Page 152 of Shadows in Bloom

“Theós amores, filius,” Valentino mused, flitting his fingertips to his temples in a gesture of respect. “Eat something, then get some rest. We’ll leave at dawn and arrive in Ravenna before the clock ticks nine times.”

Astor watched him leave with a clenching gut. His father, the Leopard of the Novarian army, and his hero. Fearless, invincible in both stature and posture. He was good to his people, an honourable fighter and a wonderful father. He had taught him everything about warfare and leadership. About being true, and proud.

“Theós amores,” Astor murmured in reply, dipping his chin as he returned the gesture.

Melas, his young male slave stood waiting by his tent, holding a platter with grilled meat, vegetables, cheese and bread. His composure was impeccable: faultlessly obedient and trained to efface and anticipate, his neck was arched back to show the lines of his taut, tender skin that held the gold collar decorated with fire opal, much like the golden cuffs he wore on his wrists. His eyes were cast down. He had already removed his travel outfit of red cotton for the transparent chiffon robe his master had gifted him, that, together with the earmark, was proof he had been claimed by the high commander’s son.

This was the Novarian way, and their slaves were highly trained to accommodate noble families with the care they needed.

Astor nodded at Melas, a gesture the young man wouldn’t see since he was staring at the ground, then turned to his father.

“Good night, papa,” he whispered into the air, where the ghost of their conversation lingered in the empty, darkened air.

* * *

Astor didn’t retreat immediately. Instead, he opened the flap of Fabiano’s tent and peered inside.

“Can I come in?” He asked, letting his gaze roam around, only to find his baby brother sprawled out onto the bed, the sides of his white tunic still bound together by the blood-red and golden coloured silk belt. He hadn’t changed for bed yet. Around his neck he still carried his golden necklace, the shape of the sunflower curled around the material like lava in the middle of his neck, putting emphasis on the dips of his collarbone. His eyes were open, focused once more as they followed every single movement the slave made as she moved to undress herself with slow, agile fingers, opening the blood-red robe that was only held together by a string of golden brooches in the middle.

“Sisto.” The order came out silkily. She stopped at once, leaving the garment around her shoulders by the only brooch that was still tightened, picked up the tray of food and leapt forward to the bed. Strands of her hair fell lightly over her shoulders as she kneeled to his side, head rolled down to her chest, her arms outstretched as she kept the plate up. Waiting for Fabiano to flick his fingers and request her to come forward to present him with the food.

He didn’t. Instead he dragged his gaze back to Astor, and smiled sweetly. “Brother.” His voice was a lacy breath. “Thank you for looking after me.”

“Semper.” Astor said, and he turned toward the far corner to where his brother’s travelling altar stood, and slid down to his knees. He prayed to Ykaldin, prayed for tomorrow’s victory, and sealed his words with a flitting caress to his temple. He got up and turned back to the bed, fatigue trickling through the cracks of his faltering determination. It was time to get some rest.

“Will you cheer for me tomorrow during the Celebratios?” He asked.

“Semper,” Fabiano smiled and nodded, the gesture so simple and so wondrous at the same time as it gave him back that boyish expression he’d carried for years. That boyish expression he had lost. Astor’s chest tightened at the sight. “I can’t wait for you to show those savages from the north where they belong, and those fishermen all the strength they lack.”

A beat of thickening silence. “And what do I show the Darmayarian delegation?” Astor asked.

Them.

Fabiano clacked his tongue, then crooked his finger to the servant who kept her neck straight and eyes dipped as she wriggled forward onto her knees, plate outstretched for Fabiano to take what he wanted. With his eyes still trained on his brother, his hand travelled to where her brooch kept the planes of her simple tunic together and tore it off, ravaging the thin lace and exposing her naked skin. She let out a gasp, outstretched hands now trembling under the weight of the tray, though it could hardly have been the first time that his brother played her around like a rag doll.

Astor let out a dry chuckle at the display, then stepped forward and around the slave’s delicate, kneeled frame, leaned in and gave his brother a tight hug, his thighs pressed tightly around the slave’s head. He could hear her stuttering breath, but she managed to keep the tray straight enough. “Sleep well, frater,” he muttered, then dropped a kiss onto Fabiano’s head and stepped back, leaving him in his candle-lit space with his pet slave.

Holding open the flap, he gestured to Melas. “Come.” His slave followed him inside his own tent. The boy had made an acceptable job of making the place look decent between its self-made walls of goatskin. The large bed of wooden panels had been made up with freshly washed linens, and sat right in its heart, as if waiting to be occupied.

Astor watched the crackling of the fire and allowed for the delicate slither of nerves to creep through his stomach at the thought of their arrival tomorrow in Nethyr, at the Academy. He would start his second year, marking Astor twenty-two years, his brother being one year younger.

At the foot of his bed, Astor halted, facing the piles of cushions Melas had placed exactly the way he liked them.

“You may start,” he ordered. Melas dropped the food platter he’d carried inside onto the ground in the corner and rushed to stand behind his Dominus, where he started by curling his hands around Astor’s neck. His fingers deftly opened the golden brooch of House of Novar, and he held it in his palm as he carefully grabbed hold of the loosening, red cape.

Suddenly, Astor spun around, surprising the slave who flushed and apologized profusely before dipping his gaze. Trembling fingers took longer to unbuckle the holder that carried the spatha from Astor’s hips, causing another ripple of delight through Astor’s lower abdomen. “Undress me.”

“Yes, Dominus.” Fingers slid over Astor’s back as the slave reached for the laces that kept his black suit in one piece, the tight, shiny material a second glove around his body, flexing in line with all the dips and curves that he had gained by years of training with the Ovarian army.

Astor’s gaze took in the way the boy’s golden hair curled, a soft tumble that covered his ears, his pale texture and those cast down eyes, lashes fluttering and lips pressed tightly in concentration as his fingers blindly, deftly, unraveled the complicated skein of woven lace. His mind travelled distances as he thought of the land across the forest, the land that used to belong to Novar, but that too, was taken away from them as part of the heavy price they had to pay in the name of war.

He stepped out of his opened, leather boots and away from the puddle of remaining clothes. In nothing but a loincloth to cover his manhood, Astor padded to his bed.

“Melas.” The slave scrambled to keep up with him, drawing the sheets back in time right before he had to do it himself. He would not have appreciated that.

The cool blankets caressed his tired limbs and straining muscles, and tickled his desire to life, while calming his mind.

“Do you like playing games?” Astor tilted his gaze to watch the boy as he stood by the bed, flinching when he realized he was being spoken to, only to slide down onto his knees.

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