Page 2 of Our Satyr Prince

The boy dove to the white dirt, swallowing him whole. Aurelius groaned at his force, sending waves of relief up his spine. Nihal was ravenous, choking himself on the length then pulling back, only to take it all again.

As he was devoured, Aurelius ran fingers through his lover’s chestnut hair. The tension built with every swipe, a torrent yearning for liberation. Nihal was an expert. After so many years at play, he knew the meaning of every shudder and every sigh. With his free hand, the boy reached up and pinned Aurelius back against the column. Aurelius grabbed his wrist, willing even more force into his chest. Just like the force that was rising all through him!

The poison exploded in waves of ecstasy, causing his whole body to spasm.

When the shocks at last subsided, Aurelius looked down at Nihal’s beautiful face. There was no conflict there anymore. No guilt as he brought himself up, eye to eye, and swallowed with the same enthusiasm that Aurelius himself had done.

Aurelius knew what was coming next, and turned just in time to dodge the kiss, sending Hal’s lips to his smooth neck instead, where they took up a grateful nuzzle.

As they both caught their breath, and the thrill of the moment faded to the familiar desire for space, Aurelius wondered why Hal so insisted on ruining these rare moments.

They both knew what their relationship was. They knew what they could have, and what they couldn’t.

And kissing? That wasn’t part of it.

Not for the last six years.

Not since Hal had fucked it all up.

He was relieved when a sound from far below broke the moment—the ureglias calling the mourners to the Pentheon, the temple to the Five High Gods of the Pentariat. From this height, he could track the build and sway of the song across the neatly laid-out polity. It started first as a single voice, down near the Senate—imposing and grand and orderly. It rose through the art galleries and music halls, the workshops and the sculptors’ studios, past the Forum that held the monthly symposium of finest art and debate and music, through the newer, even grander Lapiso Library, all the way round to the plebian suburbs behind them, much less loved and much less lovely.

Nihal’s face blanched. “Oh, Mesti! She’ll kill me for this!”

“Relax. Half of the city will be in attendance. It will take them forever to file in.”

“But I’m supposed to be at the front of the procession! And you! You can’t be late for your own aunt’s funeral.”

Aurelius adjusted himself with a bitter laugh and no apparent haste. “Believe me, no one is expecting the fuck-up of House Savair to be arriving on time.”

No, they’ll be expecting a grand entrance.

And I intend to give them one.

2

TEIGRA

The clench of her jaw did nothing to stop the tears.

Teigra Cosmin repeated the mantras from childhood lectures. That restraint was piety. That reason was perfection. And that emotion and impulsivity—those most bestial of human traits—were an affront to the goddess of reason, artistry, and the night sky.

Here in the Pentheon, flanked on all sides by mourners and the enormous bronze statues of the Five, those mantras should have meant something. They should have given Teigra the strength to hold her pain back.

And yet, she couldn’t. The drips collected along the strong lines of the eighteen-year-old’s chin, to be wiped away cautiously with fingers rough from labor.

Stopping the flow was pointless. How could she not feel this way? How could she stop the rip in her chest, so sharp and so deep she could barely breathe?

How could she stop it when up there, upon a dais overseen by the high priestess herself, was Aunty Urosina.

Up there was the woman who had never cared about rank and precedent and the appropriateness of dealing with House Cosmin. The woman who saw the blood of leaders that flowed through Teigra’s veins, not just the blood of peasants that the rest of the ruling class saw. The woman who, for eighteen wonderful years, no matter how short her time back in Mestibes, would find the time to visit Teigra. To train her. To give her fair counsel. To share her vast and impressive wisdom from all over the country.

This was the woman who three pain-wracked years ago, as the rest of the city had whispered cruelty behind their hands, staring at Teigra like she was some kind of criminal, had publicly approached her. Only her and cousin Aurelius had dared.

And now... she was dead.

It was impossible.

It was tragic.

---