He agreed to the prince's order two days later, delirious from hunger. The same sandy-haired guard who had escorted him everywhere led Kael through more palace corridors, all of them blurring into one long stream of opulence.
It was dreamlike. If Kael could pretend this was all a nightmare, then whatever happened here didn't matter.
Hot, damp air brought him back into the moment. Kael blinked at the sunken baths behind the guard. Steam rolled off surfaces scattered with rose petals, and clung to tiled walls. Water streamed into pools and ran into drains recessed into the stone floor.
They were alone, which seemed unusual for the size of the bathing house.
The guard reached up to unbutton Kael's rancid shirt.
Kael grabbed the guard's gloved hand, holding him back, and met his gaze.
He was out of his heavy armor and instead in a simple tunic and trousers. Had this moment arrived two weeks ago, Kael would have tackled him. He'd be a match physically, but he didn't have the look of a man accustomed to violence, despite his profession.
But two weeks into his prison sentence and Kael could barely stand without swaying on his feet. He was in no condition to fight. Not without food and water, and rest.
"The prince wants you clean," the guard said.
"I can bathe myself."
The guard lowered his hand. "I'm sure you can. But if you slip and injure yourself, it'll be my head the prince takes."
They both knew which prince he was referring to, and it irked Kael to know Darian was able to issue commands without being present.
His shirt buttons vexed him. His fingers didn't seem to want to obey, his body slow to respond. If he'd been fed, he'd be more able, but cleanliness was apparently more important than starvation. Even so, Kael wasn't about to allow a stranger to disrobe him. He had some pride left.
The guard stepped back and folded his arms, clinically observing while Kael stripped naked and descended the steps into steaming water. His entrance sloshed water over the sides. He sank his shoulders beneath the surface. The heat was unexpected and welcome, kneading into sore muscles like warm hands.
A room full of hot baths seemed surreal. He couldn't imagine how they were heated. A natural spring, perhaps. He couldn't remember the last time he'd indulged in a hot bath. Before the war, surely.
Sighing, he leaned back against the pool's edge. Flushed and light-headed, his body was warning him to wash quickly before he passed out—but by the three, it felt divine.
A sponge hit the water, splashing his face. He grabbed at it and wrung water through it a few times. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Darian said.
Kael whipped his head around to see the prince making his way around the bath. Most lords had boots with metal heels to announce their presence wherever they went, but Darian's boots barely made a noise on the stone. Darian didn't announce. He lurked like the snake he was.
"Clean the filth off yourself," the prince said with a flick of his pale hand.
He'd been about to, but having Darian command him made him hesitate. He'd been a good soldier, able to follow orders and issue them, but hearing this prince's dismissive tone summoned a petulance Kael hadn't known he'd possessed.
"Your betrayal cost me a brother." Darian stopped at the foot of the bath and tilted his head. His hair fell over his damaged eye, almost hiding it completely. Tilting his head must have been a habit formed either to hide his eye or to help himself focus better. It suggested the wound was old enough for him to have adapted. "You owe me your service, mercenary. That is what you are now? A blade for hire?"
"Mercenaries are paid, not beaten." Kael dragged the sponge across his face, scraping the natural fibers across his beard. It did feel good to rid himself of the grit and stench that clung to him from the cells. He let his eyelids droop.
"You'll pay with your life if you betray me again."
"I can't betray those who haven't earned my loyalty."
Darian's laugh was hollow, like the man it belonged to. He knelt at the foot of the bath and dangled the fingers of his left hand into the warm water, circling a rose petal, making it spin. "Honest words such as yours will cost you your tongue. I advise you keep them to yourself from now on."
Kael bit his tongue to keep from telling the prince to go fuck himself and focused instead on washing across his chest. "May I speak freely?"
Darian lifted his chin, brow raised in surprise. "I assumed you already were. Go ahead. Rylan is my…personal protection. Whatever you say will never go beyond the three of us. Unless I wish it, of course."
The guard, Rylan, was standing near the wall, away from the bath. He raised an eyebrow at Kael's over-the-shoulder glance, but said nothing.
"You have access to assassins," Kael said, facing Darian again. He didn't like having the prince leave his line of sight. The guard was unlikely to stab him in the back, but the prince might. "Why not ask one of them to kill your target?"
"Because it's exactly what they'd expect of me."
"They?"
He removed his fingers from the water, flicked them dry, and straightened, tugging his finely tailored shirt into alignment. His single-eyed gaze roamed Kael's face again, then briefly dropped below the waterline to where Kael pulled the sponge over his navel.
The water rippled, obscuring Kael's nakedness, but even so, Kael still felt the crawl of the prince's eye.
His skin crackled with discomfort. The gaze wasn't clinical, like Julian's. Darian looked at Kael like a butcher deciding which prime cut to carve off next. There didn't seem to be any weapons about his person, but Kael hadn't seen the dagger the prince had pressed against his throat until it was already kissing his skin.
He touched his neck, brushing the scab hidden inside unruly stubble.
The mark was small, but deep enough it might scar..
"If anyone asks you who you are, you say you are Prince Darian's doulos."
"I'm what?" He couldn't have heard correctly.
"Simply that. You are mine. You have no name and no purpose beyond serving me."
"I don't understand. A doulos? I thought I was hired to kill someone?"
"All in good time, Kael."
Kael's brows pinched. Of course, the viper would go back on his word. "I see the Vexs are the same liars now as they've always been."
Darian smiled. "You have no idea."
Kael stared ahead as the prince strode from the bathhouse.
His fingers gripped the sponge so tightly they ached. Doulos was a derogatory term reserved for criminal slaves—thieves that had been pressed into service instead of having their fingers severed as punishment for their crimes.
He'd seen some of the worst offenders whipped in public and ordered to perform debased acts while a jeering crowd watched. He'd rather die than be so disgraced.
But it didn't matter what Darian called him.
Once clean and fed, his strength restored, he'd flee the palace and the city. There was nothing left for him here, anyway. The lawless, gang-ridden coastal southern lands with their sunbaked city of Seran—named after the gods' dumping ground for wrongdoers—were the perfect place to hide.
He'd adapt, find a place among those people. Ships needed metalwork. He could turn his hand to blacksmithing. It was less conspicuous than mercenary.
"Finish cleaning and get dressed," Rylan ordered.
Kael measured his breathing and focused his mind, ignoring the way Darian's presence alone had boiled his blood. He'd only have to endure him for a few more days; then he'd be gone, and the Vexes could bicker among themselves for all he cared. Perhaps the Vexes' reign would soon be ended, because the elves would finally reach the city gates and paint the palace red with royal blood.
Whatever happened, Kael would not be here to see it.