"I am prince of nothing," Yvain said quietly, reaching down to lift Zelhara from her knees. His hand was steady, though his eyes were not.
Zelhara rose slowly, her posture, once elegant and sure, now bore a subtle unease. She smoothed her gown, then inclined her head in deference.
"Permit me to ask, my lord," she said, choosing her words with care, "what brings the heirs of Dehmohseni to Yelich? And… why didn't the Grandmistress inform me of your arrival?"
There was no accusation in her voice.
"It's confidential," Yvain replied quickly. "We weren't supposed to come here. But we ran out of marks… and we needed shelter."
It was a lie, and not a well-crafted one. But Zelhara didn't press.
Instead, her face lit up with purpose.
"I can solve both problems," she said, her eagerness slipping past the edges of her practiced poise. "There are guest chambers on this floor—quiet, secure, and enchanted for privacy. If you wish to remain here, the Menagerie is at your full disposal. And should you require coin…" She gave a graceful little bow. "My vault is open to you. No sum too small or large."
She smiled now, and there was something almost conspiratorial in it. "You may also partake in the pleasures of the house, of course. My girls will be honored to serve you. In every way."
Celeste clapped her hands once, delighted. "That sounds lovely. We should wash up first, though. We stink of road."
Zelhara gave a knowing laugh and stepped toward the door. "I'll send for Areshi, she's one of my oldest girls. She'll show you to the bathhouse and bring anything you require. Robes, oils, food. Or company."
Areshi arrived not long after, quiet as breath. She was young, mid twenties, with pale, glassy skin like glazed porcelain and hair the color of polished gold. Her eyes shimmered faintly with magic, and her voice, when she greeted them, was soft as lilac wind.
"This way," she said with a courteous tilt of the head.
She led them down a velvet-draped hallway and through a pair of arched doors into the bathhouse.
It was vast, larger than any single room had a right to be. Mist hung in thick, languid coils above the heated water, which rippled faintly beneath enchantments. Candles flickered in sconces carved like lilies, casting golden light through the vapor. The air smelled of lilacs and warm skin, of mineral salts and lavender oil. It was humid, sensual, disarming.
Yvain sat on a stool in the corner, arms folded over his knees, trying not to look too hard at anything.
Celeste, with characteristic nonchalance, allowed Areshi to undress her. She slipped from her travel-stained clothes like a snake shedding skin, utterly unbothered by eyes, his or anyone's.
Naked and unashamed, she dove into the bath in a single fluid motion, body slicing through the water without a ripple. She surfaced only to drift upside down like a drowned nymph, hair fanned out like ink in water.
Areshi turned to Yvain next. Her movements were graceful, almost ceremonial. But he saw it, something in her posture, in the quiet control of her breath.
"You're awakened," he said.
She paused, just slightly. "I am, milord," she confirmed. "An apprentice under Mistress Zelhara."
He nodded. "She treats you well?"
"She does." Her gaze didn't flinch. "She tries for us all. Every girl here was orphaned. Some were worse than orphans, discarded things. The Menagerie gave us more than food and safety. It gave us purpose."
She unfastened her silken wrap as she spoke, letting it fall in a rustle like water over stone. She was bare beneath.
Yvain averted his gaze, but not fast enough.
"In exchange," he murmured, "you work for her."
Areshi stepped closer. The mist curled around her calves as she moved. "The world is not perfect, milord. Though you may wish it to be."
She straddled him with slow, measured ease, her body warm from the steam, her breath honeyed.
"Does this please you?" she asked.
Yvain leaned back against the tiled wall, jaw tight. He didn't answer at once. She was beautiful—divinely so—and he was only human. The smell of her skin, the weight of her gaze, the magic in the air—it all stirred something deeper than mere desire. It stirred confusion.
"You do this because she orders it," he said quietly.
"Yes," she admitted. "But I do not mind. You are a dashing man, milord. And not all obedience is unpleasant."
She leaned in, lips brushing his.
And then she kissed him.
Soft at first, testing. Tender. Then deeper.
He did not resist.
Areshi was an enchanter, like her mistress.
And though augurs were trained to resist such influences, though the breath within them was sharpened against seduction, glamour, suggestion, Yvain let it take him.
He allowed the spell to seep into the seams of his will, not because he was weak, but because, in that moment, he wanted to feel something simple. Wanted to be wanted. Or, at least, to pretend that he was.
Her touch was deliberate. Skilled. Not merely sensual but sculpted, as if intimacy was her artform. Her hands roamed the ridges of his shoulders, down his chest, unfastening buttons and bindings with languid patience. She undressed him the way one might disarm a beast. Kneading, tracing, feeling every breath, every tremor beneath the skin.
Steam curled around them like ghostly veils as their garments fell away, piece by piece, until they stood bare before each other, two bodies, two souls.
From the edge of the bath, Celeste emerged like a siren rising from the deep. Water clung to her in pearls, her dark hair slicked against her back, her eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
A smirk curled her lips.
"Does this please you?" Areshi murmured, lips brushing the hollow of his throat as her fingers moved to his hips.
Yvain didn't answer immediately. His breath caught between the softness of her mouth and the sharpness of his own doubt.
Then he said, quietly, "Does it please you?"
Areshi drew back just far enough to meet his gaze. Her smile was slow, sly, a vixen's grin dipped in honey and smoke.
"Make love to me," she whispered, voice like velvet binding around his chest.
Yvain rose to his full height, his arms strong around her thighs as he lifted her easily, carried by a momentum he didn't fully understand, and didn't care to resist. She wrapped around him without fear, without uncertainty. There was no innocence here, only invitation.
But something in him resisted.
As Areshi leaned in, breath warm against his skin, he felt his hands still, like they'd hit something invisible and immovable inside himself.
His grip softened.
Gently, he set her down, his chest rising and falling with a breath that wasn't quite steady. She blinked in surprise, her smile faltering for the first time.
"Not like this," he said, voice low.
He reached for a robe and pulled it tightly around himself, the belt cinched too tight, as though trying to keep something inside from spilling out. He didn't look at her again.
Areshi said nothing.
Yvain turned and walked to the door.
As it opened, the heat of the bathhouse spilled into the coolness of the corridor. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of Celeste laughing.
He didn't turn back.
He didn't care what she thought. Not now.
The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel of shadows and velvet. His footsteps fell quietly, barefoot against the stone, but inside, everything was noise. A storm of dissonance.
He wasn't sure what he was angry at.
The world, perhaps, for how it broke beautiful things and then dressed up the ruins in silk. At Celeste, for enjoying her own unraveling. At Areshi, maybe, for offering herself with such disarming honesty. Or at Zelhara, for training her girls in beauty and enchantment, then binding them to service.
But most of all, he was angry at himself.
For wanting it. For almost taking it.
For pretending, that he was any different.
Hypocrite, the word hissed in his mind.
Pretender. Prince of nothing. Tyrant in waiting.
But he kept walking, because there was nowhere else to go.