Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou! or any of the lands or characters therein. This is a work of fan fiction and I am receiving no profit for it.

Warnings: Slash, language, bondage, torture, GORE, RAPE,CHARACTER DEATH

Notes: Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. In addition to me starting a new, work-intensive college, this chapter was ridiculously difficult to write. I still hate most of it, but letting it sit wasn’t helping; the only cure was to write it out. The next one should be better. Thanks again for your patience and for reading!

!WARNING!: This chapter contains non-consensual sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

—Arbeit Macht Frei —
By Simbelmyne

———

And because I am happy and dance and sing,
they think they have done me no injury.

—William Blake

———
Tag Drei
———

"Pay cut."

Yozak tried to wrap his mind around the words as he wrapped his lips around the mouth of his bottle.

"Thirty percent. I would have told you last night, but no one could find you…”

Big Shimaron's strongest red wine couldn't soothe his anger today. Even knowing that he'd slipped it out of the king's private stores didn't make him feel better, but he drained the bottle anyway and licked his lips clean.

“His Majesty just thinks the work you're doing is… well, bad, Yozak. Sorry."

Bad work?

Safe in the privacy of his rotting office, Yozak brought the empty bottle down on his desk with a tremendous crash. The bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, which scattered themselves all over the floor like deadly confetti; the stem shattered in his hand, slicing long, clean lines through his gloves and nicking the calloused skin underneath. Yozak cursed fiercely as he swept the glass off his desk, scattering glittering shards across the floorboards.

This pay cut was retribution for Weller’s cheek and nothing more. Yozak knew it. The king didn’t care if four men died in his service—no, five! Make it five!—but Heaven forbid his new half-breed make a show of defiance.

Dolph, the current Captain of the Guard, had delivered the bad news. Yozak didn't blame Dolph; he liked Dolph just fine. Dolph was a good man. Out of all the captains Yozak had known over the years, Dolph was the best by leaps and bounds. He was one of the few people left in the palace who actually treated Yozak like a human. No, that wasn’t right. He was one of the few who treated Yozak like a person. Yozak was always grateful for that.

But still… bad work? His Majesty thought Yozak was doing bad work? That's because His Majesty couldn’t see beyond the end of Weller’s prick anymore. He couldn't see all the good work Yozak and his men were doing besides that. Klaus van Kneff had broken down just this morning after four days in the Maiden and given up a dozen other revolutionaries. Right now, the Watch was kicking in doors all around the city and dragging radicals off to the gallows, but did His Majesty care? Did he care if his reign was secure for another day?

No. Of course not. All he cared about anymore was Weller's thrice-damned cock.

Damn Conrad Weller. Damn him to glanced at the shattered bottle in drunken aggravation. Damn him for this, too. And damn whatever charm he held over the king. If it had been any other prisoner, Yozak would simply break his legs and let gangrene set in. Men talk more when they’re rotting to death.

But no, not the king’s pet half-breed. Yozak groaned into the crook of his elbow. Why did the most important project of his career also have to be the most difficult?

A knock at the door stirred him from his self-pitying train of thought. Yozak swept what was left of the bottle into his desk drawer before standing. His vision wavered. “Come… come in.”

One of Yozak’s apprentices, Matthias, poked his head in. “They’re bringing down the revolutionaries that van Kneff gave up. Where should I put them?”

Yozak leaned forward, bracing himself on the desk. The world swam slightly before his eyes. “Hn?”

Matthias came around the doorframe and walked towards Yozak’s desk. The rotting floorboards groaned underneath him. “Van Kneff’s partners in crime. The captain of the guard thinks that some of them could tell us more than van Kneff alone. Where do you want us to put them?”

Yozak rubbed his head and fumbled for his logbook. Brushing away some lingering glass shards, he set it down on his desk and began to flip through. “I think there’s some room in Block Three…maybe three or four cells…”

Matthias cleared his throat loudly, and Yozak looked up. Matthias was the more docile of Yozak’s apprentices, but he made up for his easygoing nature through his relentless passive-aggression. Yozak had learned to deal with it and recognize the young man’s telltale signs. That cough, for example, meant that Matthias didn’t like what he was hearing. “What?” he snapped. “What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s quite a few of them,” the young apprentice pointed out. “A dozen, at least. Shouldn’t we split them up?”

“All the other blocks are full,” Yozak growled, wishing he had a glass of something alcoholic right about now. “It’s either the third block or the headsman’s block. I don’t much care which anymore, but I guess you said Dolph wants us to question these?”

“Yes,” Matthias said, scratching the shell of his ear. That meant he knew something he thought Yozak didn’t know, but Yozak didn’t feel like playing games this morning. He just glared at his apprentice, staring him into submission with his one good eye, until the Matthias finally broke down and spoke plainly. “There’s at least ten open cells at the end of Bock Six.”

“I’m not putting them in Block Six,” Yozak grumped, sitting down suddenly and reaching for a pen. That should have been the end of the conversation. Of course, things were never that neat and tidy.

“Why not?” Matthias demanded, sounding more like a petulant child than a man approaching his prime. “There’s plenty of room down there. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to split them up?”

“No,” Yozak snapped, scribbling notes into his logbook. “Those cells need to kept empty for Conrad Weller.”

“You said you were going to keep Weller in the interrogation room from now on!” Matthias protested. It sounded more like a whine to Yozak and it made the space behind his eyes throb a little. The redhead covered his face with his hand and took a moment to collect himself. The king’s wine was stronger than he’d thought.

“I am,” he said after the pressure in his head had eased a bit. “But just in case something changes, I want to be able to put him back there with no problem.”

“In case what changes?” Matthias snapped, planting his hands on his hips.

“That’s it.” Yozak stood and slammed his hands down, rattling everything on his desk and making Matthias jump in surprise. His vision swam and swayed from the sudden movement, and it took a moment of calm, even breathing before Yozak could even lift his hands from the desk.

“Listen,” he growled, pointing his pen at Matthias like a weapon, “those cells need to be kept empty. That’s where Conrad Weller is going, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let His Majesty’s pet half-breed get hassled by some no-name revolutionaries who couldn’t even keep their heads out of their collective ass long enough to actually cause some chaos. If something else goes wrong—if someone makes even the smallest mistake—I’ll crack his idiot skull wide open with my bare hands.” Yozak sat down heavily, glaring. “And that’s that.”

Matthias glared back defiantly and crossed his arms over his chest, thoroughly pissed. “Then what should I do about the overcrowding, sir?”

“Make them a deal,” Yozak sighed into his hand. “The first ones to speak up with good information get to live, compliments of the kingdom. Execute the rest.”

Matthias nodded. “And what should I do about Weller, since you’re so concerned about his comfort?”

Yozak gave Matthias a dirty look. He’d have to do something about that cheeky attitude. “Tell them to let him stand. And let them know I’ll be there—”

“What’s this?” Matthias said suddenly, reaching out and catching the cuff of Yozak’s coat.

“Hn?” Yozak tried to pull his hand away, but Matthias held on tight. “Let go.”

“What’s this on your uniform? Looks like dirt.” Matthias examined Yozak’s coat with a sniff. “It’s all over you. You ought to take better care of your clothes, Captain. His Majesty wouldn’t like seeing you like this.”

“His Majesty doesn’t see me enough to care how I look,” Yozak grumbled, trying halfheartedly to tug his sleeve away.

Matthias let Yozak’s coat go and paused a moment to sniff the air disdainfully. “Maybe you should just avoid His Majesty altogether today. He’ll care about that smell all over you. You’re drunk, Gurrier.”

Yozak opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort about how he hardly cared what His Majesty thought anymore, but he wasn’t that drunk just yet. Instead he shrugged off Matthias’ hand and comment. “Just take care of Weller, then go sort out the new prisoners,” he said, shoving his logbook back into the drawer.

“Whatever you say, Captain,” Matthias said snidely as he turned to go. He closed the door, but Yozak could hear perfectly as his sardonic laughter echoed throughout the dungeon.

When he was sure Matthias was gone for the time being, Yozak retrieved a glass from another desk drawer and wiped the grime off its lip. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn’t have been so snappish. Matthias was generally one of Yozak’s most obedient underlings, but also tended to stay sore longer than anyone else on the staff when he was reprimanded. But really, Yozak reasoned as he poured himself some whiskey, if Matthias didn’t want to be yelled at, he shouldn’t be such a little brat.

Yes, he thought, throwing back his shot and resting his head on his desk again. That made good sense. Little brat.

Yozak stared at the door of his office, waiting for the whiskey to kick in. But brat or not, he had to admit that Matthias had a point. As much as he wanted to preserve the king’s pet from the other prisoners, it simply wasn’t practical for him to save all that space just for Weller. Especially not now, when the Watch was ripping apart another revolutionary group and hauling its members in for questioning.

He gnashed his teeth, suddenly angry. If Weller would just cooperate, then he wouldn’t have to play this stupid guessing game. Yozak stood suddenly, balancing himself on his chair as the world swayed. If Weller would just cooperate, Yozak could go back to dealing with his prisoners the normal way.

That was what was going to happen. He tossed the glass back into the drawer and slammed it decisively shut. Yes, today. Today he was going to get some kind of cooperation out of Weller. Yozak lurched towards the door of his office, supporting his wobbling frame on his cane and using the walls to guide him out. All right, perhaps Matthias was right and he was a bit drunk. That didn’t change anything. By the end of today, god willing, Weller was either going to be singing like a bird or weeping in pain. Yozak didn’t really care which anymore.

———

Conrad wanted to die.

He cast a weary glance at the heavy door. After a seemingly unending night of agony, humans had finally come in and lowered him. He almost wished they hadn’t; his body had gone mercifully numb hours ago, giving him a brief respite. Now his arms and legs were coming back to life, and his muscles were shrieking in pain all over again.

Conrad moaned softly into his chest. He didn’t feel right. He must have sustained new injuries during the night. Something in his body was ripped or broken—maybe more than one thing. He didn’t dare move to find out what.

He turned his mind to other things, trying to distract himself from his battered body. The pungent smell of his own filth crept into his nose, foul and heady. Conrad closed his eyes, humiliated by his own body’s functions. At least in the cell he’d had a bucket to use. There was no hiding from his foulness in here; the stink of sweat and waste filled the tiny room like a fog. If he’d had any food in his stomach, Conrad would have retched.

Food. Even in such a stench, Conrad could still think wistfully of food. It had been two whole days now since he’d eaten, and he was starting to feel the effects of deprivation. His stomach growled futilely every now and again. Conrad wished it would just keep quiet. He knew he was hungry; he didn’t need to be reminded every two minutes.

Even more than food, though, Conrad desperately needed water. His cheeks were salty and stained with the remnants of the tears of pain he’d cried throughout the night. Foolish of him, he thought ruefully. Now he didn’t even have enough water left in him to spit. They’d have to give him something to drink eventually—to keep him alive, if nothing else. Until then, though, Conrad resolved, he’d have to conserve every drop of water he could.

A draft swept through the room as the door to the outside opened, and Conrad’s wandering mind snapped back to the present. Frigid wind curled around his bare skin, chilling his bones and making him tremble. He squared his jaw and clenched his fists, doing his best to calm himself as a lackey pushed the door open firmly and Gurrier stood, bathed in torchlight from the hallway.

Conrad watched evenly as Gurrier hobbled in, slamming the door shut behind him with his strong leg; the lock clicked from the outside. The interrogator looked slovenly today, Conrad thought: his hair was disheveled and filthy; his jacket was buttoned incorrectly; and there were dark, dirty patches covering almost his entire uniform. Over the stink of the cell, Conrad could smell the wine clinging to the interrogator. That was strange. From their few encounters, Conrad had gotten the feeling that Gurrier took some sort of perverse pride in his ghastly work. Surely he wouldn’t really come intoxicated…

“Smells like shit in here,” Gurrier growled suddenly, turning his good eye on Conrad. “You didn’t shit yourself, did you, mangy thing?”

Conrad’s cheeks burned with shame and rage in spite of himself. He’d been tied up like this all night with no way or place to relieve himself. What did Gurrier expect would happen? Conrad gritted his teeth, trying his best to stay silent. And anyway, wasn’t this all just another part of his tormentor’s grand plan to grind him down?

“What time is it?” Conrad rasped after a moment as Gurrier puttered shakily around the room.

“ ‘s not important,” Gurrier slurred. Conrad stared in amazement as the interrogator stumbled over his own feet, just barely catching himself on the wall.

“Are you… drunk?” he asked in disbelief.

Gurrier turned his whole body around unsteadily to face Conrad, leaning slightly on the wall to keep himself standing erect. “So what if I am?”

Conrad stared for a long moment before turning his face away again.

“Hey!” Gurrier barked, striding over and shaking Conrad’s shoulder roughly. “Look at me! You got something to say!”

Still turned away, Conrad said nothing.

“Don’t you look away!” Gurrier snapped, storming over to Conrad with surprising speed. He grabbed Conrad’s shoulders and shook them roughly. “Don’t you ignore me!”

A sharp pain cut through Conrad as Gurrier’s rough treatment sent a shock through his entire body; he gritted his teeth to restrain himself. Now he could feel his injury for sure: his shoulders had been damaged during the night. Ripped, it felt like, and Gurrier’s rough treatment wasn’t helping. He wanted to make a cutting remark that would send the drunken idiot reeling, but he didn’t dare. He’d said too much all ready.

The human sneered, an ugly expression made even more hideous by haze of drunkenness hanging around him. “You think you’ll keep that from me too, do you?” With a snort of disgust, Gurrier reached up to wrap one of his hands—very strong hands, Conrad noticed with a shiver of trepidation—around Conrad’s neck. “Oh, no, Weller. You’re done keeping your secrets.”

The hand around his throat made his heart beat just a bit faster, but Conrad stayed stubbornly silent. There was nothing this drunken idiot could do to him—

Gurrier took a step closer and pressed his broad chest against Conrad’s.

Conrad’s pulse fluttered suddenly with fear and he struggled, trying futilely to put space between them again. This was too much. This was much too close. He didn’t want any of Belal’s men this close to him, ever. From this distance Conrad could smell and feel Gurrier’s foul breath on his face. Not only did the human reek of wine, but also mud, garbage, and filth.

It took a moment to master his fear, but Conrad did. He took a calming breath to steady his shaky voice. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to train you, aren’t I?” the human growled, rubbing his thumb inelegantly over the muscles of Conrad’s throat. “Gotta find out what secrets you’re hiding away before I get you in shape for His Majesty.”

“And you’re doing such a fine job of both,” Conrad said dryly. He would never betray it, but he was nervous. Being touched by his human captors at all was bad enough. But Gurrier had a peculiar look in his eyes as he stroked Conrad’s throat, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss Conrad or strangle him. That half-crazed look in the interrogator’s eyes was far more frightening than anything Conrad had been faced with so far…because he couldn’t predict what would come next. That anticipation was more torturous than anything else.

“Fuck you,” Gurrier said casually, tightening his grip slightly on Conrad’s throat. “I bet you think this is a game, don’t you? Bet you think that there’s something worth holding out for, right? That you’ll escape?” He sneered, digging his fingers into Conrad’s neck. “You won’t. I’ve been trying for fifty years, and look what it’s gotten me: a fucked-up leg and a worthless eye.”

Even as he fought down the fear of being strangled, Gurrier’s last statement gave him pause. That didn’t make sense. The human didn’t look a day over forty, at the most—

Gurrier suddenly struck him hard on the hip. Conrad’s legs, strained from a night of agonizing stretching, flared up painfully again, and he cried out again in spite of himself. Conrad gritted his teeth. The pain was bearable. He could take it.

The interrogator stared at him for a long moment, as if waiting for a reply, before scoffing. “No one ever escapes from here,” he continued in a growl, pushing back and grinding Conrad’s hips painfully into the stone wall. “Least of all you. You’d never make it out of the castle by yourself. And who do you think would help you? Not anyone with a lick of sense. We all know what His Majesty wants you for.”

Conrad’s skin crawled at the insinuation. The urge to insult this pathetic drunk was strong; it took every ounce of his training to bite his tongue. There was no point in resorting to his mantra again; it was useless now. He’d killed it when he’d risen to Belal’s bait yesterday. All he had to fight with now was his silence.

“I will break you.” Gurrier dug his fingers into Conrad’s hips. “You’re going to crack, you’re going to tell me everything, and then he’s going to use you until he dies.” He twisted his fingers in the ratty laces of Conrad’s trousers. “That’s a promise.”

This was obviously some sort of mental torture, Conrad reasoned. There was no chance that Belal would let his grubby toadies have their way with his…his ‘pet.’ Still, he couldn’t keep himself from asking again, “What are you doing?”

The interrogator grinned viciously. “Making you ready, of course,” he replied, tearing the threadbare laces apart with a firm jerk. “Didn’t you hear my promise? Don’t you think I’ll keep my word?”

Conrad’s heart beat faster as he watched the human toss the ruined laces disdainfully on the ground. Surely, Gurrier didn’t mean to—

“Do not touch me,” he said firmly.

“Pah,” the redhead sneered; he ran his rough, ugly hands over Conrad’s hips and glanced up. Conrad’s stomach tightened as he met his tormentor’s icy blue eye: as barren and unforgiving as the winter sky. “As if you could order me around.”

“Don’t touch me!” Conrad barked, his heart leaping into his throat as Gurrier hooked his dirty, gnarled fingers into his waistband. He shouldn’t be afraid, he knew he shouldn’t be afraid, but the half-crazed, primal look in Gurrier’s eyes and those weathered hands working towards his most delicate skin was enough to scare even Conrad Weller. “I’m warning you! Don’t!”

“Or what?” Gurrier asked mockingly as he shoved his hands inelegantly into Conrad’s trousers. Conrad swore and bucked his hips furiously, trying to defend himself in any way from those calloused fingers skirting over his skin. Thrashing like a fish out of water hurt his injured body terribly, but he wasn’t going to just hang there and let Gurrier do—do this to him! “You’ll kill some more soldiers? Sorry—I’m not actually stupid enough to give you thatopportunity!”

Gurrier yanked Conrad’s tattered trousers down to his knees to emphasize his point and Conrad spat. His final, desperate show of defiance landed on the interrogator’s coat, but it didn’t impress or discourage Gurrier at all. He didn’t even pause to wipe Conrad’s expectoration off his lapel.

“I get that all the time.” The interrogator sneered, looking down at the mess on his coat—then looking past it, farther down. “Well, would you look at that?” he breathed, fascinated by what was glancing back up at him. “You’re already a little hard.”

“Don’t you touch me,” Conrad ground out through clenched teeth. His heart was pounding away in his chest like a stampede; he could hear it echoing throughout the cell. “Don’t you ever touch me.”

“You like humiliation, Weller? It gets you all fired up?” Gurrier asked silkily, almost coyly. “That’s good.” His calloused fingertips whispered past the sensitive ridges of Conrad’s skin, sending a shiver through Conrad’s aching body that gave way to a murmur of pain.

“No.” Conrad shook his head despite his aches. “No.”

“Well, you’d better learn to like it,” Gurrier said matter-of-factly, seizing Conrad’s leggings and pulling them off the rest of the way. “This is how things are going to be for you from now on.”

Conrad gasped and quivered as his meager protection slid down his thighs to pool in a sad cloth puddle around his feet. Gurrier noticed his shiver and his face split into an expression that was more of a grimace than any sort of mocking smile Conrad had seen yet. “What was that? You cold?”

Conrad’s heart fluttered in his chest like a floundering bird. He stared into Gurrier’s remaining eye, and he was sure now there was no soul beyond it. “No.”

“Let’s warm you up, then.”

Gurrier lurched forward and grabbed him by his half-hard cock, as casually and purposefully as if he was opening a door. Conrad shouted, twisted his hips, and jerked on his manacles as his body seized up with primal terror.

Get off. Get off, get off, get off—

“Get off of me!” Conrad roared, trying hopelessly to tear his manacles from the stone so he could crush this disgusting human’s throat. “Don’t touch me!”

“You should get used to it!” Gurrier barked over Conrad’s struggle. “They tell me Belal treats all his favorite pets like this!”

“Go to hell!” Consumed with pain and fear, struggling uselessly against the human, it took Conrad a moment to realize an unexpected sensation growing within him. Fear was raging through him, giving him the strength to ignore his pain—and almost masking the hard, desperate swell of lust building within his core.

Conrad opened his mouth in a voiceless shriek as Gurrier pressed even closer, oppressive and inescapable. His body was actually responding to the rough treatment.

“See?” Gurrier laughed in his face; his foul breath and horrible, gritty voice surrounded Conrad and smothered him. “I told you you’d learn to like it!”

“You bastard!” Conrad shook his head, trying in vain to escape Gurrier’s fetid breath and spiteful voice. “I’ll kill you for this!”

“Not likely,” the interrogator sneered, pressing his forehead firmly against Conrad’s, forcing his last free limb back against the wall. He squeezed painfully hard with his busy hand, forcing a gasping, choked wail out of Conrad. Pinned like a butterfly under glass, there was nothing Conrad could do but struggle and listen. “No one ever escapes from here. You’re going to break sooner or later and you’re going to tell me everything.” Another little squeeze, digging in with his nails now this time to spark a desire in the pit of Conrad’s stomach that he’d never felt before. Conrad bit his lip to hold back a shriek. “Then he’s going to take you, and he’s going to play with you until you lose your mind. Then he’ll keep you around for fun until he dies.

“But it doesn’t end there.” Gurrier pressed his grinning face into the crook of his captive’s neck, grazing his teeth threateningly across Conrad’s throat. Conrad’s knees shook slightly with fear and the false, perverse lust Gurrier was forcing on him. “He’ll write you into his will and leave you for his son. Hail to the new king—same as the old king!”

The redhead twisted his busy hand painfully, forcing a moan from Conrad. “Then his son will use you up. If you’re lucky, you’ll get sick and die before him. But you’re a hardy man, aren’t you? Poor thing. You’ll probably live to see his son’s son.” Gurrier laughed woodenly. “Halfbloods have it the worst in Big Shimaron. They’re just passed from one master to the next until they finally die!”

“Lying…son of a…bitch…” Conrad ground out, trying to deny the desperate pleasure growing inside him. He couldn’t deny the hot, sticky breath reeking of wine on his face, though, or the bony skull grinding his head back into the wall like a pestle into a mortar. Even that revolting pleasure clawing away at his insides was growing too intense to contain. Conrad moaned reluctantly, mixing it with a scream, as he realized the awful truth: Gurrier’s rough treatment and hateful words were actually going to make him—

“NO!” Conrad twisted his whole body at once, thrashing so wildly against the wall he felt as though he’d ripped something inside. “Stop! I don’t want this! I don’t!”

“Nobody here cares what you want!” Gurrier roared, pulling back his head slightly to scream in Conrad’s face. “Shut up and listen! Nobody fucking cares what you want! Nobody fucking cares!”

Conrad barely heard him. A curious buzzing sound was welling up in his ears, blocking out the terror around him and giving him an instant of clarity. He was not going to come for this drunken shell of a man. His body belonged to him, and this red-haired animal wasn’t going to take it from him so easily. No matter how much pain he had to endure for it, he was going to preserve his freedom.

When Gurrier screamed, Conrad seized the opportunity. The redhead drew back his head and Conrad slammed his forward like a battering ram against a castle door. Their skulls collided with a crash that echoed through the little chamber and made Conrad’s vision blur.

“Little shit!” Gurrier barked as he stumbled away, holding his head and swearing loudly. Conrad ignored him, gasping for air. Those filthy hands were gone for now. His boy thrummed with unwelcome excitement, but the frigid dungeon air was already cooling off his overheated skin. He dropped his head down, greedily breathing in sweet, cool air as if he’d just been racing for his life.

A feral growl urged him to glance up for an instant, and Conrad’s heart leapt up into his throat. Gurrier was standing just out of arms’ length, pressing the reddening welt on his forehead and glaring at Conrad with a look so full of hate, the brunet’s skin crawled. Gurrier clenched his free hand—the hand he had been using to torment Conrad—and in spite of himself, Conrad’s knees quaked slightly. No. No, no, no…

Gurrier’s hand came flying towards him and Conrad shut his eyes.

“Fucking human!”

The crack of bone striking bone rang out in the little chamber like a gunshot. If the manacles hadn’t been keeping him up, the force of the blow would have sent Conrad rolling across the floor. His knees gave out from the force of the blow and for a long moment he hung there, stunned.

It took a long moment of careful thought to process what had happened. Gurrier had hit him again. Gurrier had hit him again, but that was it; those filthy, calloused hands had finally stopped pawing at his skin.

“You son of a bitch!” Gurrier barked suddenly, startling Conrad into looking up. “Don’t you ever call me that again!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Conrad growled. He tried to look Gurrier in the eye, to defiantly stare down his captor with one seething glace, but found he couldn’t—not while he could still feel those rough touches on his body. He focused on Gurrier’s throat instead. “It’s what you are.”

“Shut up!” Gurrier barked, balling his fists again. “I’m as much of a human as you are!”

“You…?” Conrad stared in amazement. This man—this cruel, despicable shell of a man—this gutless toady timidly serving New Makoku’s mortal enemy—was a half-breed, too?

“That’s right,” the redhead snarled. “Can’t you see it in this hair?” He grabbed a handful of his bright orange hair for emphasis. “This eye? Everyone else can! Everyone in this palace knows I’m a mongrel, down to the fucking cesspit cleaners!”

“Liar!” Conrad shouted back. What was this, some sort of idiotic attempt at bonding? Not while he could still smell Gurrier’s vinegary breath on his neck. “What do you think, that you and I are alike! Do you think that makes us similar! Do you expect me to drop my guard and tell you everything now?” He could feel himself trembling with rage. “If you were a half-breed, you wouldn’t be working for Belal, you lying human bastard!”

“You want proof!” Gurrier spat, intruding into Conrad’s space again and ripping open his uniform jacket. The redhead pulled up his undershirt, turning slightly so Conrad could see the two thin, red tattoos branded across his right bicep.

“There!” he spat, thrusting his brand into Conrad’s face. “There! Look at them! They don’t do this to humans in Shimaron! Only mongrels get branded! There’s your proof, you son of a bitch!”

Gurrier’s final blow sent Conrad to the moon and left him seeing stars. They brunet slumped down against the wall, dizzily blinking the lights out of his eyes. Far away at the bottom of a well, he could hear Gurrier’s erratic footsteps heading for the door. Gurrier’s echoing voice calling for someone. The door opened and closed, opened and closed, giving way to chilly, drafty silence—then Conrad’s world slipped into darkness and he knew no more.

———

Yozak collapsed into his office chair with a sigh.

His head hurt. His hands hurt. His heart hurt. He folded his arms up on his desk and nestled his head into the little hollow, as if that could protect him from the outside world. It was a worthless effort though; now that the drink was wearing off, he was awake and aware of everything he’d said and done—with a headache, to boot. It made him want to pick up the bottle all over again.

Yozak threaded his fingers through his filthy hair, assessing the situation. He still knew nothing about Weller, but Weller now had a critical piece of information about him. The prisoner couldn’t do anything with it, of course—everyone who worked in the castle knew Yozak was a half-breed—but just the fact that knew that was enough to make Yozak worry.

It was times like this he wished he had someplace outside the palace to go home to. Even a little shack on the edge of the city…just somewhere else to retreat and collect his thoughts. Decompress. He’d like that…a nice little shack with a sturdy roof, a clean floor, and a hearth with plenty of wood. Maybe he’d even get a bed with a straw mattress, instead of a cot. And while he was dreaming, a wife would be nice, too. Coming home to a hot meal and a warm bed…what a wonderful dream. Too bad that was all it would ever be.

“I saw what you did in there,” Ignatz said.

Yozak threw his hand up for protection immediately, practically falling out of his chair as he frantically groped for his walking stick. When he realized whom it was he sat back down, his face hot with embarrassment. “When did you sneak in?”

“Just a minute ago,” Ignatz replied. Yozak could see him fighting to conceal a smirk. “I saw you leave Weller’s cell.”

“Mmm.” Yozak shuffled some paper on his desk in an attempt to look both busy and sober. “What else did you see?”

“I saw how you left him in there,” Ignatz said, giving Yozak a curious look that the redhead couldn’t quite place. “I thought you didn’t want to dirty your hands like that.”

“I didn’t,” Yozak replied, fiddling with a sheet of paper to avoid meeting Ignatz’s eyes. “But Conrad Weller won’t break with pain alone. I’ve known that since he got here. It doesn’t matter how many beatings we give him. I tried something different.”

“Someone else might get a different impression,” Ignatz said, a touch of warning in his voice. “Especially since you’re fumbling around with His Majesty’s intended, and you and Weller both being what you are…”

There was a very pregnant pause. Yozak looked up from his fiddling to find his assistant staring pointedly at him.

“…point taken,” Yozak muttered, worrying at his lip anew. He could feel a tear in the skin starting.

“It just doesn’t look good is all I’m saying, sir,” Ignatz finished.

“No. I guess it doesn’t.” He bit at the little tear, ripping it free. A trickle of warm blood seeped into Yozak’s mouth; he sucked at it hungrily. “You better go cover him up for me before anyone sees him, then. Then get some of the others to heal him up and take him back to his other cell.”

Ignatz quirked an eyebrow. Yozak used his injured lip as an excuse to look away, rummaging in his pocket for a clean handkerchief. “If you say so, sir.”

“And some water,” Yozak called as Ignatz turned to go. “I think he can be trusted with it. Just a little, though.”

Ignatz nodded without turning around and left without another word.

Yozak leaned back in his chair again, dabbing at his lip. Ignatz wouldn’t tell anyone. If there was one person in the palace he could trust with his secrets, it was Ignatz. At least, Ignatz was the only one whose voice didn’t drip with sarcasm when he called Yozak “sir.” That had to count for something in this place.

Still, he shouldn’t need to keep his techniques a secret. The king had made it clear from his coronation that he didn’t care what Yozak did, so long as he got results quickly and stayed out of sight. That was easy enough to do when the redhead was left to his own devices. Not to mention that he’d given permission for the use of such force before. Why should this incident be any different than any other?

“Because it’s Conrad Weller,” Yozak reminded himself, annoyed. And because the king really couldn’t see beyond the end of Weller’s prick anymore. And because when they finally took Weller up to the king’s chambers, His Majesty wasn’t going to want to smell Yozak’s soap and sweat all over his little pet’s neck.

Ignatz was right. Yozak was loath to admit it, but he wasn’t going to fight the truth. He’s simply have to find some other way to break down Weller’s defenses. It wasn’t going to be easy, but after fifty years of breaking kneecaps and crushing skulls, he’d learned more than a few good tricks.

———

Cold air wafted over his face, gently coaxing Conrad back into consciousness. He tried to sit up, but a multitude of hands forced him back down again. He didn’t bother to fight it. He knew what had happened without even opening his eyes. His head felt like it had been split open with a hatchet. Gurrier’s doing, no doubt. For a crippled old man, that redhead could throw a hell of a right hook. He must have been a brawler in his heyday.

“Mongrel said his toes are probably broken. Better go get a healer or two down here.”

“Right.”

“Get a good one. We don’t want them half-assing it on this prisoner. He’s special.”

“Got it.”

The humans were talking, most likely about him. Conrad didn’t care. It didn’t matter what they were saying or who they were. Every human in this pit was as bad as any other. And Gurrier was worse than any of them.

“His toes ain’t the only things probably broken. Look at this jaw.” A firm gloved hand grabbed his face. Conrad felt some loose teeth scraping against each other. “Look at these bruises. Did the mongrel do this too?”

“Probably. He’s always leaning on that cane, but he can still break a jaw or two if he’s feeling good.”

Conrad tuned out their voices easily enough; they were nothing but flunkies and bootlickers. He was too weak to start a fight with them, but they couldn’t hurt him, either. At least, not anymore than he’d already been hurt. Belal wouldn’t have it.

He tensed slightly. No. Belal wasn’t his protector. That was absurd. Belal was the reason he was trapped in a cage and being beaten on an hourly basis. Belal was his jailer, and the only reason he wasn’t chained up in the king’s bedroom was because he still had some strength to fight.

…at least, he’d thought he’d had the strength to fight. Phantom warmth flared up where those dirty hands had been at the thought, like brands emblazoned across his skin that only Conrad could sense. He shuddered.

“Wonder what the mongrel did to him. He hasn’t been this well-behaved since he got here.”

“Not sure. They say Gurrier’s the best at what he does, though. That’s why His Majesty keeps him around.”

He’d thought that Gurrier couldn’t hurt him either, though. The human…no, that wasn’t right. The redhead had shattered those illusions completely. He’d been so sure that he could hold out, that he could keep his wits about him long enough to escape—that he could keep anyone from pawing at him…

And just look at him now. His second day here—or was it third? Maybe fourth?—and the humans were already rubbing their filthy hands all over him. And he was letting them.

What did it matter, though? Honestly? Why bother to fight them? What was the point of fighting now? He’d never escape this dungeon through brute force alone.

“Sir? Ignatz is here to patch him up.”

“Then let him in.”

And that was the rub, wasn’t it? There was no way to fight his way to freedom now. He was too weak from hunger, cold, and thirst to think about a second assault on the guards; they wouldn’t even need ahouryoku priest to beat him into submission a second time. Even if he managed to get out of the dungeon by some stroke of luck, there would still be guards waiting for him in the castle proper—well-trained, heavily-armed guards who would be more than happy to die trying to catch the king’s runaway pet.

Force was doomed to failure here. Conrad accepted it with a silent sigh.

“Welcome back.”

“Ido have other prisoners to attend to, Gottlob. Why don’t you call Adele? She’s much better at this than I am.”

“She won’t touch a mongrel.”

‘Where the lion’s skin falls short, it must be eked out with the fox’s.’ Some long-dead bard had uttered that once and it came unbidden now to Conrad’s thoughts. He really was more of a lion than a fox, if one were to stretch the metaphor a bit. Even now, as he lay on the dungeon floor with so many human hands gently restraining him, the only reasonable response seemed to be to fight. And Conrad knew from experience that that wasn’t a reasonable response at all.

“Such a compassionate soul. What about Warner?”

“You remember what happened the last time someone put him in charge of a mongrel.”

“How could I forget? I get to see the living proof of his incompetence every day.”

But just because he was a lion didn’t mean he couldn’t shroud himself in a fox pelt if needed. He’d been captured, yes. He’d been battered, yes. But he hadn’t been beaten yet. He was weak, but he still had his wits about him. As long as his brain was working and his heart was beating, he’d be able to connive his way out of here. One way or another.

“So, are you going to patch him up or what?”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice, do I?”

Thin, willowy fingers skittered across his jaw and chest, as light as a spider dancing over water. Conrad was tempted to open his eyes to see who in this pit could belong to such a delicate pair of hands, but decided against it. Whoever it was, he was still human, and still Conrad’s enemy. Instead he opened his ears, tuning into the voices around him he’d been ignoring.

“His jaw doesn’t seem broken, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s lost a tooth or two,” the owner of the gentle hands said. The hands left him briefly before lightly touching his toes. Sharp pain flared up through his feet at even that feather-light touch, and Conrad bit back a shriek. The hands left him. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Someone pressed something hard and cool against the top of his foot. Conrad tensed up, prepared for another onslaught of pain, but instead a warm, prickling feeling radiated out from the object. Comforting warmth enveloped his foot, followed by a curious movement, and his stomach lurched as he suddenly realized the curious feeling in his feet was his bones rearranging and healing themselves. After a long tense moment, the human withdrew the object and applied it to his other foot, with the same curious, almost frightening sensation. When the healing stone was withdrawn entirely, Conrad couldn’t help noticing that his toes were peculiarly itchy.

“Give him a cup tonight. Just a small one,” the owner of the gentle hands breathlessly when he had finished. Whoever this healer was, he was surprisingly kind for a human working in Belal’s dungeon.

Intrigued by his mysterious benefactor, Conrad finally opened his eyes. Thehouryoku priest who had foiled his escape attempt looked back down at him. Conrad could see the young human much more clearly now than the last time they met. High cheekbones, thin lips, pale green eyes and brown hair, all tied together with the lightest dusting of freckles…a kind, attractive face, and it was all Conrad could do not to smash his fist into it.

“Back to his cell, then?”

The priest nodded. “Have him carried. He shouldn’t walk for a few hours.”

Someone Conrad couldn’t see groaned. “So why even bother to heal him if he still can’t walk? Seems pretty silly to me.”

The priest sighed imperceptibly; only Conrad saw the sudden rise and fall of his chest. “If his toes warp because he walked on them too soon after being healed, the only thing to do is break them again.”

“Sounds fine to me,” the unseen man said.

The houryoku priest glowered. “I have better things to do than heal the same injury over and over again all day. Would you please just bring him back to the cell?”

“Fine, fine. Don’t get your dress into a knot.”

Strong, huge hands grabbed his wrists, yanking him up towards the ceiling; another pair grabbed his ankles. Conrad groaned softly as dull pain pulsed through his limbs like a heartbeat. The ceiling swung wildly above him before finally settling into place. He hung limply between the two unseen thugs, not resisting at all as they carried him back to his cell like a slaughtered lamb. It was an indignity he never thought he’d suffer, and if it had happened but a few days ago, he would have thrashed and swore and threatened. Now, it was nothing compared to the other indignities he’d suffered.

He wouldn’t tell them anything, but he would cooperate with them otherwise—for the time being. Another opportunity would present itself eventually. All Conrad had to do was recognize it when it came and seize his chance.

And when he finally left this place, walking tall on his own two feet, he’d take Gurrier’s cruel hands with him in his knapsack.