Chapter Text
The royal chambers were a riot of spilled wine, laughter, and the faint glow of the hearth as the night stretched on. This was Wenceslas’s realm—a place of indulgence and irreverence, where the young king seemed to thrive. He was notorious for surrounding himself with his favorites, those he trusted enough to keep close.
Wenceslas reclined on the bed, his golden curls disheveled, his cheeks glowing pink from too much wine. His tunic was unlaced at the neck, slipping just slightly off his shoulder in that careless way he always managed, as though the world itself should admire him. He wore his arrogance like a crown, confident that his every whim would be indulged.
Radzig, sitting cross-legged on the fur rug near the bed, was no stranger to the king’s moods. He leaned back against the bedframe, sipping his wine and watching Wenceslas with an almost amused expression. Almost.
“Radzig,” Wenceslas said abruptly, breaking the comfortable silence. His voice was low and lazy, but with that familiar edge of command. “Why are you sitting all the way down there? Come here.”
Radzig arched an eyebrow but didn’t move right away. “I’m comfortable here,” he replied smoothly, tipping his goblet slightly toward Wenceslas in mock toast.
Wenceslas frowned, his lips pressing into a pout that would have seemed childish on anyone else. “I didn’t ask if you were comfortable. I said, come here.”
Radzig sighed softly and set his goblet aside. He rose to his feet with the measured grace of someone who’d endured these games before, closing the short distance between them until he stood at Wenceslas’s side. “And now that I’m here?” he asked, his tone light but guarded.
Wenceslas reached up, grabbing Radzig’s wrist and tugging him closer until their faces were only inches apart. The king’s grin was sharp, mischievous, as his fingers tightened slightly. “Much better,” he murmured. “You’re far better looking when you’re right where I want you.”
Radzig held his gaze, his expression steady but unreadable. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Wenceslas replied, leaning back against the cushions but keeping hold of Radzig’s wrist. “It’s a shame, really. You’re such a clever little wenchie, but you insist on making things so difficult.”
Radzig’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. “You have an odd way of showing your affection.”
“I’m a king,” Wenceslas replied smugly. “I don’t have to show anything.”
Radzig let out a low chuckle, his fingers brushing absently through Wenceslas’s curls. He didn’t reply—not because he agreed, but because there was no point in arguing. Wenceslas would always be Wenceslas.
"I'm bored!" Wenceslas whined and plopped back on the bed. "I'm bored, I'm drunk, and I'm horny! Ugh! Come on, take off your clothes, on the bed, chop, chop."
Radzig stood up, looking back. "If you're in the mood for that, we can have someone come from the bathhouse in town."
"I don't want them, I want you," Wenceslas pouted, frowning. "Would you let your king beg?"
Radzig’s smirk deepened as he leaned back against the bedframe, his tone playful. “Begging might be a good practice. Rosenberg, Pernstein, or Bergow would relish the sight, I’m sure.”
Wenceslas laughed sharply, sitting up. “Ha! Those scheming League pigs would love nothing more than to see you back in Dvorce, shoveling shit with the peasants. That’s all you’d be without me. Don’t forget it.”
Radzig’s smile didn’t falter, though his tone shifted to something quieter, more measured. “I don’t forget much, Wenceslas. Least of all, why I stay.”
Wenceslas paused, his grin softening into something almost thoughtful, though the arrogance never fully left his expression. “Good. You’re smarter than you look.”
Radzig raised his goblet in a casual toast. “To your impeccable taste, then.”
"And to that white little arse of my favourite wenchie," Wenceslas grinned and shuffled on the bed closer. "So, come on, can we fuck now? Or are you still coy?"
"Oh, be still, my beating heart," Radzig quipped, reaching for the buttons on his doublet, slowly taking it off.
Wenceslas grinned lazily, shuffling closer on the bed as the firelight danced across his face. His golden curls cast soft shadows over his flushed cheeks, and his lips quirked into a familiar, self-assured smirk. He reached out, brushing his fingers along Radzig’s hand with a touch that was both careless and intentional.
“Come on,” Wenceslas murmured, his voice dipping into a coaxing tone. “Take it off. Faster. Stop making me work so hard for it.”
Radzig regarded him evenly, his smirk deepening into something more knowing. He allowed a beat of silence to stretch before responding, his voice soft. “You don’t need to, love.”
The single word seemed to catch Wenceslas off guard for the briefest moment. His smug grin faltered, replaced by something almost vulnerable, though he quickly masked it with a chuckle.
“It wouldn't suit me anyway,” Wenceslas said, regaining his composure. “But you—calling me ‘love’? That’s unexpected.”
Radzig raised an eyebrow, his smirk still in place. “Not untrue.” Quickly, he got rid of the rest of his clothes, letting out a yelp when Wenceslas slapped his naked arse.
"Come, on! On the bed. Get yourself ready."
"You could at least take your shoes off," Radzig countered, reaching for a bottle of oil they'd hidden under the bed. "You didn't want a bathhouse wench, then don't treat me like one."
"Says you, all naked under me, fingers up your arse," Wenceslas retorted. "Come on, say it."
Radzig raised an eyebrow. "Say what?"
"You know what I want to hear," Wenceslas leaned over him. "Say it, I want to hear it."
Radzig sighed softly but obliged, his voice steady and unyielding. “My king.”
“Again,” Wenceslas demanded, his tone lilting as he stretched out like a cat with a bowl of cream. “Say it like you mean it.”
“My king,” Radzig repeated, louder this time, his gaze calm and unflinching.
Wenceslas chuckled, low and satisfied, but his smile didn’t fade. He leaned closer, propping himself up on one elbow and fixing Radzig with an expectant look. “Twice isn’t enough. I want four, wenchie. You don’t stop until I say so.” His breath was getting faster in excitement.
Radzig let out a faint laugh under his breath, shaking his head but repeating the words as requested. “My king. My king. My king.”
By the fourth repetition, Wenceslas was flushed, breathing heavily as he ran his fingers over his lover's naked chest. “Perfect,” he whispered. “See? You do know your place after all."
And though Radzig would never say it aloud, he knew he would endure it all, his whims, moods, and arrogance, just to stay by his side.
Several weeks later, the sound of hooves broke through the stillness of the morning, a steady drumming that mingled with the birdsong echoing from the surrounding trees. Radzig stood in the courtyard of his family's fortress in Dvorce, the crisp early-spring air carrying the earthy scent of recent rain.
The hills encircling them were brushed with fresh green, their slopes speckled with wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze. It was the kind of morning that might have felt promising.
It might have.
Radzig tightened his grip on his arms, his fingers brushing the rough fabric of his tunic as he watched the approaching riders. John of Görlitz was not one to arrive unnoticed - or quietly. His banner, the Luxembourg family’s rampant lion, fluttered faintly against the overcast sky.
The young lord shifted on his feet, his boots pressing into the muddied ground left by last night’s drizzle. His father’s summons had been clear. John was coming to Dvorce, and he required support. The news of Wenceslas’s kidnapping had come just days ago, rattling noble circles like a peal of thunder.
Radzig felt it in his chest, like a blade twisting with every reminder. The thought tore at Radzig, gnawing with every passing hour. The past few weeks had left him feeling strange in his own body. The restless nights, the deep-seated exhaustion... He shifted uneasily, his hand brushing against his stomach in an absent gesture before letting it drop.
The king was more than his liege. Wenceslas had been the center of Radzig’s world for the past three of his seventeen years, the infuriating and enigmatic king who had chosen him from among the lower nobility for reasons Radzig had never fully understood. Wenceslas had always been larger than life, a magnet for chaos and joy alike. But now, in the wake of his captivity, that absence was achingly loud.
The riders emerged from the wooded road, John at their head. His black destrier cut a striking figure against the soft greens and browns of the countryside, its saddle adorned with intricate embroidery. John himself was clad in a finely wrought cuirass, the steel polished to a mirror-like sheen. His cloak, dyed a deep blue and fastened with a gilded clasp, billowed faintly in the breeze. Behind him, his retinue bore banners displaying the Luxembourg coat of arms, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of the landscape.
“Radzig!” his father’s voice came through, roughened with age. Sir Oldřich emerged from the doorway, his cane tapping lightly against the flagstones as he approached. The years had not been kind to him; his once-strong frame now carried the stoop of old injuries, though his presence remained commanding. “Stand tall, boy. He’s here.”
Radzig straightened automatically, inhaling deeply as the first of the riders entered the courtyard.
John of Görlitz dismounted with practised ease, his boots landing on the damp earth with a muted thud. He knew the Duke, though not well. The youngest son of Emperor Charles IV, John carried the weight of the Luxembourg dynasty steadily, and despite his youth, he had already earned respect as a loyal ally to his king-brother.
“Sir Oldřich,” John greeted as he approached, his voice carrying warmth and diplomacy. His piercing blue eyes swept over the estate, taking in the modest hall and the freshly tilled fields beyond. “Your hospitality does you credit.”
“And your presence honors us, Your Grace,” Sir Oldřich replied with a slight bow of his head. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he gestured toward the hall. “Come inside. We are eager to hear what you have to say.”
John’s eyes shifted briefly to Radzig, standing a step behind his father, his shoulders squared in an attempt to mask his unease. Their gazes met for the briefest moment—John’s sharp and appraising, Radzig’s steady but guarded.
Inside the hall, the warmth of the hearth did little to settle the chill that had burrowed into Radzig’s bones. The room was adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of hunting and battle, their colours muted but their craftsmanship evident. A rack of weapons stood near the far wall, the blades polished and ready for use. The table, long and sturdy, bore the marks of years of service, its surface scarred by countless meals and discussions.
The elder Kobyla eased into his seat with a faint groan, setting his cane beside him. Radzig took his place near the hearth, keeping his hands busy by pouring wine into wooden cups.
John remained standing for a moment, his gaze drifting over the tapestries and weapon racks before he finally sat down across from Sir Oldřich.
“The king has been taken,” John began directly, his voice steady yet burdened. He sounded tired, as if he’d delivered this speech at every manor and castle along his way. The words hung in the air, heavy and serious. The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the brief silence.
Sir Oldřich Kobyla nodded slowly, his fingers brushing the scarred wooden table. “We are aware.”
“The League of Lords claims to act in the interest of Bohemia," John frowned. "But it's clear that's not in their interest. They seek to undermine the crown and to gain power for themselves. This betrayal is not merely an affront to the king—it threatens the stability of the realm.” He sighed. "And it doesn't help my brother - Sigismund, I mean - or cousin Jobst are all too happy about this development."
Radzig stood near the hearth, the warmth against his back failing to ease the tension gnawing at his chest. He gripped the handle of the wine jug tightly, his knuckles pale as though the action might anchor him. The image of Wenceslas—bound and vulnerable, held behind the thick, foreign walls of Wildberg Castle—flashed in his mind. The thought of the man he… cared for, stripped of his freedom by their enemies, filled him with a silent, searing anger.
“The League of Lords thinks to break the king’s rule through treachery,” John said sharply, his voice calm but edged with steel. “They believe Wenceslas stands alone, but they underestimate the loyalty of those who remain true. This will be their undoing.”
Sir Oldřich leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the table. “What is your strategy, Your Grace? Their forces are not insignificant, and they hold strong positions across the land.”
John nodded, his expression grave but determined. “The League holds the upper hand for now, but each lord fights for his own gain. Their divided loyalties make them vulnerable.”
Radzig, standing near the hearth, watched John closely, his brow furrowed. “And how do you propose we approach them, Your Grace? A direct assault on their strongholds would be costly.”
“Indeed, Sir Radzig,” John replied, turning his blue gaze to him. “A siege would drain resources we don't have. We will move swiftly and decisively, striking where they least expect. Their strength lies in their numbers; we shall ensure those numbers dwindle.”
Radzig crossed his arms, his mind racing. “And the rescue of the king, Your Grace? What of him?”
John’s expression hardened, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes. “My brother’s freedom is the heart of this campaign. But I will not march blindly into their trap. We must be certain of his location before we make our move towards Wildberg.”
“Our loyalty to the crown has never wavered, Your Grace,” Sir Oldřich said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “But I am no longer fit for battle. These old wounds have taken their toll. My son, Radzig, will lead our men.”
Radzig felt his stomach clench, though he couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or the peculiar queasiness that had plagued him recently. He set the jug down with deliberate care before straightening to meet John’s gaze. There was no escaping the burden now, not that he would ever truly consider running from it.
“Our swords are yours,” Radzig nodded, his tone firm.
John’s lips curled into a faint smile. “I expected no less from you, Radzig Kobyla. Wenceslas spoke of you often - and with great fondness.”
The mention of Wenceslas sent a jolt through Radzig, but he masked it well, offering only a curt nod in reply. Inwardly, his thoughts churned. Those memories now felt as sharp as they were distant.
As the silence stretched for a moment, Radzig caught himself pressing his palm absently to his stomach—a fleeting, almost imperceptible gesture. He quickly let his hand fall to his side and turned his focus back to the matter at hand.
No matter what lay ahead, he would not falter—not for his father, not for the Duke of Görlitz, not for his men, and not for Wenceslas.