Rose petals the color of blood floated atop the water; limitless and vibrant, the water became a bath of crimson. The stone pool, illuminated by torches, had swimming shadows coasting in the depths. Floral notes and exotic fruits scented the air; only the best could be allowed for the Jasctain’s crown jewel.

He was brushing through said crown jewel’s hair, her ravenous black locks only a shade lighter than his own. It was what she had said drew her to him, why she chose him. Out of all of them, he was the only one seen as worthy, the only one to be cast out of the darkness and made bare in the light.

“My hair has been properly brushed, no?” Her voice spilled out like honey—slow and sensual, akin to a siren’s song. Her delicate hand reached out to cover his calloused one.

“Yes, my lady,” he responded, only hesitating for a moment before joining her in the pool. The hot water stung him pleasantly as his body submerged. He had never managed to get used to this, the closeness, the dynamic of the relationship. The wrongness of it. The discomfort did not stop her mouth from closing in on his, nor him from responding with haste.

In the haze of steam and flower petals, he was able to forget himself for a moment. There were no senses or station, only the warmth of two bodies melding into one. It was a dangerous line they were crossing, one that he couldn’t bring himself to care about as his consciousness became this impossible mess of all the components of himself. All he had to do was render himself to the darkness, and it was an easy choice for him to make.

When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was the chill biting against his skin. His hairs raised on his arms; he propped himself up and looked over his shoulder. Silky black hair fanned out all over the bedding, her pale face the most peaceful he would ever see it.

There was a sharp pain in his head, and he thrust himself out of bed, stumbling. Barely aware enough to make it out of the chamber and into the corridor, he lost control of himself and crashed into the stone wall on the other side. His heart pounded furiously, and he could hear his blood pounding throughout his body as if it were its own entity, something separate from himself.

His body moved without thought or intent, no more than a wild beast following his instincts. He crashed his way through the halls, mind fading more and more until he could no longer even be an observer to his own actions. There was only pain and fear in his heart, a rush that filled him like the men in the stories—except those men were knights riding into battle, filled with bravery and glory.

The pain stopped, and all that was left was the empty rage propelling him forward. He was no longer a man, but a beast. It was a dream he was sure when he saw the wolf—tall and dark—standing there in the shadows. Its form was wispy and indistinct, no more than an apparition of darkness. Its eyes stood out starkly, whites glimmering like a singular point of light in a world converged with darkness.

When he came to next, the burning was gone; it left behind a dull ache deep in his muscles. The sun filtered through green-filled branches, swaying in tune with the wind. He picked himself up, aware of how everything seemed to hurt. He had never felt pain like this—not when he had starved in the orphanage, or when he had been whipped by the matron.

He was naked as the day he had been born, skin bare to the cool wind. Looking around, he found endless expanses of trees and dirt; he had no idea where he was. There was a gap in his memories that unsettled him; after going to bed with Hwerna, there was a blank space, and then he woke up here.

“What is a Jacstain’s pet doing all the way out here?” a voice called from behind him. Rhysdar twisted his body around, tense and ready to defend himself, even though there was little he could do against anyone in a fight.

The sight that met him was an old man, older than any he had ever seen. He was dressed in rags. Mud caked his pants, and his chest was left bare to the world, sagging skin and white hair on display. There was something unnatural about him; the way he looked old seemed more like what he envisioned rather than reality. But that wouldn’t make sense, not when the man was standing right in front of him.

What struck Rhysdar most was the man’s eyes. They were glassy and milky white, a clear indication that the man was blind. Rhysdar relaxed somewhat at the sight, feeling less threatened by an ancient blind man.

Composing himself, he answered, “How does a blind man figure he can tell who I am?” not sparing any impolite tone from his voice. It felt good. It was not often that he was allowed to show disrespect to anyone he was in the presence of.

“You smell like them, the same rancid fruit smell that follows all the bitches,” the man said with a short laugh.

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Rhysdar’s face burned with indignation. How could such a man dare disrespect the Jacstains? He looked like he smelled like horse shit rather than rancid fruit.

The man’s mirth showed freely on his face. Stepping forward, he raised one of his arms, skin sagging and mottled. “I mean no true offense, boy. After all, who am I to judge you, right?” the old man said with a crooked smile, showcasing his rotted yellow teeth.

Rhysdar couldn’t figure out what to feel; his mind switched between rage, embarrassment, and deep unsettlement. There was something off about this old man, and the timing of the situation was off. How likely was it that he had woken up in the wilderness with no idea where he was, and this man just shows up?

“Who are you, old man?” he asked, trying to quell the budding fear he felt. His body was tight and ready to run, though he doubted he could make it with how sore he was, even against such an old man.

The man stepped closer, setting off alarms in Rhysdar’s head, but he forced himself to stay still. Never letting his eyes stray from the man in front of him, despite how uneasy he felt. With the man coming closer, he could see even more details—the mottled purple and red scars that comprised most of his body, and how oddly expressive those milky white eyes were.

“I’m simply here to help a fellow in need,” the man was hiding something clearly, but Rhysdar had no idea what. Had the man slipped something into his drinks last night? Trying to get something out of someone who he saw as being close in proximity to the Jacstains? But if that was the case, how could such a man afford such poisons and look so fraught by strife?

“What help could you give me, old man?” he sneered, his face contorting into a mask of disgust. What he truly felt was fear that was getting harder and harder to control, but something told him not to let the old man see that. Even as he somehow knew in the back of his mind that the man could see behind the mask.

“It is simple. Do you truly wish to live under the Jacstain’s fist for the rest of your short life, playing consort to the King’s daughter until she grows bored of you?” the old man asked as if he were discussing the temperature or a small occurrence.

The words hit Rhysdar in the gut like a physical blow, something crawling and making a home in his gut.

“How do— you, no one…” He couldn’t even finish his sentence. No one was supposed to know about him and the princess. No one could know, or he would be executed faster than he could breathe his next breath. But somehow, this strange old man knew his deepest secret.

For a moment, there was the thought that he should kill the old man, make sure that this would never see the light of day. But staring into those focus-less eyes, he could sense that this was not a battle he could win.

“You are a sorcerer, then?” he spat, his voice smaller than he had intended. He had been denying the thought from his mind ever since he had first seen the old man. Sorcerers did not carry themselves in such a way. Sorcerers carried themselves among the elite, if not members of the elite themselves, dripping in opulence and opportunity for employment.

The man chuckled. “There are more powers in the world than sorcery, boy, but you can think of me as a sorcerer if you like,” he finished, as if explaining a complex concept to a small child. Rhysdar couldn’t even find it within himself to be offended, not when this old man in front of him was now dangerous.

“Then why have you brought me here? I am loyal to the Jacstains above all, as is my duty,” he rushed out, not believing the words as they escaped his mouth. In truth, he was no better than a trained dog, but a trained dog got fed more than a stray.

“Is that so?” The old man questioned, slowly getting closer in almost unnoticeable increments.

“I can sense the blood in you, of the wild. The wild serves no master, not truly,” the man seemed to fall into memory, his words quieter towards the end. Rhysdar felt even more confused. He had wild blood inside him? He was an orphan of the lowest class of the Jacstain Empire, and there were no wilds inside the walls. Even the woods around him seemed almost devoid of any wildlife; there were no predators lurking in its depths—except for the one standing right in front of him.

“So, you want me to what? Poison the king’s daughter? Get you information on their military? I have access to no such materials. There is nothing I can offer you,” his voice oscillated with the absurdity of the tasks he listed. Even if he were willing to go against the Jacstains, which he had no good reason to do, he was not trained to be a spy or an assassin. He was, at best, a consort of the king’s daughter and, at worst, a slave.

This seemed to amuse the old man, making him burst into raucous laughter. It took him a few moments to compose himself. Rhysdar felt a familiar heat rushing to his cheeks. “I would ask of no such thing, boy,” the man said after managing to come back to himself.

In a moment beyond Rhysdar’s comprehension, the old man was standing dangerously close to him—close enough that Rhysdar could see every wrinkle and age mark on his skin, as well as the ephemeral quality he had not been able to notice from a distance. The man’s eyes seemed to peer into his soul, leaving nowhere for him to hide. And he wanted desperately to hide in that moment.

“All I want is for you to continue on the path you are on now. The work has already been done,” the old man whispered. Rhysdar had no trouble finding clarity in the man’s words. They rattled and set inside his head, imprinting and carving their way.

The world blurred around him, a rush of colors and shapes that were impossible to make out with the naked eye. Before he could compose himself, he was standing in the middle of an empty hall—a familiar hall, one he had traversed countless times on the way to his chambers. Looking down, he found himself fully clothed and, for a moment, questioned if the whole ordeal had been real or just a figment of his breaking mind.

But the words kept repeating in his head. Whether real or not, there was no denying that a change had occurred.