fortune's least favoured

Sometimes Vizaeth thinks he must be cursed. How else to explain the fact that one minute he’s halfway to Rhylfein’s room in a tangle of eager hands and heated whispers, and the next he’s cleaning blood off Viconia Despana’s stupid—and apparently scaled—face in Master Do’Urden’s quarters under the critical eye of Mistress Baenre and the Spider Mage.

The moment they arrived, Mistress Baenre sent Rhylfein to help Master Do’Urden with some potion or other, while Vizaeth was set to the grunt work of wound-tending. Huddled in the chair next to him, wrapped in a fancy dressing gown to replace her ruined clothes, Viconia sits and shakes like a frightened child as he scrubs at her face. There are bloody concaves where Merdax Kenafin and his cronies ripped scales from her cheek; holes in her flesh Vizaeth scrapes out thoroughly, because Viconia’s family might be heretics but Kenafin is a blasphemer, and Lolth alone knows where his filthy hands have been.

Bootheels click towards him.

“Who taught you how to clean a wound?”

The demand cracks the silence like a whip, and Vizaeth stiffens, shaping his voice very carefully around his answer because Quenthel Baenre will flay the skin from his back for so much as an insolent syllable.

“I taught myself.”

Her eyes narrow. “That explains a great deal. You’re applying too much pressure.” She softens, the way Pharaun did when he spoke to Veryan after Merdax went after him. “Nia, you’re being very patient.”

“I assume apprentice Thaezyr doesn’t want to be here,” Viconia says quietly. “That he’s helping at all is reason enough to be patient.”

Vizaeth pauses, the bloody cloth half-wrung over the bowl. She’s more perceptive than he gave her credit for.

“Very well,” Quenthel says. She pulls over a chair, and adopts a patronising, Jhinlara-like tone as she proceeds to talk him through ‘proper’ wound care. Why she can’t just wave her hand, slap Viconia in the face and heal her with Lolth’s grace, he doesn’t know. Maybe her brother hasn’t managed to fuck his way through enough of the Baenre yet to grant her such expenditure of magic.

When the water in the bowl is bloodier than Viconia’s face, Master Do’Urden appears with a poultice he foists off onto Vizaeth before conferring closely with Mistress Baenre. The way he touches her makes Vizaeth’s stomach churn; he’d thought Nalfein to have saner standards. Then again, he beds a Houseless rogue, so there may be no accounting at all for his tastes.

There’s a brief commotion at the door, and the Spider Mage calls Mistress Baenre over to confer with Welvryn Melani, who’s just poked his arrogantly proportioned face into the room. Vizaeth listens with half an ear, not really caring, since none of it implies any chance at all of his leaving. The Archmage wants to talk with his sister. Veryan and Nadrak—a diminutive diviner who follows Welvryn around like a grinning little mongrel—are hard at work on Kenafin and his followers.

Vizaeth would rather be there, even if it meant tolerating those two. His scars itch beneath their illusions, necromantic shades of memory writhing under the skin. He’s already worked hard on Kenafin. It would only be fair to let him finish the job.

Once Mistress Baenre’s gone, Welvryn saunters over to sprawl in her empty chair. He tries too hard, with his too-tight breeches and his silk shirt gaping open and the webs shaved into the sides of his head. The memory of his rejection in their first decade at Sorcere still rankles. Melani thought—and still thinks—himself better than Vizaeth, despite both their Houses being next to nothing. Vizaeth concentrates on pressing the poultice into the divots of Viconia’s missing scales. Welvryn’s in bed with Nadrak, anyway. Everyone knows it.

“—not sure we’ll have a Kenafin once those two are done with him,” Welvryn’s saying. He’s got his chin set on his knuckles, like some swaggering noble. Vizaeth grits his teeth and very politely doesn’t roll his eyes out of his skull.

“It shouldn’t take him attacking a girl to see punishment.”

“That’s not just some girl you’re putting a poultice on. You know who her father is, right?”

“Welvryn,” the Spider Mage warns.

“It’s fine, Master Oblodra,” Viconia says, at the same time as Vizaeth spits out,

“I don’t care what patron sired her.”

“Not a patron.” Viconia shifts awkwardly, crossing and recrossing her legs. “My father is Ust Natha’s Archmage.”

Vizaeth snatches his hand away from her face. Archmage. Archmage. All the special treatment, the arrogance, the lesser boy’s fear of her—all of it falls into horrendous place as every altercation they’ve ever had spawns an alternate ending; him, blinded, beaten and broken under the magic of a fucking Archmage.

“Why would a girl from some minor House be granted a place at Sorcere?” Viconia continues. “Noori Baenre’s mother barely convinced Triel to allow it.”

“Why not teach you himself and keep you and your heretic family away from our city?”

“Careful.” Welvryn flicks his eyes over Vizaeth’s head. “Zaurett likes you because you’re top of his class. Oblodra has no obligation to be so fond.”

“Apprentice Thaezyr is a fascinating student,” Master Oblodra says. “It’s a shame he didn’t score high enough to take any of my classes. From what I hear, he certainly enriches them.”

If the remark is intended as a compliment, it doesn’t sound like one; sneer or smile, either could hide behind that concealing veil. He’s leaning on the door, one thin finger tapping the handle of his mithril-capped cane, and the too-warm, too-welcoming light of Nalfein’s quarters does nothing to make his presence any less unsettling.

Welvryn leans forwards, hiding his muttering from their overseer. “Are all the Eight so eccentric?”

“I think it’s a requirement of having that much power,” Viconia says.

“Hard to believe he’s one of the most powerful spellcasters in Menzoberranzan,” Vizaeth mutters under his breath. He didn’t intend the remark to be heard, but it is.

“You could say the same about Master Zaurett,” Welvyrn says, all snark and no sense.

“My father tells me Lord Dyrr doesn’t look like much either,” Viconia says. Happy enough to gossip; she must be feeling better. Her voice is not less irritating for belonging to an Archmage’s daughter, nor for the gossip stemming from said father's meeting with Archmage Baenre, which she, of course, couldn’t help but eavesdrop on. “I heard them talking about Baeloth Barrityl returning to the Underdark. Apparently he’s been lurking around Skullport.”

The name is vaguely familiar, attached to bloodsport and broken limbs. “Who?”

“For how obsessed you are with his protégé, I’d have thought you’d know. He’s one of the Eight. He used to teach here; took a personal interest in Master Mizzrym while he was a student. Mizzrym was as obsessed with Baeloth as you are with—”

“Was,” Vizaeth snaps. “I’ve moved on. I’m sure Pha—” he cuts the name out of his mouth, surgical. “Master Mizzrym has too.”

“Now, maybe. But back in the day? He drove Baeloth to flee the city, ruined his reputation, spurred Matron Mizzrym to destroy House Barrityl, then took his place as Master of Transmutation. Baeloth hasn’t taken an apprentice since.”

That’s not the same as his devotion. He doesn’t want Pharaun’s position. To make him leave. They simply belong together, like a knife in a throat—or they used to. He’s Rhylfein’s knife now, reforged for a hand that wants him, even if it has yet to truly wield him.

“What did the Archmage want with Mistress Baenre?” he asks, in a hideously unsubtle attempt to change the subject. It works as it needs to.

“Kenafin insisted that Master Mizzrym gave him a truesight-lensed monocle,” Welvryn says. That explains how the idiot uncovered Viconia’s draconic little secret, then. “The Archmage thinks if they confront Mizzrym, he’ll claim it was stolen.”

And how convenient is it that he has the perfect thief to blame it on? Vizaeth chokes down his panic. That would be the clever play, the Menzoberranyr play. The boy who broke his wards stole it, and that boy hates Viconia, so of course he made sure it found its way into the hands of someone who’d do her the harm he failed to.

“What do you think?” he asks, mildly amazed at how steady his voice is.

“Well, Master Mizzrym has fewer wards on his tower than most of the other Masters,” Welvryn says, going on to speculate about Kenafin’s past transgressions, Pharaun’s motives—when he starts on Pharaun’s grade-tampering, Vizaeth bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. He doesn’t want to hear it again, hear who else got hurt when his heart’s the only one that matters. He can say he’s moved on all he likes, that he doesn't care why Pharaun did what he did, but the lurch in his stomach is all too real.

In a perfectly-timed distraction, Master Do’Urden re-emerges from his alchemy alcove with a potion for Viconia’s reverie and Rhylfein sauntering behind him. A brief glimmer of relief sparks—then shatters when Rhylfein ignores him, leaning on Viconia’s chair with his half-arrogant smile turned her way, not Vizaeth’s.

“How’s my scaled weirdo doing?”

“I am surrounded on all sides by men,” she says, and Vizaeth’s lip curls.

“I’m sure that’s such a nightmare.”

“I’m sure it’s your dream come true,” she shoots back. Before he can retort, the door slams open, and Mistress Baenre shoves Veryan and Nadrak into the room. The latter deposits himself brazenly in Welvryn’s lap, while the former perches at Viconia’s side, immediately monopolising her attention.

Vizaeth’s skin crawls. Too many people, too much chatter, too much Pharaun rattling around in his head. The bruise an inch below his ear throbs; Rhylfein bit it there right before they heard what turned out to be Viconia screaming for help. He presses his fingers to it, as if it’s a sigil that can return the night to its more pleasant course, but there’s no magic in it, only broken blood vessels.

“He’s being sent back to his House,” Veryan says. They’re talking about Kenafin. Have been for a while, Vizaeth realises. “With some…modifications.”

“What modifications?”

Veryan spares him a brief glance. “Arachnid ones, when the transformation is over.”

“His little group got lucky,” Nadrak says. “They’re only getting twenty lashes apiece. Kenafin just ran out of chances.”

“He put his hands on an Archmage’s daughter, he’s lucky they didn’t give him to Lolth,” Rhylfein says.

Viconia stares down at her lap, where she’s holding Veryan’s hand. “They might as well have.”

Rhylfein scoffs. “Good riddance. After what he’s done to you two, I’m just mad I missed Veryan taking out his other eye. You did get to take it out, right?”

That detail Vizaeth would like to hear; it might do a little to un-ruin his evening. But Veryan only smiles his Lolth-like smile, and doesn’t answer.

---

A while later, Master Do’Urden calls for their attention.

“I’m sorry to do this, but all of you are to stay here tonight. Master Baenre insisted.”

Vizaeth digs his nails into his palms. He can’t stay here another minute, let alone risk reverie around these people, but no-one pays any attention to his stuttered protests. Mistress Baenre launches into a speech about how it’s for their safety, and how—for poor, precious Viconia—there’ll be an interrogation of the entire school, courtesy of Master Oblodra and his nephew. Oblodra bows to her command.

“Though if I might borrow apprentice Thaezyr for my interrogation of Master Mizzrym?” he asks. “As I understand it, he’s keen on appearing more…forthright around his favourite pupil.”

Favourite. That’s some sick joke. While the Masters discuss logistics with Mistress Baenre, Vizaeth stares at his knees and wishes the vines carved into all Nalfein’s furniture would make themselves useful and strangle him. He’s the one who can’t lie to Pharaun, not the other way around. There’s nothing his presence will accomplish but further humiliation, which, he supposes, is only what he deserves.

Viconia, for some unfathomable reason, offers her hand as if in comfort.

“You’ve nothing to fear,” she says to his glare. “I have no interest in hurting one who cleaned my wounds and defended my friends.”

“What did she ever do to piss you off so much, anyway?” Nadrak calls. He’s still in Welvryn’s lap, the other drow toying with his braid. “Or are you still sour about being used as a telekinesis test dummy?”

Vizaeth’s crooked nose itches. “She did it on purpose.”

“Only partially.” Viconia pulls a face. “I wasn’t planning on throwing you across the room. I learned on iron golems, so I figured—since you’re so skinny—I could do it with one hand. Turns out living targets are…wriggly.”

Rhylfein snorts a laugh, covering it with a cough when Vizaeth shoots him a dark look.

“And your brother?”

“Surprise visit. I’d apologise for Nal, but he’s unrepentant and will do it again. Maybe don’t try to sic a foulspawn on my family, and we’ll be golden.”

She can’t expect him to believe any of this. It’s victimhood, carefully crafted; the Despana speciality. But there’s an openness in her face he hasn’t ever seen before—she’s wounded, exhausted, and where she should be lashing out, she’s only talking.

“So you know nothing about any of your siblings showing up? Even the priestess?”

“Nym’s friends with Zaurett. And, apparently, Master Do’Urden.”

And that’s it. Talk turns to food Vizaeth can’t even contemplate eating, and he slumps in his chair, staring up at the false spiderweb covering the ceiling. If Viconia truly isn’t lying, then there’s no explanation for his misfortune around her other than just…misfortune. If she doesn’t want him dead, it’s merely fate that does. Lolth’s webs, set to strangle.

Fingers brush his neck. He tenses, then relaxes; it’s only Rhylfein, not looking at him but stroking softly. Vizaeth leans into the touch as much as he dares. If he had half Nadrak’s boldness, he’d pull Rhylfein into his lap, steal a kiss, some small comfort. He can’t. Not here. The people in this room know too many of his weaknesses already.

Viconia’s hand is still on the arm of her chair, palm up. A bloodless offering. Vizaeth takes it, tentative and then too tight. She grips back with startling fierceness. “You ready to face Pharaun?”

A hysterical laugh bubbles in the back of his throat. Ready? To bear witness whilst the Spider Mage interrogates the man who ruined his life and shattered his heart, which—curse it to the depths of the Abyss—still longs for its own destroyer?

“Fuck him,” Viconia says. “Hear me? Fuck him.”

“I have been.” The claim is a tired thing. Worn thin.

“Yes,” she says, and he wonders how he never saw the dragon in her smile before. “Now fuck him over.”

Damn his worthless heart.

“I intend to.”

---

Pharaun answers his door far too casually not to have known they were coming.

“Master Oblodra, what a pleasant surprise! And apprentice Thaezyr too, how delightful. Why have you dragged the poor boy here at this time of the evening, Jalynfein?”

“Observation,” Master Oblodra says flatly. Pharaun’s smile doesn’t slip an inch.

“An excellent choice. Vizaeth is a rather experienced observer. Come in then, if you’re coming, which I suspect you are.”

Wards prickle over Vizaeth’s skin as he trails after Master Oblodra. He couldn’t be Pharaun to fool them again if he tried. They’re two entirely separate organisms now. He intends to keep it that way.

Pharaun is perfection, as always. Sculpted from darkest amethyst, ruby eyes glimmering in gold shadowed settings. A maroon evening robe that should be casual is anything but in the way he carries himself, rolling up embroidered silk sleeves before fetching glasses and a bottle of wine from his liquor cabinet. Rings glitter on half his fingers; rubies, emeralds, diamonds.

“Drink?” he offers, as he pours himself a glass. Master Oblodra ignores him, pacing the room instead. His veiled head turns this way and that, snakelike, taking in the lavish furnishings and the magic protecting them. “Not a social call, I take it. You’ll have one, won’t you, apprentice Thaezyr?”

“No.”

Pharaun presses a glass into his hand. “It’s a vintage you enjoy,” he says. His perfume is as sharp as his gaze, sinking fragrant hooks into Vizaeth’s senses. “Almost as old as I am.”

Vizaeth pictures throwing the wine in his face. Smashing the glass and jamming the jagged edges into his neck. Now that would be a vintage to savour.

Master Oblodra clears his throat. The connection between them snaps—Vizaeth scurries to perch stiffly at Master Oblodra’s side on the couch, and Pharaun sinks easily into the armchair opposite, one knee hooked over the other. His feet are bare, nails a shiny, arterial red.

“Apprentice Despana was assaulted,” Master Oblodra says, without preamble.

“How awful.”

“Apprentice Kenafin and his compatriots were caught, and have been suitably dealt with. It appears, however, that Kenafin had in his possession a truesight lens. He claims you gave it to him.”

“As the Archmage likes to remind me on a not-infrequent basis, this is supposed to be a school,” Pharaun says, and his words are addressed to Oblodra, but it’s Vizaeth he’s looking at. Months it’s been since Pharaun looked at him. “Do we really have nothing better to do than listen to the idle gossip of apprentices? Especially ones who’ve proven they’re incapable of keeping their hands to themselves.”

“Then how do you suppose he came by such a thing?”

Pharaun shrugs. The shoulder of his robe slips, baring skin. He leaves it exposed. “If—and only if, mind—he got such a thing from me, then I can only tell you it was stolen.” A sigh, a sip of wine. “It seems I need to update my wards. First Thaezyr, now Kenafin…it’s becoming a regular thoroughfare in here.”

“Thaezyr broke your wards?” Oblodra does not sound impressed.

“Bypassed, I should say. He has something of a talent for impersonation.”

Pharaun’s eyes rake over him, taking in every inch of his decidedly un-Pharaun-like attire; from his loose, un-braided hair, to the borrowed choker around his neck, to the place where the slit in his robe skirts exposes his thigh. Vizaeth’s skin tightens as if the gaze is a physical touch, screaming at him to make it one. He tugs at his robes, covering his leg.

“I do know your wards,” he says. “Which means I know Kenafin’s too stupid to have gotten past them. And…and I know the lens was yours. I saw it here.”

Pharaun cocks an eyebrow. “Did you now?”

“Yes. You…you give us things. You gave me an armlet for necromancy.” Truth and lies come spilling out, mixing in Lolth’s sacred alchemy. “He wanted me to cheat in the aptitude exams, Master Oblodra, so he could say someone did, cast doubt on all the results, especially for…” who was it Welvryn said? “…for apprentice Dyrr.”

“I thought he was here to observe, Jalynfein,” Pharaun says sharply.

“It seems to me he’s observed all sorts of helpful things.”

“You’re not seriously going to entertain these delusions, are you?”

“I don’t know, Mizzrym, should I?”

Pharaun’s grip on his wine tightens, and by his expression, it’s Vizaeth he’d rather be throttling. Such a prospect, once thrilling, pales in comparison to the giddy delight that fills him as he locks eyes with Pharaun and deliberately upends his own glass. Red splatters all over the rug. His desire to spill his own life there is long gone—this is far more satisfying.

Pharaun’s jaw tenses. “Clumsy of you.”

He motions a prestidigitation—fast enough, and even duergar black wine, as this is, won’t stain. Vizaeth flicks his own fingers in the cleanest counterspell he’s ever cast and cuts it off dead.

“I’m not clumsy.”

He lets the wine glass fall, then stabs down with his nails—forever tainted, or perhaps he should say blessed, by Charon’s Claw—and tears. Velvet rips apart, splitting nearly as nicely as skin. Pharaun’s eyes narrow. “That couch would bankrupt your Matron.”

“Did it cost more or less than the truesight lens?”

Furious spots of colour darken Pharaun’s cheek. They’re delicious, the taste of such anger far headier than any wine could ever be, and Pharaun can’t do a thing about it, not while he’s trying to convince Master Oblodra of his innocence. Vizaeth digs his nails deeper, letting his gaze fall deliberately to Pharaun’s throat. Did he really once want Pharaun to be the one to consume him? Why would he ever have considered that when a far better option resides in his own teeth?

Abruptly, Master Oblodra stands. “My nephew requires my assistance,” he says. “I’m certain the pair of you can clean up this mess before I return.”

He sweeps out of the room before Vizaeth can even try to stop him. The door thuds shut with the finality of an executioner’s axe, and all at once Vizaeth can’t get his breath. The wound he’s made in Pharaun’s couch feels like a trap, ready to sever the fingers buried inside it.

Pharaun drains his glass, sets it carefully on a side table, then rises slowly and crosses the space between them in a handful of measured steps.

“You picked a fine time to start playing the game, Vizaeth.”

His name. That’s his name in Pharaun’s mouth again, and then it’s Pharaun’s mouth on his again. Paralysed, he sits there and takes it, a thin sliver of a moan whimpering out of his throat. Pharaun’s fingers caress his neck. Settle on the bitemark.

“This doesn’t look like one of mine,” he murmurs. “I take it the rumours are true, then, you have been bedding the Dyrr boy. Very clever.” He kisses along Vizaeth’s jaw. “Have you wrapped him around your little finger the way you failed to wrap me? Fucked your way nice and deep into House Dyrr? Or, no, I expect dear Rhylfein was the one to fuck nice and deep into you—has he gone as deep as I have, I wonder?”

“Stop it,” Vizaeth whispers. Pharaun’s lips press hot against his neck, and he bites back a gasp at sudden, sucking pressure right over the place Rhylfein left his mark. Obliterating it. “Stop it, I don’t want—”

“We’re a ways past what you want mattering one iota.” Pharaun yanks him to his feet. His hand on Vizaeth’s waist is like a vise; the one on his throat halving his breath. “You were going to sell me out to that cripple, and for what? You don’t care about Kenafin—you wouldn’t have your precious rat if you hadn’t mutilated him—so why the change of heart? Don’t you love me anymore?”

Vizaeth struggles in his grasp. “You tried to get me thrown out of Sorcere.”

“You’re not still sore about that, are you? Come now, that’s simply the cost of studying here! Some of you boys are far too soft—the real world won’t be so kind as to give you your due just because you worked for it. You have to take what you want, regardless of petty little concerns like who deserves what.” Pharaun’s hand slides over his hip, the top of his thigh. “Now, tell me why you’re suddenly so keen to put my head on the chopping block.”

“You fucked me—”

“—at your insistence—”

“Over. You fucked me over, you ruined my grades, you were going to take necromancy from me, and I…and I…”

Pharaun’s hand is between his legs. He wore thin robes tonight, fine silk, little enough under them, because he was going to see Rhylfein, he was supposed to be with Rhylfein. He grabs Pharaun’s wrist.

“Stop touching me.”

“Is that really what you want?” Pharaun squeezes, and he can’t hold back a moan. “Doesn’t feel like it to me.”

With a flick of his wrist, he shifts the skirts of Vizaeth’s robes aside and wraps his hand—hot palm, skin on skin; it’s been so long, it’s been so fucking long—around Vizaeth’s cock.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says as he starts to stroke, voice soft against Vizaeth’s ear. “I’m going to give you what you so desperately need that you resorted to fucking Lord Dyrr’s worthless spawn, and then, when our good friend Master Oblodra gets back, you’re going to tell him you lied. You were wrong. And that you know, cross your heart and swear to Lolth, that Kenafin stole from me.”

“No. No, I won’t, I hate you, I—”

Pharaun’s nails dig into his shaft and he gasps. He still likes the way it hurts. “Don’t lie to me, Vizaeth. You can’t lie to me, we both know that. Now nod and take it like a good boy, and let’s get this over with.”

“No!”

Vizaeth snaps his hand up and rakes his nails across Pharaun’s cheek, exactly as he once did to Kenafin. A furious hiss, and suddenly he’s free, stumbling back on trembling legs. Horror carves him hollow when he sees the desecration he’s wrought; three thin, red lines marring Pharaun’s face from temple to nose. One narrowly missed his eye.

Pharaun touches two fingers to the scratches. Examines the blood. Tastes it. Shakes his head, tsking.

Run. Now! Vizaeth’s foot snags on the rug, his head cracks off the floor—he starts to scramble up, but Pharaun’s foot slams into his back. He bucks wildly, one arm trapped under him, the other scrabbling at the wine stain an inch from the blood under his nails. Pharaun’s other foot comes down on his wrist, pinning it.

“Where is all this sudden spine coming from? Dyrr? Him and his little friends inspiring you, is that it? Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven the Despana girl for what she did to you.”

“She didn’t do anything to me!”

“Is that what she told you? Spin you a pretty excuse, did she? She’s good at those, all her family are.” The bones in his wrist grind together beneath Pharaun’s weight and he cries out. “You can’t trust her, you can’t trust any of them. None of them care about you, not the way I do.”

He grabs Vizaeth by the hair and almost rips it out at the root hauling him to his knees. Vizaeth claws at him, at everything he can reach—a slap knocks the breath from him, and he’s still fighting to find it as Pharaun yanks his head back. His eyes burn, so much more alive than Vizaeth’s have ever been.

“There are at least a dozen people in this school who would leap at the chance to pull your teeth out, so don’t even think about biting me,” Pharaun says, then tugs the sash on his robe and lets it fall open.

He’s naked underneath. Dizzying heat floods Vizaeth’s head, fury and sick desire. The smell is intoxicating—that sharp, almost metallic perfume; the mouth-watering scent of blood and flesh. He wants to hate it. Hates that he can’t hate it, because Pharaun is hard, which means Pharaun wants him again. His attempt to break free is half-hearted, a token struggle to appease the red-haired ghost in his head. Pharaun’s grip tightens. His cock nudges at Vizaeth’s lips and they part. He tastes the way he always has: divine.

“There,” Pharaun says, once he’s fully embedded. “Now that your rebellious little mouth is gainfully occupied, are you going to listen? You are? Good!”

He sets a firm pace, matching the rhythm of his words. “You are neither pretty enough, clever enough, nor talented enough to survive outside of Sorcere. No worthy House is going to pluck you out of insignificance, and your own is teetering on the brink. All it would take to bring it down is one. Little. Push.” He forces Vizaeth’s head down until he chokes, stomach tensing as he fights the instinct to retch. “All you have going for you, my love, is this, and let’s not fool ourselves into thinking you’re any better at it than a half-dozen whores I could name.”

Drool drips from Vizaeth’s chin. Tears spill down his face, his right cheek throbbing where it hit the floor, the left stinging where it hit Pharaun’s palm. He can taste blood—his lip must have split when he fell—and he can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to breathe. He wants Pharaun to touch him like he used to, take him to bed, trace his scars, ask him what he’s thinking; wants to tear off all their skin until there’s nothing left but the raw, red truth of them. Above him, Pharaun groans in pleasure, and what is there to do when you’re being sacrificed but give up your heart to the knife?

Vizaeth shuts his eyes and puts a hand between his legs.

“That’s my boy,” Pharaun purrs. “You are still, aren’t you? Mine?”

Vizaeth whimpers and nods and doesn’t think about Rhylfein as he strokes himself to a short, sharp end. Pharaun fucks his throat until it’s bruised and Vizaeth swallows the sacrement thus delivered, but when he’s finally allowed to sit back, gasping, all that’s inside him is cum and guilt.

“Right then,” Pharaun says, as he refastens his robes. “What are you going to do?”

“Tell Master Oblodra that Kenafin stole from you,” Vizaeth rasps. Pharaun pats his cheek.

“There’s a good boy. Now, go and clean yourself up before he gets back. You’re a mess.”

Standing over Pharaun’s washbasin, Vizaeth avoids his own eyes in the mirror as he rinses blood and cum from his mouth. Bruises are blooming on his face—a quick illusion is enough to hide them, along with the split in his lip. Nothing left to see. Nothing for Oblodra to ask about. He grips the sink with shaking hands.

Sometimes Vizaeth thinks he must be cursed.