Chapter Text
Early morning mist rose over the stream along the camp’s eastern edge, pale and ghostly. The laundresses were already hard at work, skirts hitched high, legs reddened by the cold water. They beat wet tunics and linens with paddles against flat river stones. The rhythmic thudding carried up the bank, tugging Peirlys closer.
He walked slowly, leaning on the staff he’d been using the past few days. Each step took effort, still weaker than he would’ve liked. At least he was no longer confined to the tent. He breathed deep, tasting moist earth and wild mint.
He reached the line of stones where the women worked, and paused to catch his breath.
Almeia spotted him and straightened, shading her eyes against the rising sun.
“By the gods, you’ll catch your death!” she called, hands on her hips. “You should be resting, not out in this damp air!”
“I’ve rested enough,” Peirlys replied. “Stillness feels like a cage.”
Almeia clicked her tongue, half in sympathy, half in rebuke. She dried her hands on her apron and stepped out of the water, joining him on the bank. “Drink this.” She handed him a leather flask. “It’ll warm you. You look better, I must say.”
He accepted it with quiet thanks, took a sip, and immediately coughed, eyes tearing. Spiced spirits of wine.
Almeia chuckled, “can’t hold your drink, ey?”
He wiped his eyes. “A dragon couldn’t hold that!” He passed it back to her.
She took a swig and tucked it back into the pocket created by her tucked-up skirt.
A few paces away, a boy crouched in the mud, drawing patterns with a stick. Peirlys nodded toward him. “He’s up early.”
“That one never sleeps,” Almeia said with weary fondness. “Selkos! Mind you keep to the shallows!”
Selkos glanced up, spotted Peirlys, and grinned, showing a missing tooth. He raced over, bare feet squelching in the mud. “I thought you was dead! Mama said you wasn’t, but you looked it sure enough!”
Almeia cuffed the back of his head lightly.
Peirlys laughed, unoffended. “Well, see for yourself. Do I look dead now?”
“‘Course not, dead men can’t talk, silly!”
His smile tightened. This boy had seen too many dead men already. Whole battlefields’ worth, most like.
“What have you there?” he asked, noting Selkos fiddling with something in his hands.
Proudly, he held up a scrap of leather braided around a pebble. “For luck,” he said solemnly, offering it to him.
Peirlys hesitated, surprised. “For me?”
Selkos nodded. “You’ll need it on the march.”
“What about you, won’t you need it?”
“Mama says it’s too late in the season. We’re to stay in Thal—Thalass—the port.”
Peirlys glanced at Almeia. “Your mother is a wise woman.”
“It’ll be dull.” The boy pouted. “She’s only scared. Everyone’s talking. They say the gods is angry.”
Almeia’s tone held warning. “Enough, son. Go help Ima with the wringing.”
Selkos darted away. They watched him bounding rabbit-like over the scrubby ground.
Her voice was low when she spoke again. “He hears too much around camp, most of it nonsense. But this march, the unrest in the north…it does worry me. Some say the gods no longer favor the legion.”
Peirlys traced the edge of the charm with his thumb. The stone was reddish, faintly translucent, smooth, river-worn. “Gods are fickle,” he said quietly, “their favor can be a double-edged sword.”
Her gaze sharpened, questioning. “You speak as if from experience.”
He shook his head, offering her a disarming half smile, “No. The gods do not favor fools. Which may be why I’m still alive.”
She softened. “Keep that charm, anyway. If the gods won’t watch over you, perhaps Selkos will.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. The sun burned through the mist, glinting off the stream in quicksilver flashes. Behind them, the camp stirred. Horns sounded, hammers rang in the forge, orders barked.
“If I don’t see you…” He murmured, “The gods keep you both.”
Almeia pulled him into a quick, tight hug, tugging at a stray curl with motherly affection, though she was scarcely older than he was. “And you, Peirlys. Mind yourself.”
He nodded and turned away, starting back up the bank, the charm held tight in his palm.
He reached the edge of the training ground, the field sloping beneath orderly rows of tents. He stopped, leaning on his staff, letting the ache in his legs settle.
Steel rang out in measured clashes. Pairs of soldiers locked spear and blade and broke apart again under shouted commands, shields slamming, boots grinding furrows in the dry earth. The air smelled of dust and sweat, the last of the morning coolness still clinging to the breeze off the sea.
He lingered, unwilling to return to the tent. The quiet there was near driving him mad.
“Careful, lads,” a familiar voice called. “We’ve a convalescent in our midst. Best not to frighten him.”
Caeris approached, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat darkening his curls. Luiso followed close behind, whirling a practice sword with exaggerated flourish.
“Frighten me?” Peirlys said dryly. “You flatter yourselves.”
“Ah, but you’re fragile now. Our valiant songbird, finally risen from his sickbed.” Luiso pressed a hand to his chest in mock solemnity. “I’ve half a mind to compose an ode.”
“Half a mind is generous,” Caeris muttered.
Peirlys smirked. “Make it a drinking song, and I might even sing it.”
Luiso grinned. “When this acursed march is done, we’ll share a cask and make the gods jealous.”
“Careful.” Caeris moved closer. “Don’t let the General hear you.”
Luiso winked at Peirlys. “You can keep a secret, can’t you, lark?”
Before Peirlys could answer, a voice cut across the field. Cold and sharp enough to draw blood. “Caeris. Luiso. You two have time to natter, but your men can’t keep formation?”
Both officers snapped to attention at once.
Rusica stood a short distance away, arms folded, expression hard as forged iron. “If you’re done entertaining slaves, return to your drills before I demonstrate proper discipline.”
“Sir,” they chorused, already retreating.
Rusica’s gaze shifted to Peirlys. Not openly hostile, but it was a near thing. “You shouldn’t be here. The field’s no place for invalids.”
Peirlys inclined his head, respectful, but met his eyes evenly. “No harm meant, Sir. I was only passing by.”
A pause. Rusica nodded once. “Go on then.”
He turned away, snapping fresh orders. The clash of steel resumed, louder now.
Peirlys moved off, skirting the edge of the field where the magi trained. The air was heavier here, pressing in close, calm before a storm. No clang of swords, no shields. Several figures stood in a loose circle around a target, glowing sigils visible on their hands and bare arms.
Peirlys’ fingers tightened on his staff. A familiar unease stirred low in his chest.
A magus stepped toward the target with dancerly grace, murmuring in a low, measured cadence. She lifted her hands slowly. A flame flickered to life between them, growing steadily in size and brightness until, with a flick of her wrist, she released it. It struck the target, igniting it.
Another magus moved forward, his own hands raised. Peirlys squinted, taking half a step closer, trying to see what he held. It looked like nothing until the sunlight caught it. Water, a shimmering, rippling sphere. In one fluid movement, he unleashed it. It drenched the target, dousing the flames, leaving a charred, smoking husk behind.
The man smiled in quiet triumph while the woman shot him a glare, making a snide comment. The man turned to respond and noticed Peirlys watching. He stopped short, smile fading. The woman followed his gaze, brows lowered.
The back of Peirlys’ neck prickled. He looked away, cheeks burning. He continued until the tents closed in around him and he could no longer feel their eyes. He slowed his pace, releasing a long breath. He avoided magi, as most did. Not for the same reason. He feared them looking too closely, perceiving too much.
The general’s tent rose ahead of him. It was nearly as humble as the others, distinguished only by the legionary standard overhead. Peirlys stepped inside. It was dim, quiet. Safe, but suffocating. The idea of lying idle again, alone with his thoughts, pressed heavily. Too much like Damarien’s tent, or his domus. A cage.
A pile of linen and wool caught his eye. Tunics that needed mending. There were women in camp who would do it for a few coppers, but he was quick enough with a needle. He dug through the trunk of Erientes’ supplies for a soldier’s stitch kit and stepped back outside. He set the stool in a patch of shade beside the tent entrance and sat.
The kit was rudimentary, but the needle was sharp. He worked in silence, the rhythmic pull and loop of thread meditative. His fingers moved deftly, drawing the torn fabric back together.
Around him, voices drifted from nearby fires and open tents, snippets carried on the warm wind.
“Mountain roads’ll eat half the wagons before we even reach Metium.”
“Better the mountains than the marshes again. At least we can die on dry ground.”
“Dry ground, he says. You’ve never seen an avalanche—”
These passed out of earshot, swiftly replaced by another voice, lower, conspiratorial.
“Lady Valessar, wasn’t it? The one who came riding in all silk and perfume. Looked like she’d lost her way to the baths.”
“Ha! Didn’t stay long though, did she? You think she was here for Talin? I heard they got friendly at her revel…”
“Psh, he has a wife and a spine of pudding. No, she was here for the General. Didn’t you see the way she hung on him? And when she left—” A wolf-whistle cut the air, followed by a burst of laughter.
Peirlys’ jaw clenched. He tried to keep his attention on his work, but the needle shook in his grip.
“And that slave, what’s his name? The singer who got his back flayed? I heard he’s in the general’s bed too. Maybe they took turns—”
“Mind your tongue,” someone else muttered, quieter but not enough. “The officers don’t take kindly to that talk.”
The needle slipped, pricked his finger; a bead of blood welled up bright against the linen. He sucked it, tasting the copper tang.
The chatter went on.
“Still, lucky, isn’t he? That kind of favor. I’d polish that armor for—.”
Someone barked a laugh. “Not armor he’s polishing, pretty thing like that.”
Peirlys forced the thread through the fabric again, small, even stitches closing the tear beneath his hands.
He refused to care. Soldiers always talked that way. Slaves too, in every household he’d served. Gossip was universal. He shifted slightly, holding the cloth to the light. The seam looked neat, stronger than before. His fingers lingered on it a moment before moving to the next.
He was half done with the mending when horns sounded, rousing him from his thoughts. A sharp note announcing the midday meal. Noon already? Around him, soldiers stirred, the air suddenly full of the clattering armor and eager footsteps.
Peirlys kept sewing, head bent low. He wasn’t hungry. Not enough to trek across camp again, or bear the scrutiny of curious eyes.
A shadow fell over the mending in his lap, blotting the sunlight from the pale fabric. Peirlys looked up.
Marekos leaned against the tent post, a half-eaten peach in his hand. Juice slicked his fingers, glinting in the light. He took another bite, chewing slowly. “Glad to see the general’s letting you out in daylight again. I worried he might keep you chained to the bed forever.”
Peirlys said nothing, eyes returning to the tunic. He drew the needle through the cloth with deliberate steadiness. “What are you, an overseer come to check my work?”
Marekos chuckled. “No, not checking. Admiring. You look very dutiful. Head down, back bent. The model slave.”
The words stung. He paused in his stitching. “Don’t you have chores of your own to do?” he asked sharply.
Marekos’ grin widened. “Not too pleased to see me, eh?”
“Perhaps if you were more civil,” Peirlys shot back, glaring up at him.
Marekos laughed, the sound bright and careless. “Oh, but I’m not civil. That’s what you like about me.” He took another bite of his peach before tossing a second one toward him.
Peirlys caught it instinctively, the soft fruit bruising under his fingers.
“Consider it a gift.” With that, and a wink, Marekos strode away.
Peirlys set the fruit aside in disgust, bending again over his work. But his fingers had lost their rhythm.
Dutiful. Model slave.
He exhaled sharply. What was he meant to do? He had no more control over his life than Marekos did over his. Chafing under the yoke did no good. Erientes was a kind master, a good man. He’d be a fool, a true one, to throw it back in his face. Yet that seemed to be what Marekos wanted.
Why? Marekos was still trying to make a symbol of him, a watchword for—what? Rebellion? But striking Damarien hadn’t been an act of revolt. It’d been self-preservation. Reckless. Fatal if not for Erientes’ intervention. Whatever web Marekos meant to draw him into, he wanted no part of it.
Peirlys finished his mending and carried it back inside, folding the clothing neatly before returning it to the chest. He sank onto the bed, weary from both the walk and his restless mind. He turned the peach in his hands, its golden skin soft with ripeness, before setting it aside. He would eat it later. Or not. Perhaps he’d give it to Selkos as a parting gift.
The steady tramp of boots approached. Erientes entered, casting the interior briefly into shadow, filling it without effort. He smelled of horses and sweat. Dust coated his skin, his dark hair wind-blown. His gaze swept the tent, landing on Peirlys.
He sat up too quickly, covering a wince with a short breath.
Erientes moved to the washstand and filled the basin. “You push yourself too hard.” He stripped off his tunic without ceremony, exposing the broad expanse of his shoulders and back tapering down to narrower hips above the edge of his undergarment.
Peirlys’ throat went dry. He tried to look away, couldn’t. He swallowed. “I only went for a short walk…”
“And distracted some young officers, so Rusica informed me.” His tone was light.
He took the sponge and dipped it in the basin. His movements were efficient, methodical as he ran it over his arms and shoulders, water running down his back, cutting through the dust. Peirlys’ attention snagged on the slow roll of muscle beneath wet skin, on the flex of Erientes’ shoulders as he moved, on the casual exposure of strength usually hidden.
Talk of distractions…
Peirlys shifted on the cot, suddenly too aware of his own body. Heat gathered low in his belly, his pulse abandoned his throat and took up residence elsewhere. Ridiculous, he told himself. Unwarranted. It was just a back, not even a handsome one, blemished and marked by old scars from blade and spell alike. So why did he ache to touch it? To run his hands over the arc of muscle, to trace those scars with his fingers? Gods.
He looked away sharply, focusing instead on the basin, the patterns in the rug, Marekos’ peach—anything that wasn’t the drag of the sponge over Erientes’ skin. He breathed shallowly, carefully measured, afraid drawing too deep would betray him. The tent seemed smaller for it, the air warmer, close.
“Have you eaten?” Erientes spoke again, easy and unguarded, oblivious to the effect he was having on him.
Peirlys shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “Not hungry.”
Liar. He was starving, but not for food.
Erientes finished washing and pulled on a fresh tunic, one of his finer linen ones instead of the usual wool. When he turned back to him, his expression was disapproving. Peirlys flushed, lowered his gaze, expecting to be chastened. He was, but not for the reason he’d imagined.
“You run yourself ragged, then you don’t eat?” He asked, voice stern. He pulled on his belt and cinched it. “How do you expect to recover?”
“Forgive me, Lord,” he muttered, frustration bleeding out as he tried to recover himself.
Erientes' brows lowered. “Lord, is it? I was Erientes this morning, I believe. What have I done to be demoted?”
“I should think it was a promotion.” Peirlys countered. His tone sounded petulant, even to his own ears.
“You know it isn’t. Not from you.” Erientes turned his back again, this time to open his chest. He took out not his usual armor, but a cape, blood-red as his tunic, reaching nearly to his ankles. He draped it neatly, fastening it over one shoulder with a fibula in the shape of a griffin’s head.
Peirlys rarely saw Erientes out of his armor, except briefly in the evenings when preparing for sleep. He looked no less martial without it, no less commanding. He bent, exchanging his worn boots for finer, tooled leather campagus.
“What troubles you, Peirlys?” His tone held weariness, not anger.
Peirlys bit his lip. He didn’t mean to be ungrateful. Erientes had given him more care, more freedom than he’d ever expected. With nothing in return save a single kiss Peirlys had wanted just as much, and would have given again, if allowed.
But Marekos’ words still ate at him, made him resent Erientes’ kindness. If he were like other masters, it would be easier. He could hate him then, could relish Marekos’ mockery.
It was madness, even thinking it. He’d barely escaped a waking nightmare under Damarien. And it was thanks to Erientes.
“I must go,” Erientes said when Peirlys didn’t answer. “I have matters to settle with the Collegium Mercantorum.”
Peirlys straightened. Thalassona held no particular interest for him, but it was away from the camp. “Could I—if it wouldn’t be a problem—might I accompany you?” His shoulders tightened despite himself.
Erientes lifted a brow. “It isn’t exactly a pleasure excursion, but I’m always glad of your company, lark.”
The cisium’s wheels whirred over stones worn smooth under centuries of carts and boots. The road wound in broad turns down terraced hills of orchard and vineyard. Below, the city stretched, terracotta roofs burnished bronze in the afternoon light, while between them flashed glimpses of the glittering sea beyond.
Peirlys sat beside Erientes, the wind ruffling his hair, doing his best not to lean into him too much as they took the curves too sharply.
They passed through the gates, Erientes turned his horses toward the mercantile ward near the wharf. The air thickened, salt and dampness layered over the sharper tang of pitch. The city’s face changed. The wide civic streets narrowed, the stonework was heavier here, purely functional. Warehouses squatted shoulder to shoulder, their doors banded in iron and marked with painted sigils to ward against thieves. Porters moved in slow, steady streams, bent under sacks, casks, and amphora, while clerks hovered nearby with tablets and reeds, marking careful tallies.
They passed beneath the shadow of the collegium, its colonnade rising solid and unadorned, built to impress through mass rather than grace. Peirlys felt its weight even from the street, the quiet authority of hoarded abundance, of men who decided which mouths were fed and which went hungry. Beyond it lay the lesser buildings, counting houses, moneychangers, an old shrine where sailors and merchants alike paused to brush fingers over worn stone before risking a season’s fortune. This was not a place pretending to virtue. Everything here had a price.
Erientes slowed to a stop outside the hall. “You can wait here, if you like,” he said as he stepped down and tied off his horses.
Peirlys tilted his head, considering. In many parts of the city, he would think nothing of venturing alone, but not here. He didn’t much care for these narrow, dingy streets or some of the unsavory characters eyeing him as they passed. “I’ll go with you, I think.”
“Of course.” Erientes offered him a hand. Peirlys hated that he needed it.
He fell into step behind Erientes as he mounted the hall steps, adjusting his posture, lowering his gaze. He knew this role. Quiet. Attentive. Properly submissive.
A pair of civic guards stepped aside as Erientes approached the entrance, and an attendant bowed deeply, ushering them inside. The air was cooler, scented with dust and incense. Light fell from high clerestory openings, washing the hall in pale bands across the mosaic floor. The space was long and basilica-like, its ceiling supported by thick stone columns, their capitals carved with ships, scales, and merchant marks instead of heroes or gods.
At the far end rose the dais, broad and shallow, with a semicircle of benches. Authority here was collective, egalitarian, at least in theory. Behind them stood an altar of black marble surrounding a gilded statue of their patron god, Metrios. His arms extended like scales, a pile of gold in one hand, a sheaf of wheat in the other, perfectly balanced.
A side door opened with a faint creak, and a man entered. He was not tall, but he carried himself with authority. Grey-haired and clean-shaven, his robes edged with a narrow purple band marking his office. His expression was polite and composed, but his eyes were shrewd, like all merchants.
“General Erientes,” he said, nodding his head as he approached. “You honor us with your presence.”
“The honor is mutual, Lord Teruso,” Erientes replied smoothly. “Though I wish it were under less pressing circumstances.”
Teruso’s mouth curved. “Pressing circumstances have a way of finding us all.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Peirlys, then away again, dismissive.
“Come.” He gestured toward the room he had just left. “Take some refreshment.”
He led them from the main hall into a smaller chamber, a tablinum. The walls were lined with shelves of ledgers and wax-sealed scrolls and rows of chests. At the center of the room stood a table, cleared of its usual clerical clutter and laid with a jug of wine, bowls of fruit, olives, and cheese.
“Please.” Teruso indicated a chair before pouring two calicis of wine. He offered one to Erientes.
He accepted it, but did not sit.
Peirlys remained by the door, eyes lowered, hands folded, doing his best to disappear into the background as he ought.
Teruso took a sip from his own cup before speaking. “I understand your quartermaster has requested additional allocations of grain and other supplies. Beyond what was already agreed upon.”
“Circumstances have changed. The Provincial Governor has redeployed the legion. We must be supplied.”
“I’m afraid the city’s stores do not grow simply because the army’s needs do.” He spoke mildly, but the refusal cut clean.
Tension tightened the air. This was a different kind of battlefield. No steel. No blood. Words, measured, precise, each one a test of ground.
Erientes leaned forward, bracing one hand on the table. “Your granaries and warehouses are full. Yet you forbid your merchants from honoring requisition writs.”
“The supplies are already under contract. Divert them, and the guild must answer for it.”
“To whom?” Erientes asked, his voice deceptively soft.
He met his gaze, unflinching. “To our clients and the council. To the mob, when hunger begins to bite too deep.”
A pause.
Then, casually, Teruso added, “And to certain members of the guild who have expressed strong objections to military requisitioning at this time.”
Peirlys’ breath caught before he could stop it.
Certain members.
Damarien.
His thoughts spiraled, too fast, too loud. His face, his voice, the grip of his hand on his throat. He shifted without meaning to, his sandal scraping faintly against tile.
Teruso’s eyes flicked to him again, lingering on his face, his plain tunic, his too-soft hands, and finally his throat. The half-healed burns where a collar should have been. His gaze sharpened.
Erientes moved instinctively, angling himself between them, hand settling on the hilt of his sword.
Teruso’s lips twitched, but he said nothing.
“Every citizen,” Erientes said, “be he patrician or plebian, serves His Imperial Majesty.”
“But of course,” Teruso replied, his attention returning.
“And those he appoints over them. Governors, for instance.”
Teruso set his cup down. “I understand you, General.”
“Understand this, then.” Erientes’ voice hardened. “My men are all that stand between your city, your trade routes, and the bloodthirsty barbarians beyond those hills. It would behoove the guild to keep on friendly terms. Whatever their personal objections might be.”
To Peirlys’ surprise, the guildsman smiled. It was thin, measured. “Perhaps there is room for…flexibility. Enough to see your legion through the first leg of its journey. I will speak with the guild council. The ban on your writs will be lifted. Partially. A limited release is all I can promise.”
“It is appreciated, my lord.”
“May the gods favor your campaign, General.”
Erientes inclined his head and turned away.
Peirlys followed, unsteady despite himself, their footsteps echoing through the empty hall as they made their way back toward the doors.
Peirlys stepped out, blinking against the light, too bright after the dim interior. Erientes was already down the steps, untying his horses, face grimly set. Peirlys ignored the unease twisting in his gut and hurried after him. He climbed up onto the seat as Erientes settled beside him.
With a sharp slap of the reins, the horses sprang into motion. They wound through narrow lanes before the streets widened and the fetid smell of the docks faded. They came out onto a main thoroughfare, crowded with carriages, carts, and foot traffic. Erientes had to slow his horses further to avoid a collision.
“Are you alright?” Erientes asked, tone clipped.
Peirlys glanced at him. His brows were drawn, his jaw clenched, his grip on the reins vicelike. “Are you?”
“I despise all that. The scheming, the deceit…”
“You’re adept at it.”
Erientes shot him a sharp look.
Peirlys countered with one of his most disarming smiles. “Have you considered politics?”
Erientes’ lips twitched, but he shook his head. “I should not have brought you there.”
“Am I so very delicate?”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t affected by what that bloodless cur said,” his tone was sharp again, “to think they would deny supplies to an entire legion—”
“Because of me.” He murmured, turning away to watch the people passing in the street. Performers, tradesmen, beggars, patricians reclining in litters carried on the shoulders of slaves.
“Because of Damarian’s accursed pride, more like.”
Peirlys flinched at the name. “You’d have no quarrel with him if it weren’t for me.”
Erientes exhaled slowly. He shifted the reins to one hand, placing the other on Peirlys’ where it gripped the hem of his tunic. His thumb stroked softly over his clenched knuckles until they relaxed, and he took his hand fully. “I would undertake far more for you.”
Why?
But he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
They left the city behind, heading back up the meandering road toward the camp. The noise and press of crowded streets fell away, replaced by open sky and late-summer fields. Peirlys exhaled, the unrest inside him easing for the moment. He shifted closer to Erientes, letting himself lean in, feel the warm solidity of him without the barrier of armor. Erientes’ hand did not leave his, a quiet reassurance, even as the camp’s banners came back into view, snapping in the falling light.