothing and way of address that he was of the Dawn Palace, and the golden sunburst pinned over his heart indicated his direct servitude to the Lord of Dawn, his Lord Tanas. Day cupped an open palm over the sunburst and gave a shallow bow. ‘I am merely a humble servant of my Lord.’

Dosia scoffed. ‘He’s a loyal dog.’ She glanced over with suspicious eyes, then sighed. ‘He used to be called Damon.’

Day tipped his head. ‘My name is whatever my Lord may call me by.’

They returned to the Dawn Palace, and Day watched with subtle pleasure as Leander gaped at the reception hall. The enormous chandelier of candles and hundreds of tiny crystals flung shards of pale orange light over the dark walls, and turned the plush carpeting into a path of broken, flickering jewels. A dozen statues posed alongside the runner and climbed up the grand staircase. Each one venerated a different god—here, the god of wheat, with a kind expression and a scythe in hand, and there, the goddess of beauty, her long hair so intricately carved that Day almost swore he saw it sway in the breeze sometimes. The goddess of war, the god of wealth, the goddess of fire—each rendered with such talent and devotion that surely the gods must smile down upon Aranas every day.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Day pushed open the great doors, painted to depict the glory of the heavens on one panel, and the torment of hell on the other: swirling clouds light as pearl and coral, and a fat, glib sun smiling down on chubby cherups and sweet naiads playing in glittering streams; rageful fires eating at black, solemn trees against a sky so purple and heavy it looked ready to smother the flames of hell.

Day still remembered the time before he entered into his Lord’s service, before Tanas became his Lord—when he was the Little Lord and his mother ruled Aranas with a dull, permissive hand. The land was mired in poverty and famine, and yet she sat upon her throne and played with her children. Day’s Lord saw his mother’s negligence, saw how the land wilted under her unambitious and sacrilegious hand—and his Lord fixed it all. He brought the gods back to Aranas, brought art and culture and wealth, and rather than hoarding that wealth for some intangible future necessity, he spent it on works so great and lustrous that he would never be forgotten. He built temples honouring the gods, he trained his Knights to be noble protectors, and he even allowed the farmers to keep half of their food.

He took Day by the hand—back when Day’s hand had been dirtied, unworthy of the touch of a being so great—and pulled him out of poverty, obscurity, and death. He gave Day worth, a reason for being. He gave Day everything.

Day watched this palace as it was built, brick by brick and pane by pane. There was something magical about watching Leander, someone who had been just like him—a mere farmer with no higher purpose, no understanding of the heavenly realm—experience the majesty that his Lord had enacted. Day tilted his head down and smiled as he held the doors open for Leander and Dosia.

‘Ah, you’re back. Come, Day.’ Tanas’s voice, a balm for the soul, caressed Day’s ears. The scent of him—honey and vanilla, rich and sweet—filled Day’s mind with hazy thoughts of servitude. He strode to the golden throne and kneeled easily. After so many years of kneeling for Tanas, it came as naturally as breath. Graceful, cold fingers touched under his chin, and Day let his head be tilted up. Tanas smiled down at him, the golden designs etched into his canines glinting. ‘Pet,’ he crooned, sounding content.

‘My Lord,’ Day murmured back, reverent.

Tanas sneered through his smile and pushed Day’s head away. He turned to the two standing at the base of the stairs leading to the throne. ‘I assume this man is the leader of the peasants?’ He addressed his question to Dosia, but Leander stepped forward and spoke instead.

‘Yes, I am Leander. Damon said you were willing to hear our demands.’

‘Damon.’ Tanas replied. ‘Who?’

Dosia cleared her throat. ‘Your man.’

Tanas smiled again, satisfied. He leaned back in his throne and flicked one leg over the over, his ornate cape shifting with the movement like misting water. He let one hand settle in Day’s curly hair, while he propped his pointed chin on the other. ‘I see. Yes, I am willing to hear them. Go ahead, Leander.’

My Lord truly is noble.

Leander blinked a few times, then pulled on his messy beard and launched into his demands. The list wasn’t terribly long—mostly consisting of lower tithes, more crops surrendered to the families who harvested them, and for labour to be paid rather than conscripted.

Privately, Day thought this was reasonable. While he believed that Tanas had Aranas’s best interests in mind, perhaps they had reached a stage where they could stop expanding. The temples scattered throughout the land brought thousands of believers to worship at their painted statues’ feet. The crops were thriving and no famine had touched Aranas in a decade. The Dawn Palace was complete, a resplendent symbol of his Lord’s power and grace. It was full of treasures both made and plundered, and food enough to survive years of siege or disaster. His Lord had achieved so much. Perhaps it was fair to settle now, to let the people enjoy their land’s wealth too.

‘You believe I am unfair, do you?’ Tanas purred. He stood then, and began to walk down the stairs. The rasp of his soft boots against the marble stairs was the only noise in the throne room. Day stayed by the throne. Dosia stood by the door, hand on her xiphos as it always was.

Tanas stopped three steps from the bottom, standing over Leander. From Leander’s view, he would have been haloed by the starburst symbol carved into the top of the throne, its golden rays piercing upwards. He must have looked like a saint. Like a benevolent, kind deity.

‘Lord Tanas,’ Leander said, the term of address sounding clumsy in his broad accent. ‘Your people are suffering. You take so much food from the farms that we barely have enough to make a profit on, let alone feed ourselves with. You work us down to the blood and bone on your temples and statues, but do not compensate us for our labour. And then, when he have nothing left to give, you tithe us. It is unjust. The people will not allow it to go on.’

For a farmer, Leander was well spoken. His confidence was immense, and from what Day could tell, well earned. He was clearly a respected member of the community if he could represent them and their needs like this.

‘Allow me time to consider what you have said today. In the meantime, you shall stay here. Your every need will be attended to and you will know such comfort that you may never wish to leave.’

Leander frowned. ‘Lord, I do not—’

‘Day, take him.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Day stood and approached Leander, ignoring his protests as he took him by the arm and dragged him to one of the many guest suites in the Dawn Palace. He closed Leander in a room so full of luxury that the simple farmer was struck dumb. Day sought out the palace servants and sent them to wait on the man hand and foot.

My Lord truly is kind.

Gently, Day disrobed his Lord. He undid the starburst clasp that held together his Lord’s cape, careful to not touch his throat. He folded the cape and put it to the side. Tanas sighed as Day began to work on undoing his waistcoat and blouse. He left the rings on his fingers, and made sure nothing he removed would catch on them.

Then, he knelt before his Lord and began to unpluck the ties of his breeches. That ringed hand settled in Day’s hair again, tugging lightly until Day looked up and met his Lord’s eyes—a bright, burnished gold. The symbol of a true son of the heavens.

Outside the stained glass windows of his Lord’s private suite, the night was still and quiet. No more embers rose on the wind, and only the croaking choruses of summertime insects could be heard. And all Day could smell was his Lord, the freshness of his skin, the sweetness of his perfume.

‘My Lord,’ he called, voice already ragged with want. With need.

‘My Day,’ Tanas returned, tightening his grip on Day’s hair and using it to drag him to his feet. The stinging pain was inebriating. ‘My pet. Prepare my bath.’ And then he tossed Day away. Tanas strode to his canopied bed, rich with pillows and blankets, the woven rugs below keeping his delicate feet safe from the cold touch of marble floors.

Day prepared his Lord’s bath in the great tub, with freshly boiled water and enough cool water to balance it. He helped his Lord to step into it, one hand on his nude flank, the other at his wrist. What a privilege it was, to touch his Lord like this. To wash him, to dry him. To dress him in his night clothes. To see his form, his slender, supple figure. To feel that silken hair between his fingers as he combed it, to feel that burning gaze alight upon his own frame.

It was a privilege, even, to share his Lord’s room—a small hay-lined cot by the entry. To be so close to someone so wonderful was a privilege indeed.

The morning broke clear and bright. Day was sent to collect Leander after dressing his Lord and standing by while he ate. Leander had been thoroughly primped and shined. His bushy rough-man beard was shaved cleanly, and creams had been applied to his skin that smoothed it out. Those deep crevasses had been closed over, and his blue eyes were wide and round. His light hair had been trimmed, though it was still shaggy. His clothes were that of a nobleman, rather than a commoner.

‘You look well-rested,’ Day commented. Leander made a dreamy noise, gazing in wonderment at the bed that had just given him the best night’s sleep he’d ever had.

‘I am.’

‘Then let us get you well-fed, too.’

Although there were less nobles than had once been in Tanas’s entourage, there was still a number—some family, some visiting, and sponsored scholars and artists as well. They were served breakfast in the guest dining hall each morning.

‘Will our Lord not be joining us?’ Leander gazed at the vaulted ceiling and food-laden table with open desire.

‘My Lord prefers to eat alone.’

Leander nodded, and Day led him to a seat among the visiting scholars. ‘And you? Shall you join us, Damon?’

Day shook his head. ‘I am but a servant.’ Leander looked unconvinced, but before he could reply, he was swept up in conversation by a botany student and a heavenly researcher.

Day retreated and ate in the servant’s hall before returning to his Lord.

‘It is a beautiful day, my Lord. Would you like to ride Lampon?’ Lampon was his Lord’s favourite horse.

‘Mn. Prepare her for me. And Day?’ Tanas caught Day’s chin and tugged him closer.

‘My Lord?’

‘Bring me the peasant after luncheon. To the Rose Antechamber.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

The Rose Antechamber was much as it sounded—a circular room with twisting red rose and black thorn motifs on the stained-glass windows. The whole room appeared to be wreathed in bloodied light. It led into the Rose Room.

Leander stood, shifting from one foot to the other. When Tanas arrived with his loyal dog at his heels, he straightened up. ‘Lord, I—I do not know how to thank you for the hospitality you have shown.’

Day’s Lord made a dismissive gesture. ‘Think nothing of it. Come.’

Day opened the door to the Rose Room and allowed his Lord and Leander to enter. The Rose Room was a hothouse choked with black and red rosebushes. The saccharine scent of damp soil and blooming growths pricked at the nose, while the glass spired ceiling allowed in swathes of sharp afternoon sunlight, furthering the stifling atmosphere. As such, while beautiful, the Rose Room was attended only by those who worked in the gardens. It was a private area, located at the top of an extravagantly tall spire, with its windowed walls obscured by the growths pressing up against them.

‘My mother was particularly fond of roses—though she preferred them dethorned.’ He turned a smile sharp as the thorn on his tongue on Leander, eyes sharper still—gleaming bronze daggers. ‘Personally, I never understood that. Why love something beautiful and dangerous, only to neuter it?’ He glanced at Day then, and Day felt his cheeks warm.

Leander wandered over to a nearby bush, admiring the black petals of the large, heavy rose tipping towards him. ‘I am not so sure,’ he responded. ‘Shouldn’t we endeavour to create a safe environment for all?’

Tanas tilted his head, that sarcastic, insouciant gesture that Day privately loved. ‘Why should we cater for the masses if they are foolhardy enough to prick their fingers on thorns they knew would be there?’

Leander frowned at Tanas. Day’s Lord sometimes liked to speak in complicated riddles, layers of meaning upon layers of meaning. ‘How would they know the thorns are there?’

‘When one is pricked, he warns the others,’ Tanas smiled, sardonic. ‘And the animals that learn to avoid the prick, go on to thrive. Those animals dumb enough to prick themselves over and over deserve to bleed, no?’

‘Some may not have the capacity to learn. Does that mean they deserve to live in pain, is that what you’re saying?’

Tanas sighed. ‘Pet, heel.’ Day strode over and attended his Lord. ‘Give.’ Day hesitated for a second. Tanas turned towards him with those burning eyes. Day opened his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to question—and Tanas smacked him down with a powerful backhand. Leander’s gasp was swallowed up by the hungry wet mouths of dozens upon dozens of flowers. Day fell to the ground without a sound. Swallowed the blood in his mouth. Raised himself to his knees. And retrieved his dagger from its hidden sheath on his back.

‘What—’

‘Oh, shut your blathering mouth,’ Tanas snapped. He snatched the dagger from Day’s outstretched hands and inspected it. He adjusted a hair in the golden reflection. ‘How utterly impudent you are. You, a peasant, really think I care about your pitiful demands? Your pitiful lives? I take what I must to honour the gods. You insolent, insubordinate cretin!’

Tanas raised the blade. ‘Day.’

Day hesitated.

In a second, the blade was slicing a thin, shallow line over his own cheek. ‘If you disobey me again, I will put you back in the filth you belong to,’ he hissed.

Day stood.

He grabbed Leander and held him still. The farmer struggled and yelled for help, wriggling around in Day’s iron grip.

‘Oh, cease your struggling. I’m not going to hurt you.’ Both Day and Leander went slack with relief. ‘At least not unless you make me.’ Tanus strutted forward, his resplendent cape flaring out behind him. Today, he wore all pearlescent white, and his skin looked as cold and pale as the unpainted marble facsimiles he worshipped. The only points of colour on him were those blazing eyes, and that blade as bright and deadly as the sun. ‘I am offering you a choice. Either you return to your friends and tell them of your Lord’s kindness and benevolence, tell them how their lives are important and perfect just as they are—calm the riotous fire you have stoked. You do this, and I will allow you to ascend to the rank of a noble. You will live in my palace, dine on my food, and you will be given the title of advisor.

Or, you can continue as you are. You can determine to revolt, you can raise all your little friends to follow you to their deaths. You can tell me right now that you would rather hold fast to your beliefs than live a life of luxury and comfort. And you can die by my blade. Your severed head will rot on a spike in the city square and warn others from ever indulging in your heathen ways.’ Tanas held the dagger out, resting the sharp edge against Leander’s throat. The man’s eyes were bulging in fear, his biceps tense and taut under Day’s unrelenting grip. ‘So, Leander. What will you choose?’

Day stared into his Lord’s eyes. He knew Tanas could be ruthless. But he also knew he was never wrong. He had thought Leander’s demands were reasonable—but surely his Lord knew better. And surely he wouldn’t really…

Day stared at the dagger, a gift from his Lord, at the bruised black and red reflections. Leander gulped, and the blade cut into his skin.

‘Please,’ he gasped. ‘I want to live.’

A glorious smile spread over Tanas’s face. The expression altered his look drastically; the cold, chiselled plains of his smooth cheek and dainty, high bone structure shifted upwards, turning those sly fox-eyes into something curved, like crescent moons. His teeth shone, the filigree designs in his canines glinting wickedly. He was beautiful like this, an absolute vision. ‘Excellent. You are indeed a clever man. Day, organise his new position. Tell the people that their beloved leader has seen the error of his ways.’

And Day did.

Over the next few days, Leander went from an unknown farmer to the leader of a rebel organisation, to an advisor to the Lord of Aranas. Word spread throughout the city and the farming villages that skirted it: even the most revolutionary among them could be swayed by the Lord of Dawn’s wealth and benevolence.

Leander, bedecked in the glowing regalia of a Lord’s Advisor, looked more and more depressed as the days went on. He had betrayed his cause and the people he was supposed to represent. Something about the whole affair left a bad taste in Day’s mouth, however: it didn’t seem to him that Leander was wrong for his decision. How could one make reasonable change when one was dead? At least in an advisory role, he could change the system from within.

But Day knew from firsthand experience that his Lord doled out advisory titles to inconvenient subjects like grapes to a satyr. He did not take advice from a one of them. Day loved his Lord, but as he continued to watch defamatory rumours about Leander’s loyalty spread, Day could not help but wonder: was this right? His Lord had manipulated Leander, letting him think he had a chance at making a difference, then threatened to murder him so he would stop pushing. And now he was allowing the thought to take root that this was Leander’s fault.

Day’s knees were aching. It was such a familiar feeling now as to be almost welcome. But today, nearly a full moon cycle since Leander was installed as an advisor and his fledgeling revolt was quelled, Tanas had kept Day kneeling since the sun rose. Now, long, gnarled shadows stabbed into his Lord’s chambers. While Tanas had gone about his business—speaking with nobles, negotiating trades, commissioning new works—Day had been made to kneel by his bed. He had not eaten, nor even been permitted to help his Lord dress. Day wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve the punishment.

‘It is not punishment,’ Tanas murmured when he returned to Day, spying the pitiful, poorly repressed pain in his expression. Day was excellent at maintaining that polite, blank stare. But now, his lips twisted at the corners and his eyebrows furrowed. He gazed at his Lord with apprehension and adoration—Tanas could pick these emotions out as easily as he could rip out the seams of a garment. He had years of experience, after all. ‘Do you still struggle to understand, my Day?’ In a flurry of leather, silk, and lace, Tanas crouched before him. He slid two palms forward, shaping them to the supple curves of Day’s cheeks. Only then did Day realise—they were wet with tears. ‘This is my gift to you. to be my supplicant. What is more holy than kneeling for your Lord? Such loyalty, my most devoted pet.’

Day felt more tears rush forward. Yes. Yes, Tanas was right—this was an honour. The ache in his knees—that ache which radiated from his legs up to his hips, his back and shoulders—it was proof of his devotion. His love.

‘There you go, you understand now. You really are cleverer than you’re given credit for. Now, how shall I reward you for your dedication?’ The hands on his cheeks glided up into his hair, his voice dropping to a sultry purr. Day felt a tug toward his Lord that could be nothing less than magnetic—fated. He blinked slowly, expression more exposed than he would ever allow in front of anyone else. But before his Lord, he was stripped bare of his defences. Flayed open and dripping with it. His mouth, quite without his permission, dropped open. He was panting like a dog. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ Tanas smiled.

Then he leaned forward, and with all the tenderness of a mother, he touched his lips to Day’s. A butterfly, momentarily but magically, landing on the flower that had admired it for a lifetime. Day felt his heart would burst. He closed his eyes and gasped as Tanas pressed closer, deepening the kiss until it was a bite, gilded canines sinking into Day’s lips. Metallic blood on his tongue, licked into his Lord’s mouth. Day moaned, and Tanas retreated. His eyes tripped all over Day, cataloguing how thoroughly taken apart he was. And still, still, on his knees.

With a satisfied hum, Tanas stood. ‘You may—’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Lord, it’s Dosia. I request the aide of your manservant in setting up drills for the Knights.’

Tanas huffed a displeased breath and swung open the door to his quarters. Day wondered how obvious it was, that his Lord had just been kissing him. Gods above, his Lord had just been kissing him.

‘Really, you need Day specifically?’ He snapped.

Dosia dipped her head in respectful self-recrimination. ‘I’m afraid no other is permitted keys to the special armoury.’

‘And why in heaven’s name do you need the special armoury?’

Dosia’s voice was polite, but certain. ‘We have recently inducted a new batch of Knights. If they are not trained on siege weaponry, how will they respond if the gods’ forbidden ever happens?’

Tanas snarled, an animal sound deep in his throat. He swept over to where Day waited. ‘Go with her.’ And with that, he disappeared into the bathing chamber. Day nodded dumbly at the door his Lord slammed behind him, then went to stand. Immediately, he stumbled—knees buckling and head swimming—the painful position and lack of meals catching up with him.

‘Fucking hell,’ Dosia swore, darting in to catch Day before he hit the ground. ‘What’s wrong with you, Damon?’

Day shrugged off her balancing hands. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’

Dosia raised an unconvinced eyebrow. ‘Sure you are.’ She sighed and shook her head, beginning to walk back the way she had come. Her eyes briefly alighted on Day’s small cot by the door, and a tinge of disgust twisted her face. ‘Let’s go then.’

Day did indeed have the only key to the special armoury. Just like his Lord didn’t carry his own weapon. It was Day’s responsibility, and his privilege, and one he took very seriously. Which is why, when he did unlock and open the heavy doors leading to the special armoury, he was instantly on guard when Dosia slammed those doors and crowded him against them.

‘Dosia—’

‘Silence, fool. What did he do to you?’

Day stared in confusion. This close up, and out of her usual armour, he could see Dosia’s face unobstructed. Her skin was dark and her eyes darker still, and filled with something akin to…concern?

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I entered that infernal chamber you were on your knees and bleeding. When you stood you became faint. Did he hurt you?’

‘No, Dosia, I don’t—why would you even care?’

‘Idiot!’ She grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged him forward. ‘Of course I care. There was a time when you called me sister.’

Day looked away. ‘That time has long passed.’

‘Please just tell me, Damon.’

‘That is not my name.’

She let go of his collar. Her shoulders dropped, and she turned away, hand to her temple. ‘By the gods. Fine then, Day. What did he do?’

Day folded his arms over his chest. ‘He had me kneel from sunrise to set, in a show of supplication and devotion.’

Silence. Day looked up, trying to catch a glance of Dosia’s face—but it was obscured by her thick, curling hair. What was she thinking? How was she feeling? Historically, it was usually not difficult to tell. After all, they had grown up together. Day was a few years older, but from Dosia’s birth, the two were inseparable. Until Tanas swept him away and Dosia, ever the doting sister, chased him all the way to the Dawn Palace. But it had been too long since Day had been allowed to care how Dosia felt. It had been so long since he could call her sister or treat her as anything other than the captain of his Lord’s Knights.

‘Why?’ She asked at last. ‘Why do you act as his lap dog and his guard dog, when he treats you this way?’

Day shifted. He tucked a curl behind his ear, then untucked it. Tanas preferred when Day wore his hair down over his forehead. ‘Captain, this is irrelevant. Why did you bring me here?’

Dosia didn’t answer for a few moments. Instead, she walked deeper into the gloomy room. The special armoury was underground, with no natural light. The few candles dotted around did little to illuminate the vast space, rather casting bizarre, threatening shadows over every surface. Siege weaponry, cursed swords, magical shields. Bows that shot three arrows at once and greaves that bound to their user forever. Very few people had permission to venture here, and dust covered everything like a funeral shroud.

When she sighed—Day swore she never used to sigh so often when they were children—it echoed softly. ‘Leander.’

Day balked. Of all the things he expected, it certainly wasn’t that name. ‘What about him?’

‘I know Tanas did something to him. He wouldn’t just roll over and give in, taking some cushy advisor title and betraying his cause.’

She was right. Day hated the way she spoke about his Lord, the lack of respect, the suspicion. But in this case, she was right. He stepped forward too, tracing a path through the dust caked on a ballista’s wooden frame. ‘My Lord…’ He paused. The memory of lips, impossible warm against his own, the promise in that kiss—the desire, the longing—he closed his eyes tight. He still felt the eerie shadow of an onager on his eyelids, a scorpion-shaped brand. ‘My Lord offered him a choice. He could die, head mounted on a spike for all to see, or he could live as an advisor. You know the choice he made.’

Dosia nodded. ‘Yes, I thought it was something like that.’ She walked closer, and clasped Day’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Day. Now, help me grab some of this equipment. We are actually doing a training session.’

Lord Tanas didn’t take audience. Not really. While he enjoyed lazing about his throne room like a sleek, satisfied cat, he didn’t do so to make himself readily available. He liked the throne room, with its tall glass on either side, the long, deep red runner leading across from the great doors to the base of the stairs. No one has permission to ascend the stairs save those Lord Tanas allows—which, historically, has only ever been Day.

They were in their usual position, with Tanas arranged over his throne like a painting of the god of debauchery and Day kneeling by his tapping feet. Today, rather than polishing his boots, Day was singing. His voice was deep and rubbly, like it was scraping over stones on its way out. It reverberated, giving it the haunting echo of a siren’s song. Tanas watched him with liquid fire eyes, and songs of prayer and reverence played over the cold architecture of the room: water lapping against a shore.

The great doors were pushed open, and Day’s singing shuddered to a halt. A woman stood there, stocky and wearing a slightly skewed toga. Her long hair was braided with chips of flashing pyrite. ‘Lord.’ She huffed, curling her open palm around the sunburst insignia on her breast and bowing.

Tanas raised a brow, and Day explained softly. ‘She is Meddia, your appointed Advisor for Marvels and Veneers.’

‘Ah, of course. Tell me, Meddia, why you have interrupted.’

The woman paled and shoved a braid over her shoulder, the clinking of her jewels almost too loud in the waking silence of Day’s song. ‘It is—well, that is—oh, gods buffer me. Lord, there has been an attack, maybe a riot, I’m not sure, but all the temples and all the statues have been defaced. Including your statue, Lord. There are peasants in the streets demanding you answer their accusations. They’ve damaged and even destroyed several marvels designed for veneration. Lord, I don’t know how the gods will look upon this!’ Meddia panted, eyes huge and full of tears glistening like fool’s gold in the firelight.

Tanas did not respond for several long moments. Day kept his gaze downward, afraid of the fury he might find in his Lord’s countenance. Ever since Day revealed the truth of Leander’s appointment, the people had seemed to grow more restless. In turn, Tanas was giving Day more and more opportunities to prove his devotion and supplication. The welts on his back and the bruises under his clothing were testament to this.

But instead of wrath and rage and ruin, when Tanas spoke his voice was cold and bored. ‘And what accusations might those be?’

Meddia explained the rumours surrounding Leander.

‘Fine. You say the peasants are gathered together?’

‘Yes, there must be thousands down in the streets.’

Tanas stood and clicked his fingers at Day. Together, they walked out onto one of the many balconies that clung like oysters to the façade of Dawn Palace. Tanas leaned out over the railing. Aranas spread out below him, the streets choked with people small as grains of rice. Once more, Day tasted embers on the air. They could see from here, statues toppled, defaced, and broken. A roar rose from the crowded people. Members of the Lord’s Knights guarded the palace, but even from here Day could see how the people swelled against the defences, surging and swelling like an unstoppable tide.

Day’s Lord made a derisive noise and whirled around. His cape, purple and gilded with golden thread, flung out behind him. He wore a sheer silk tunic, laced down the front and inlaid with tiny crusts of diamond and pearl. His leather breeches were form fitting, and his sandalled feet exposed rows of glimmering anklets. He wore a ring on each finger, more jewels running up and down his arms and corded through his hair. On Meddia, the style looked tacky and over-the-top. On his Lord, the style made him look like a resplendent godling.

Lacing that tunic up this morning had been a special and perfect kind of torture.

Day kept stride behind his Lord as they made their way back to the throne room, down through the entry hall, and out into the hot, breathless air. They were still far up enough that they were safe, but a frenzied howl erupted from the pulsating mass of people pushing against the guards. They were like worms wriggling all over each other, ugly, skin-covered things unworthy of the attention of one as glorious as his Lord. But Day knew better than that. He saw past the initial overwhelming horror of such a large crowd all straining to storm up the palace steps and devour his Lord. He listened closer, and the shapeless wailing resolved itself into words.

‘Let us see Leander!’

‘Lower the tithe!’

‘Pay us for our labour!’

They were not yelling for his Lord’s head. Day let out a silent sigh of relief.

A Lord’s Knight rushed up to them, looking red and sweaty under his armour. ‘Lord, they won’t leave until they’ve had audience with you and seen Leander.’

Tanas sneered. ‘Do they carry weapons?’

The soldier shook his head curtly.

‘And they refuse to disperse?’

‘Yes, Lord. We have tried every tactic we know, but Captain Dosia cannot be found, and a lot of the older knights who’ve dealt with this sort of thing before cannot be found either. We’re not—’ He cleared his throat. ‘Lord, we are not sure how to proceed. What are your orders?’

Tanas glanced down at the protestors, and sighed. ‘Kill them. As many as it takes to make the rest run screaming.’

‘L-Lord?’

‘Did you not hear me? I said kill them!’ He had lost his temper, yelling in the soldier’s face and shoving him backward. The man stumbled, eyes wide. ‘Now. Kill them, kill them, kill them!’

‘Yes, Lord!’

The soldier sprinted away and conveyed the orders. All the while, Day stood utterly still. He watched in silent, paralysed horror as along the line of defence, each Lord’s Knight raised a spear or a xiphos and a shield. There was a moment, this singular instant, when the crowd seemed to realise what was happening. Like the ocean drawing back. Before the great tidal wave of panic flooded the mass of peasants, and screams of genuine terror began to pierce the air like arrows. And then, the first sweeps of the blades, over the soft and unprotected flesh of farmers, merchants, and laypeople.

It was carnage within mere seconds. Those at the back fled, while those at the front tripped over and shoved and tried to get away, a roiling throng of fear. A soldier jabbed their spear into the retreating back of an elderly man. Another slashed their xiphos in a downward arc, slicing a girl—who couldn’t be older than twelve—from shoulder to hip. The cobblestones at the base of the palace became slick with blood.

‘My Lord,’ Day whispered. He felt cold. So very cold. He felt like he had been kneeling for years, and was only now standing up. Only now could he feel it.

‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know as well as I that some lessons require force to truly sink in. After all, how many times did I have to whip you before you learned your place? They will never make this mistake again.’

No, Day thought. Many of them will never get the chance.

That night, after bathing his Lord, Day was made to kneel again. Day was made to serve.

Once Tanas, sated, had fallen into slumber, Day rose. His legs felt weak, and the bitter taste in his mouth lingered. Day left the chamber of his Lord and sought out Dosia.

He found her in the training field, hacking chunks out of a dummy with such abandon that Day was afraid to get too close. ‘Dosia,’ he called out, voice carrying lightly on the cooling air. The sound of battle ceased, and Dosia whirled around. Her face was a contorted twist of shadow and tooth and fierce, fierce anger.

‘Day.’ She sheathed her xiphos and approached him. Day lowered his head.

‘You were not there, during the battle.’

‘Battle?’ She hissed out. She darted closer and ducked to meet his eyes.

‘Massacre,’ he whispered.

‘I was there, you simply wouldn’t have recognised me.’

‘What…what do you mean?’

Dosia studied his face. Day didn’t know what she hoped to find there—all he felt was used up and wrong-footed. Like maybe all this time he thought he was serving a god, only to discover that he was kneeling for a demon. And yet—and yet. The feeling of Tanas, hot and alive, the way Tanas needed him, the service Day had dreamed of performing for years, and finally been permitted: Day was in love with his Lord. His lithe and supple body that Day had yearned to worship with his mouth and hands as much as his heart, the long panther-black hair soft as a whisper and so beautiful, those eyes as bright as sunburst. The fluttering of life under his delicate collarbones, those thin and graceful fingers. The way he held himself, with utter surety. The kindness of his voice when Day had pleased him, the way he had saved not only Day, but the entirety of Aranas from poverty and lowliness.

Tanas was sublime.

Day would give anything to be by his Lord’s side for eternity.

But Tanas was cruel.

Tanas was beyond cruel.

Whatever Dosia had been searching for, she must have found it. ‘I supported the revolt, Day. You know I was the one spreading the truth about Leander. I incited the people to riot. And when everyone was distracted, I and a handful of my most loyal knights took Leander away from this gilded prison.’

‘He is gone?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. We joined the people after, but out of our armour and under hoods, we would have been unrecognisable. When the slaughter broke out, we did our best to save everyone we could.’

‘Then you have contributed more to Aranas than I have in all my life. I was right there, Dosia, right by his side when he gave the order. I could do nothing. Nothing but watch. I never…’ Day heaved in a breath, sobs beginning to choke him. ‘I never thought he could do such a thing.’

‘Oh, my brother.’ Dosia fitted a hand to his cheek and lifted his head. ‘He has been capable all along. You were just too broken to see it.’

‘I am not—’

‘Yes, Day, you are. I chased you here to save you, remember? I was too late for that, but not too late for the stories of your screams. Of the pain and torture you endured day and night without end. You were starved and beaten and whipped and brainwashed. All because the young Lord desired a plaything.’

‘No, he…he saved me.’

Dosia gave him a sad smile. ‘In a way, a twisted way, he saved both of us. We would have died in the gutter if you hadn’t caught his eye, if I hadn’t come after you. But the man you think you know is an invention. The obedience you think is inherent was programmed.’

Tears streamed down Day’s face. He hadn’t cried in so very long. But even now, after all Day had put her through, his sister held him with the fierceness and love of a warrior.

‘What do I do? Oh, gods, what do I do?’

Dosia rocked him gently. ‘Do as your heart tells you. Not what he commands.’

Day didn’t know exactly how to follow what his heart told him. He had forgotten the language it spoke, in the years that had gone by without him listening. He was accustomed to being still and idle, like one of the forge god’s dormant automatons, only responsive when his Lord needed him. Day did not recall much of his early days with his Lord—back when the Dawn Palace was still under construction—but he knew, intrinsically, that questioning his Lord was forbidden.

Tanas ate his breakfast—figs and honey, warm bread and cheese, decadent wine from the juiciest grapes—slowly and meticulously. He licked golden honey from his fingers while his own golden eyes traced over Day’s lips. Day knelt beside him, as always.

‘My Lord…’

‘Hmm?’ Tanas smiled down at him, this gentle, indulgent smile. Day nearly melted. How were these the same lips that ordered a massacre? ‘Speak up, my Day.’

Day cleared his throat and glanced away. In an instant, Tanas’s fingers hooked his chin and dragged his face back. ‘You don’t turn away from me.’ He leaned down and kissed Day with a barely there touch, just the dry rasp of skin against skin. And still, it electrified him.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ he sighed, blinking up at the man rapidly. Tanas looked so, so beautiful today, wearing simple riding pants and a tight fitting royal blue coat. His hair was in a braid down his back, glimmering with gold and silver threads. Sunstone-encrusted discs hung from both ears, with golden sunbursts painted over his cheeks, matching the designs on his canines. ‘I wondered if we may visit the Rose Room, today.’

‘Oh? And why would you desire to be in that sticky, humid box?’

Day swallowed and struggled to maintain eye contact. ‘I wish to…take my Lord there.’

The smile on Tanas’s face shifted slowly from curiously indulgent to debauched. ‘Oh, my Day. Yes. After my ride on Lampon…’

And so it was done. Day cleared up the table after Tanas had eaten, before readying Lampon for the ride. Only a day had past since the attack, and Tanas was as carefree as ever. Did such evil, such cruelty, make no mark on his soul? How could anyone bear the weight of all that guilt, all that blood?

Day brought lunch out to his Lord, and they picnicked in one of the verdant green fields ensconced in tall, impenetrable walls. He pressed red-hearted strawberries to his Lord’s accepting lips, laved olive oil over loaves and topped them with prosciutto and feta. All the while, his chest was collapsing like a burned-out house.

‘Now,’ Tanas gave him a lazy grin, blowing some loose hair from his face. He looked so very human, just then. For the first time in maybe ever, Day saw Tanas not as a god or a Lord. But as he was: a beautiful, careless man. A man with more power than he knew what to do with. A man with more freedom, more cruelty, and more grace than any other Day knew. But a simple man nonetheless. ‘Take me to the Rose Room, pet.’

‘Of course, my Lord.’ Bit by ragged, bleeding bit, Day managed to return his Lord’s smile.

The Rose Room. Too warm and too moist. Day was soaked in sweat right away, but he was soon ordered to strip. He placed his clothing and his dagger in a small pile at his feet. Tanas walked around him, admiring his physique, trailing appreciative hands over his abdomen and pectorals, squeezing his biceps and smoothing over his ribs.

‘My Lord,’ Day began, voice a wisp, almost too faint to hear. Tanas came to a stop behind him, pressing his clothed chest to Day’s naked back. ‘I was wondering…about earlier. What if the peasants come back? What if they bring weapons?’ There was silence. ‘I know it is not my place to question my Lord’s actions.’

Tanas sighed. The cool air feathering over Day’s neck sent shivers racing over his exposed skin. ‘It is fine. I know it is terrible, but what must be done must be done. I will have every single gutter-dwelling peasant killed if even a single one of them tries to set foot in this palace. We will be safe, my Day.’

‘Oh.’ Oh. ‘My Lord Tanas…’

‘Yes, my Day.’ His hands came around, touching Day everywhere he could reach, before grasping his hips and turning him about. Tanas claimed Day’s lips in a ferocious kiss. ‘Lie down.’

Day went to the floor beside his clothing and watched with torturous desire as Tanas removed his own garments. He tossed each item away as though they meant nothing, tugged the ties from his hair till it was loose, then sunk down to straddle Day. It was desperately intimate. Gods, it was so much—so much skin, so much heat, so much touch—that Day couldn’t breathe. He reached up with one shaking hand and traced the sly curve of Tanas’s lips, down to his pale throat, and further still: the rosy swell of his nipple, the rippling power of his flank, the straining muscles of his inner thigh…the core of him. Tanas moaned, a quiet, airy thing. A treasure greater than any horded in this palace.

‘You are beautiful. I have always felt so. I am forever your servant, Tanas.’ Day circled his flesh and stroked. Tanas threw his head back, eyes closed in sheer ecstasy.

And then they burst open.

An agonised cry.

Hot, thick blood.

He pushed the golden dagger deeper into his Lord.

‘Oh gods, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

He pulled the dagger out and dropped it. Pressed his hands against the gaping, bloody wound. It was hot there—so hot.

‘Day—what have you—why—’

‘I love you,’ he whispered. He sat up and cradled his Lord against his body, left bloody streaks in his raven-dark hair. Entreated him with helpless kisses. ‘Forgive me, forgive me. I could not let you hurt anyone else. My Lord, my love. Tanas.’

Tanas’s eyes filled with tears. The air, already thick with rose musk, became unbearably cloying with the metallic stench of blood. ‘How grateful I am to touch you. Thank you. I owe you everything.’

‘You have killed me,’ Tanas snarled. ‘Do not lie.’

‘Never. I would never. Please. I love you, I have loved you endlessly. Tanas, who else would endure this, endure you, as I do?’

‘I…’ His voice was getting weaker. Delicately, Day laid his Lord on the ground. The quick flow of blood stalled. ‘I loved you so.’

Day went still. ‘My Lord?’

‘Oh, my pet. You cannot really believe…your affection was one-sided.’

‘I am nothing but your plaything.’

Tanas whimpered, an undignified sound. ‘I wasted so much time. Gods above.’

He reached up with a trembling hand and traced the contours of Day’s face. Day held him there, tears sealing the places their skin met. ‘I’m sorry. I could think of no other way.’

‘Failed…failed it all.’

‘No, my Lord, you saved Aranas. You saved me.’

‘Thought—’ he paused to cough weakly, ‘—I would have time. Would have left all—all of this. To be with you.’

Day jerked. ‘Truly?’

Tanas nodded, a delirious smile spreading over his pale face. ‘In a heartbeat, my Day.’

Everything shifted. How bad was the wound? How much time had passed? It didn’t matter. Day grabbed his tunic and shredded it, a makeshift bandage. Tightened it around his Lord’s waist, cringed at his pained snuffling. He gathered Tanas up in his arms and rushed out of the Rose Room. They were both naked, both soaked in blood.

‘What are you doing?’ Tanas’s voice was so faint that had Day not been so attuned to him, he would have missed it.

‘Maybe this time I can save you.’

‘You’re…you’re mad.’

Day looked down at his Lord. It was undeniable that the man in his arms had done unforgivable things. He had betrayed the people he was meant to protect, as easily and thoughtlessly as one might devour a fig. If Dosia was to be believed, Tanas had tortured Day until he was broken and submissive.

But maybe, far away from here, they could be simple. They could be two men in love and nothing more.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Yes, I am halfway mad for you.’

They reached the infirmary, and Day delivered his dying Lord to a bed. It was chaos in moments, a whirling, dizzying dance of healers and assistants. Day knelt by the bed of his Lord. By the bed of the man he loved.

And he waited.

Mel Thompson is a writer living in Sydney, Australia. A lover of reading, writing, and all things queer, they have had work published in Spineless Wonders' Travel Anthology and regularly perform poetry readings for their family and their cat, Mika. They write about queer love and joy (and sometimes queer hate and despair) in an array of genres and forms. You can find them here.