Exhaustion swamped Harald like a lead cloak. When had he eaten last? He’d not had a bite today, hadn’t eaten the day before.

Normally he’d have collapsed by now, but the demon had done something to him, restored him in some fashion, so that he was only exhausted, not delirious.

Still. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked so much, been through so many trials, without a restorative meal or glass of wine.

Woozy, he considered just stumbling upstairs to collapse in bed.

But no.

He was filthy. Bloody.

“Sam?” He pitched his voice to carry.

A moment later she appeared at the back of the entrance hall, alert and concerned. “Harald? Are they gone?”

“All gone.” He wanted to sag against the wall. His feet were starting to throb. But he forced himself to straighten. “Can you bring some water upstairs? I need to bathe.”

“Of course.” Again he saw her bite back on a million questions. “It’ll take some time to warm it, though.”

“No need. I’m too tired. If I wait I’ll pass out.”

She froze. “Cold? You’re going to wash with cold water?”

“It won’t be pleasant,” he smiled. “But yes. Actually, forget the bath. I’m too filthy. You can just dump buckets on me by the well.”

Her eyes widened in horror.

Harald spread his arms, his smile widening to a grin. “Look at me, Sam. It’d take a hundred buckets to wash this blood out. Easier if we just get it done by the well. It’s not as if there’s anybody here to be shocked.”

She dry swallowed. “As you say, sir.”

“I mean, obviously you are.” He grimaced. “But I don’t think you care, do you?”

“I… whatever you think is best, Harald. But getting dried blood out with cold water will be… difficult.”

“Right.” He pondered. “We’ll do the best we can by the well, then you can heat up something for me to finish off with.”

“Then I’ll get the water heating now.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you by the well.” And he ignored her spluttering to limp past her, through the manor, and out the back door to the patio. He crossed to the well located just outside the kitchen door, and regarded the winch with antipathy.

Sam darted past him and knocked the waiting bucket into the well, then set to turning the handle, the definition in her forearms a testament to her strength. When had she grown so athletic? Harald wanted to protest, but he didn’t know why. This was literally her function. She was happy to fulfill it. Then why did he feel like doing it himself?

It made no sense.

Plus he was exhausted.

Mystified, he staggered over to an iron patio chair and sat. Ah, that felt good. His whole body ached, as if it were slowly starting to realize just how abused it had been. He slouched back and watched Sam work, the ease of her labor painting a clear picture of her fitness. Huh. She really was in good shape. The first bucket emerged, she dumped its contents into a large tin pail with swift grace, and then repeated the process.

Harald’s eyelids grew heavy.

The late afternoon sun was delicious.

Sam awoke him with a diffident touch to the shoulder. “Sir?”

“Hmm?” He sat up, blinking. “Oh. Sam. Ready?”

“I took the liberty of heating enough water for two baths. The first to wash off the filth, the second for you to rest in. You look done in, sir.”

“Oh.” He rubbed at this face. The sun had sunken an inch toward the horizon. He’d been asleep for at least an hour. “Thanks. I’ll still dump a bucket or two over my head here.”

She frowned, went to protest, then bit back her words. He could practically hear her thoughts: this was unseemly, the lord of Darrowdelve shouldn’t wash off in the back garden like a laborer, plus he loathed cold water…

Grinning, he levered himself out of the chair and almost fell over. The muscles of his thighs had seized up. And his calves. And his back.

He hissed, lurched, and then Sam was there, gliding neatly under his arm to steady him. “Thanks.”

“Best if you soak,” she said firmly.

“After the rinse.”

She glared up at him, her blue eyes bright, then inclined her head stiffly. “As you say, sir.”

“I’m in worse shape than I thought.” He limped to the well, and there rested against the stonework as Sam brought up another bucket. This he took, and with a deep breath dumped over his head.

It wasn’t cold.

It was freezing.

Gasping and spluttering, he came fully awake, and handed the bucket back. Not wasting time, he rubbed at his scalp, trying to wash out the gummy blood. His face, the back of his arms. Sam set to drawing another bucket, and this time she held it up herself.

“Sir?”

He nodded, gasping too much to speak, and she dumped it on his head.

Gasping again, he rubbed at himself till he realized that his nails were better suited for removing the congealed blood. A third bucket, and then a fourth.

“That’s g-g-good,” he stammered, jaw shivering. “How about that h-heated bath now?”

“Very good, sir.” Sam was absolutely polite, which meant she was furious. Ah well. Smiling ruefully, shivering and shaking, he followed her into the kitchen, then took the stairs by himself up to suite. He was leaving wet footprints behind, but that couldn’t be helped.

The shivering only made the soreness in his muscles feel worse. He jogged into his rooms and saw his large tub pulled out into the center of the room. The mess from the night before—no, two nights before—had been cleared away. Everything was pristine, his bed made, the rugs straightened, the divan and its cushions pushed back under the window.

Harald stiffly pulled his shirt, breeches, and underclothes off, then stepped into the bath.

Ah.

Sheer bliss.

His legs lost all strength, and he sank into the steaming water. Rose petals floated on the surface amongst languid archipelagos of scented oil, and bath salts crunched under him as he lay back against the curved edge of the bath.

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The heat sank into his muscles, into his joints, and he immediately stopped shivering.

Harald closed his eyes.

This was the life.

He could live the rest of his years right here, soaking away his troubles.

He frowned.

Except. That wasn’t true, was it?

As wonderful and restorative as this was, he didn’t just want to lie there like a pig wallowing in mud.

Harald opened his eyes. Where had that image come from? Baths were one of his favorite hobbies. He’d sometimes spent entire days in them.

But now, as good as it felt, he didn’t want to linger.

Sitting up, he took the rough washcloth and bar of soap and slowly got to work, confused.

The water quickly darkened, and he decided to stop thinking about it and instead work on cleaning himself.

And it took a lot of work. Several dunkings, lots of vigorous massaging of soap into his scalp, and abrading his skin with the roughest sea sponge imported by Venissar traders.

Finally he stood, water sluicing off his soft body, his skin an angry red from the vigorous cleaning.

The second bath would be in the guest suite across the hall from his own, awaiting him.

But instead Harald stepped out of the bath and took up a towel. Normally he immediately enveloped himself in his silken bathrobe, not liking to see himself naked, but this time he simply stood on the bathmat and toweled himself dry.

Slowly.

Thoughtfully.

What was happening to him?

Did Vorakhar’s Insatiable Void preclude enjoying baths? You are the aching heart of ambition, the howling hunger that yearns to consume the world.

Can’t consume the world from inside a bath, can you?

Sighing, he tossed his towel aside and took up another, with which he set to drying his hair. Only to stop, frown, and drop the towel. He pinched a lock of his flaxen hair and brought it before his face.

His frown deepened.

Wrapping a third towel around his waist, he strode from his suite and across the hall into the guest one.

“I’ve heated fresh water,” Sam called from below. “Shall I pour it into the second bath?”

“No need,” he called.

The copper tub sat in the center of the room, but Harald ignored it to move instead to a tall object hidden beneath a sheet against the wall.

With one tug he pulled the sheet away, and revealed the standing mirror.

Six feet tall, its surface corroded but still true, he’d had it covered, like all the others, a year or so after his father had died.

But now he stood before it, glowering at himself.

With a tug he pulled his towel off and tossed it aside.

When was the last time he’d gazed upon his own body so frankly?

He’d always hated how soft he was. How curvy. His sloping, freckled shoulders. His drooping chest. His belly. He was tall, yes, and had his father’s broad frame, but it was as if pillows had been strapped to the armature instead of armor.

Harald refused to look away.

He’d trained for three months as a condition to spending the last of his scales on outfitting a crew. It had been a requirement he’d set himself, to raise his Strength and Constitution to 7, which was still far below what an average strong adult could boast. 10 was standard, with someone like Yeoric no doubt boasting a 14.

But this was him now.

Strength 6, Constitution 5.

Just barely better than a child or elderly person.

Harald felt his eyes sting.

It almost hurt to stare at himself. All his life he’d avoided doing so, because it brought back his father’s words, that endless litany of mockery and disdain: you’re softer than a fancy dessert, boy. Where’d your muscles go? You’d think you’d be stronger for all the time you spend lifting spoons and forks. Should we buy you a bra? Don’t snivel, it makes you look even weaker. Get up! Get up, or I’ll really give you something to cry about. And where’d you get that face? You look like a horse stepped on your mug when you were a babe. Go on, turn red. Run away. That’s right. Hiding in your room will make everything better.

Harald was breathing hard.

Only now could he admit that his goal of hitting 7’s had been insufficient. He was weak. He couldn’t run more than a handful of blocks without losing his breath. He had all the hand-to-eye coordination of a drunk.

But it wasn’t his body’s fault.

He pinched the fat around his waist. His body hadn’t asked him to shovel desserts into his stomach. Hadn’t asked him to lie around all day reading and dreaming. Hadn’t hidden from the sun. Hadn’t avoided exertion, exercise, anything that might draw his father’s ridicule.

His body had just done what he’d bidden it.

It wasn’t his body’s fault he looked like this.

It was his own.

Harald passed his hand over his round cheek, then opened his mouth to reveal his snaggly front teeth.

For a moment he stood thus, grimacing at himself, and then his features went slack. Only wealth had kept people from laughing to his face. Only his father’s reputation had accorded him the attention and respect he’d been given.

Harald stared himself straight in the eyes and made himself say the next part: because he’d done nothing to earn that respect himself.

The thousand excuses came clamoring as always to the fore: His mother had died badly when he was young, his father had been a brute and a bully, he’d never gone to the academies where he could have made friends, he was born ugly, he was delicate, he was sensitive, he preferred reading to exercise and training, it was a cruel world, a stupid world, he didn’t want any part in it, nobody understood him, nobody could understand him -

“No.”

He forced the word out, though it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. “Shut up.”

Harald wanted nothing more than to tear his gaze away from his own stupid bovine brown eyes.

But he kept his gaze locked.

“Excuses.” His face was turning an alarming shade of red. “That’s all that is. Excuses.”

His heart was hammering. His chest rising and falling, his breath tight. Again his mind rebelled, poured forth the defenses he’d fed himself over all his years, the same lines he’d shared with Vic and the crew over countless drinks as they commiserated.

“No.” He stepped in and got real close to his reflection, only an inch separating himself from his own eyes. “Enough. Enough!”

He clenched his eyes tightly closed, and for a moment just stood there, suspended in the void of his own horror and denial and bitter victimhood.

Then with a gasp he opened his eyes again and rested his brow against the glass. His mind was spinning, but a thought came through, irrefutable and clear: sure, he’d had a tough time of it. But so did everyone else. He’d suffered some hard losses. Suffered abuse. But so had everyone else. And some people actually had genuine reasons why they couldn’t achieve their dreams. Sam—he wanted to laugh as the thought came to him—even Sam had lost her father when she was just five, the old butler dying mysteriously late one night while everyone was asleep. Sam had awoken all alone in the world to learn that her father’s oath contract had passed on to her, and that her fate was now bound to the Darrowdelves regardless of her desires.

But had she hidden behind a wall of excuses and complaints?

“No more.” This was but a whisper. “Enough with the excuses. Enough.”

With a deep breath he pushed off the mirror, stepped back, and stared at himself anew. His body. His face. His own self.

And, to his surprise, he felt liberated in no longer hiding. Felt fierce and resolved, brutal and callously hard. This was him. This was the culmination of how he’d lived his life thus far.

But it didn’t have to stay that way.

His gaze roved over his frame then came to stop at his shoulder-length hair. He’d always taken pride in it, how flaxen and fair it was, a reminder of what he’d inherited from his mother. She’d loved his locks when he was a child, had praised them and run her fingers through their length.

He’d kept them for her, but also because he felt like they offset his otherwise unfortunate features. A fine feather in a muddy cap.

But now he found himself frowning. He took a fistful and rubbed it between his fingers. Remembered how it had gotten in his face as he’d run through Flutic, how it had gotten in his eyes while fighting the rats.

It didn’t make him look good. Evernessa had lied that one time she’d called his hairstyle ‘refined and dashing’. It just made him look like a fop.

“Sam?” His voice was startlingly loud as he took up his towel.

She must have been waiting outside the door, for she opened it, a steaming bucket in hand. “Ready for—oh. Sir?”

Harald finished wrapping the towel around his gut. “Please fetch a comb and pair of scissors.”

“Scissors, sir?” She looked bewildered. He always wore his robe. “You—is it time for a trim?”

He smiled without humor. “Something like that. I’ll await you here.”

“I—yes, sir.” She set the bucket down and fairly ran from the room.

Harald brought an upholstered chair over and set it before the mirror. When Sam returned he was seated in it and staring at his reflection.

Sam moved up behind him, scissors and comb in hand. “An inch off the bottom?”

“No, Sam.” He kept his voice soft and steady so that she couldn’t doubt him. “I want it all off.”

Her eyes widened again in shock. “All of it, Harald?”

“All if it. Get as close to the scalp as you can.”

“I…” She ran her comb through his hair, the sensation of the comb’s teeth on his scalp pleasant. “Are you…?”

“I’ll explain everything soon. Please, Sam. Cut it all off.”

Her eyes almost pleaded with him, which caught him off guard, until he understood why: he and the manor house were the entirety of her life. She only left the grounds when on an errand for him. This was her world, and he was breaking the cardinal rules so abruptly that it must feel like the manor walls were tumbling in.

“It’s all right, Sam.” He twisted about with difficulty to meet her eyes directly. “I promise I’ve not gone mad. Or, if I have, it’s the kind that’s long overdue. Can you trust me?”

Her eyes remained wide and glazed over. He’d never spoken to her like this. Harald studied her. He’d never spoken to her as… a person? He felt disgusted with himself. He’d do better, moving forward.

“Yes, sir,” said Sam, giving a jerky nod.

“Good.” He turned back and studied his round, freckled face. “Then let’s get it done.”

She combed his locks out. Was she being extra gentle? Soon his blonde hair hung straight down to his shoulders.

Slowly, hesitantly, she raised the gleaming silver scissors. Opened them and slid a blade under his hair, high and flush against his scalp.

Sam was staring at him, terrified.

Harald held her gaze, then gave the slightest of nods.

And with a sudden snip, she cut off his lock.