Momoto Ichi stood at the door, his polished facade unchanged, but the possessive glint in his eyes no longer concealed.
His gaze, predatory, roamed Yukiori's form, inch by inch, settling on his face.
Yukiori recoiled, stepping back.
His pale lips pressed tight. Though he knew what capture by these sorcerers meant, despair now consumed him.
He couldn't even choose death…
"Even if you resist, you'll stay with us forever."
Momoto's expression twisted.
Us…
Yukiori didn't grasp the word's meaning.
Momoto offered no explanation, only a lingering look before turning away.
Yukiori puzzled over the phrase, even as servants flooded the room, but he shunned the darkest possibilities.
He hadn't given up escaping or attempting suicide in myriad ways, yet all failed.
He became a true caged bird, forced into ornate robes, adorned and groomed.
Like a commodity for sale, the servants dressed him and led him out.
Heavy garments and surrounding guards crushed his fleeting thoughts of escape.
His body, weakened by a night in the snow, bore bandaged wounds and a feverish chill. Walking required a servant's support.
"… "
What awaited him was unknown.
Yukiori's fingers, hidden in his sleeves, whitened from clenching. He tried to appear less frail, less easy to prey upon.
Though, truthfully, he was a coward…
The servants applied no makeup, only a glossy balm to his lips, lending his face a faint flush.
The corridor stretched long, paper lanterns with flickering candles lining both sides, illuminating the path.
Distant chatter grew louder, but as Yukiori entered, the clamor ceased.
Eyes downcast, he felt countless gazes from all directions fixate on him.
Jealousy, awe, possession, destruction.
The servants didn't stop, urging him forward.
He couldn't discern the murmurs—didn't want to—wishing to block his ears or flee.
As Yukiori sat, a man, unable to restrain himself, approached, hand outstretched.
Revulsion twisted Yukiori's face. He turned away, eyes shut.
The hand never reached him. The man recoiled, as if shocked, yet stood transfixed, unwilling to leave.
"Know why?"
Momoto appeared beside Yukiori, staring with the same obsession, reaching for his hair but retracting with a pained flinch.
"It's the binding."
They anticipated Yukiori's suicides, knowing they couldn't guard a determined soul, so they bound him.
As the bound, Yukiori couldn't harm himself, rendering suicide impossible.
The cost…
Those with malice could never touch him.
Like now, their desires were thwarted, unable to approach.
The stronger the malice, the harsher the recoil.
Momoto, eyeing the red gash on his hand, chuckled darkly.
"If we can't have you, we'll share you."
Yukiori's head snapped up, staring at Momoto as if he were mad.
Momoto's words echoed the sorcerers' consensus. Even if only to gaze, they'd cage Yukiori here, by their side.
This explained the servants' adornments, parading him here.
Their deranged intent chilled Yukiori. Without the binding, he'd have been torn apart.
"… "
So, the binding protected him.
He'd braced for the worst…
The stench of sake neared, wrinkling Yukiori's brow. Momoto, aware too close a step risked death, retreated.
Yukiori saw the banquet's opulence—sorcerers clutching men and women, yet their eyes always drifted to him.
Disgust surged, and he turned, retching.
With nothing in his stomach, his gut spasmed painfully.
Repulsive…
So repulsive…
Yukiori didn't know when this farce would end. The cacophony drowned his senses; even Momoto's face blurred.
"Yukiori, you'll get used to it."
Used to what? These vile gazes, this debauchery?
Yukiori shut his eyes, trying to block the images, but sounds burrowed into his ears.
Laughter, filthy words, wine, and myriad scents…
Why couldn't he die?
Tears traced his cheeks, death now a release.
His silent weeping drew their notice. After a hush, frenzied cheers erupted.
Yukiori's tears fueled their mania, their sick gazes savoring the crying boy on the dais.
Was this binding a blessing or a curse?
A caged bird, destined only to be admired.