Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kaladin hadn’t bathed in days.

Or maybe it had already been weeks. He didn’t know. He had no way of knowing. He hadn’t seen the outside of his cell—not to mention the sky—in months. Or, no. Years? Had it already been that long? How old was he? What did he look like?

He had no idea.

It had been… a very long time since he’d been dragged out of his home in Hearthstone, away from everything he’d ever known—his family, his childhood, Tien.

Storms, Tien.

Kaladin had no idea what had happened to his brother. Whether he was dead or alive. Whether he’d already been sold to a cruel lighteyed family who’d get off on his suffering. The thought alone made his stomach twist and bile rise up in his throat.

The more he imagined it—

CLING!

The sound snapped his thoughts apart. Cold metal bit into his skin as grimy hands fastened cuffs around his bony wrists. He hadn’t eaten a normal meal in what felt like ages. He counted himself fortunate when they pushed a bowl of unrecognizable slop into his cell, sometimes once a day, sometimes less. His stomach had long since stopped keeping track.

“Let’s go,” the Obeyer—one of Odium’s men—said, his voice completely void of emotion. The man clamped one hand on the nape of Kaladin’s neck, squeezing tightly, as the other roughly grabbed one of his wrists, pushing him forward.

Kaladin’s body instinctively locked up, rejecting the man’s touch. He wanted to pull away, shove the man aside, assert his dominance. Anything. But it was impossible.

Because really, what could he do? Run? Try to escape? He’d tried that already—multiple times actually. There was nowhere to go. And punishment always waited for him afterwards.

Ever since Odium had taken control of Alethkar, he’d transformed the Kholinar Palace into something gruesome. Something that hardly resembled the Palace everyone had once admired. The grand halls and ballrooms had been demolished and replaced with small, cold, and empty cells that stank of unwashed bodies and bodily waste. The larger rooms—the King’s Chapel and the Eastern Gallery—had been transformed into rooms Kaladin knew too well: the Auction Room and the Torture Room.

Stumbling, Kaladin finally started walking. He knew where they were headed.

Kaladin knelt in one of the older cells, scrubbing dried blood from the floor. His arms hurt and his knuckles were cracked raw from the toxic substances they always forced him to use. Around him, three other slaves worked silently, each with their own rag and bucket.

Among them was a small, frail boy, one Kaladin got paired up with frequently. He didn’t know his name. They weren’t allowed to speak to each other, not while working. Kaladin only knew him as Six-Three-Nine-Zero—the name the Obeyers had assigned to him after he’d become a slave. Kaladin’s was Nine-One-Five-Two.

The boy… the boy who reminded him of Tien.

Six-Three-Nine-Zero paused for a moment to catch his breath. They’d been scrubbing for hours by now, and they weren’t allowed to stop, not even to take a breath. They weren’t free men. They were darkeyes. Men who shouldn’t even be breathing in the first place.

The Obeyer overseeing them stepped forward without hesitation and slapped the boy across the face. The sound echoed against the walls as his head snapped to the side, his body collapsing on the ground.

Kaladin froze. He knew what he was supposed to do—keep his head down, keep scrubbing, and pretend he hadn’t seen. He knew what would happen if he didn’t. But he didn’t care. Not this time. Not when Tien was right there, getting slapped across the face for daring to breathe.

He lifted his head, “Leave him alone,” he rasped, his voice low and rough from disuse. His rag dripped red water onto the floor.

The Obeyer’s eyes snapped towards him, “What did you say?”

Kaladin clenched his jaw. He could still back down. He knew he should. If he kissed the Obeyer’s feet and begged long enough, maybe he wouldn’t get tortured. But Six-Three-Nine-Zero was curled still on the ground, shaking. Exactly like Tien.

“You heard me,” he said, trembling slightly from a mixture of anger and fear, “Leave. Him. Alone. He didn’t do anything wrong. He just paused to take a breath.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the other slaves stopped moving, pure terror in their eyes.

Then, the Obeyer smiled cruelly, “Fine,” he said, his voice full of the promise of upcoming pain, “We’ll leave him alone. For now.”

Kaladin kept his head down as they dragged him through the hallways, past cells and doors bolted shut. But when they reached the final hallway, they didn’t turn left towards the Torture Room.

They turned right. Towards the Auction Room.

Kaladin froze in place, almost tripping himself and the Obeyer.

Wait… what—no—

Despite being a slave for a long time now, Kaladin had never been chosen for one of the auctions which took place once a month. Every month, Obeyers chose a handful of slaves at random to be sold to lighteyes. Kaladin didn’t know for sure how it worked, but he’d heard from another slave—Four-Zero-Zero-One, one of the oldest men that still hadn’t been sold—that once a lighteyes chose someone, they were required to pay a sum that reflected their slave’s number. He also knew that after a certain age, when slaves stopped being seen as desirable, they were killed.

The Obeyer shoved him forward again, but Kaladin twisted sideways, ripping away. His voice was raw, “Why—why are we going in there? Why didn’t anyone tell me I was chosen?!”

The Obeyer’s hand came up immediately, slapping him across the face. Pain flared like fire along his cheek, “You’re not deserving of knowing,” the man said flatly, “We didn’t pick you at random. This is something that’s been coming since the day you arrived. You’re one of the worst slaves we’ve ever had. One of the ones who’ve visited the Torture Room most frequently. And yes, your luck has kept you from being chosen for the auction until now. That luck ends today. We can promise you that.”

He leaned in close, so Kaladin could feel the cold press of his lips near his ear. His voice dropped to a whisper, “If you aren’t sold… you won’t live to see another day. We’re done with you.”

The Obeyer grabbed him again, stronger this time, and yanked him towards the heavy door.

Kaladin’s heart hammered in his chest as the massive door swung open, revealing the Auction Room. Torches cast flickering shadows across stone floors, making the room feel even more haunted—long having replaced the Stormlight infused spheres. Obeyer’s Servants hurried about, cleaning and preparing the other slaves: straightening their postures, wiping away filth, even brushing their hair and splashing water over their faces. Their movements were mechanical, as if they didn’t want to catch whatever disease the slaves might be infected with.

Kaladin’s eyes scanned the room, desperate for some shred of comfort. None of the Servants approached him. He knew that was part of their agreement. No one wanted a dirty, beaten slave—no one would buy him like this. That was the point.

One of the Obeyers clipped cuffs around his ankles, fastening them to the floor. Kaladin could move no more than a shuffle, his arms and legs both frozen in place. His chest heaved, and for a moment he closed his eyes and imagined collapsing forward, letting himself go, wishing the floor would just swallow him whole.

No one will buy me. Please… no one will buy me. Let me die here.

Then a voice, small and pained, broke through the fog of his despair.

“It hurts…”

Kaladin’s head snapped to the side. Six-Three-Nine-Zero stood nearby, a Servant cleaning yesterday’s cut on his cheek with something that smelled like alcohol. The boy flinched with every swipe, and Kaladin’s stomach turned.

Storms. Was he chosen because of me? Because I defended him? No, no, no. Please…

It was his fault. He knew it was. And he couldn’t even protect him, not in the way he wanted to. Just like he couldn’t protect Tien.

Please, let me die.

Please, let me die.

Please, let me die.

Kaladin chanted the words over and over again in his head like a prayer.

After a moment, he took a deep breath and let his gaze wander to the other slaves in the lineup. A few he recognized from being frequently paired up during their labor work.

There was Four-Zero-Zero-Four, a tall, lanky, slightly balding man with blonde hair. He was weaker than the last time Kaladin had seen him, his shoulders slumped under the weight of chains.

On his right was one of the most recognizable and liked slaves—one who even smiled through physical labor—Four-Zero-Zero-Six. His hair was matted and his only hand was scraped and bleeding. The moment Four-Zero-Zero-Six made eye contact with Kaladin, the Servants rushed over to clean him up.

Kaladin looked away, sighing. It was as if his gaze alone could taint someone, maybe even poison them. Kill them. They’d always had something against him. It hurt more than he could describe. He hated that he even cared.

Then a clipped voice broke his focus, “Six-Six-Six-Six.”

It was a young boy he didn’t recognize. but the number, the number tore through him. He’d known Six-Six-Six-Six once. He’d been a cell neighbor that Kaladin had shared his first, terrible days with. It was the only man who’d actually revealed his name to Kaladin. Moash was his name. And then one day… Moash had disappeared. The only real friend he’d had was gone. Dead, probably. Because what else could’ve happened to him?

And now that number echoed through the room, tied to someone new, repurposed for another other disposable body. It made something break open in his chest.

Even their numbers… even their storming numbers don’t matter.

He wanted to scream.

“The auction is ready to begin!” The Highobeyer’s voice rang through the room. And suddenly, Kaladin felt every nerve in his body tense.

The grand doors swung open. And the scrape of polished boots along with the faint rattle of expensive embellishments and weaponry, filled the room.

Kaladin drew in a shaky breath, lifting his eyes just enough to take in the scene through the strands of his unwashed hair. A dozen—no, maybe a little more lighteyes walked towards them.

At that, his stomach dropped, his blood draining out of his body. There were thirty slaves lined on the stage, maybe more—he hadn’t dared to count exactly. That meant some of them wouldn’t be sold. And he knew, without needing anyone to explain, what happened to those who weren’t chosen.

He was glad he was the one who was picked to die after the auction. At least that way the others who also didn’t get purchased wouldn’t have to face that same end. At least if he died, he’d die in place of someone else. Maybe even in place of the boy, Six-Three-Nine-Zero.

The buyers gazes swept over the chained bodies as if they were livestock, or worse, as if they weren’t even alive. Some pairs of eyes were sharp and calculating, judging whether this one or that one would be worth the spheres for their labor, others were hungry, their eyes lingering too long on faces and bodies.

Kaladin felt bile rise in his throat at the thought of being taken for that. He forced his eyes down to the floor, praying—though to what, he wasn’t sure anymore—that no gaze would linger on him.

But then one did.

From the corner of his vision, he saw movement. A man stepped closer than the others. He was a bit older, his green uniform gleaming with yellow trim. He had a bulbous face, thick lips, and curly black hair that sat in perfect waves as though he’d spent hours ensuring it. His pale green eyes looked over Kaladin, not with hunger but with calculation.

Kaladin forced his gaze downward, away from those pale eyes, clenching his fists behind his back.

Don’t look. Don’t give him reason to decide you’re worth the trouble. Storms, anything but that.

Then, a voice rang out from the other side of the room.

“I want this one!”

The words echoed too confidently and obnoxiously. Kaladin’s head snapped towards the sound before he could stop himself.

Two men stood together, slightly apart from the rest of the crowd. One was blonde with bright blue eyes, his uniform decorated with numerous embellishments. Next to him stood a man with dark hair, dressed in green, his green eyes alive with restless energy. They seemed close. They seemed like partners, lovers, or friends bound by something more than typical friendship. The way the dark-haired one leaned towards the other, and the way the blonde man’s hand twitched as if to tug him back, spoke of familiarity.

It was the dark-haired man who’d shouted, his hand thrust out towards the line of slaves. His finger pointed at one farther down the line.

Kaladin followed the gesture, his heart clenching when he saw who it was.

It was a singer, clearly in Slaveform. He was short with marbled red and black skin.

Kaladin knew him, if only in fragments. The man almost never spoke, not to the other slaves, not even when the Obeyers demanded it of him. Silence had earned him beatings, more than once, but he never broke. Kaladin had caught his eyes, now and then, across the cells. He was pretty sure his number was Four-One-Zero-Zero.

The blonde man cringed, his lips pulling into a sharp grimace. He leaned in close to his companion, hissing something under his breath, shushing him, trying to contain him, perhaps.

But the words—“I want this one”—still hung in the air. It disgusted him. He couldn’t imagine being chosen by someone like that. Someone who’d clearly treat you like a thing.

Kaladin tore his gaze away, pressing his lips together until they hurt. He could only hope that whoever those men were, they weren’t cruel in the way so many lighteyes were. He hoped Four-One-Zero-Zero wouldn’t get the treatment he knew a lot of other singers received.

“Let us begin,” the Highobeyer said. He unrolled a long strip of parchment and raised his chin, “First slave—” A meaningless number echoed through the room as he announced it, “Who wishes to claim them?” There was a moment of pause, then voices rose. There were sounds of shuffling feet and the clink of spheres being counted, but Kaladin stared at his feet, clenching his jaw.

He couldn’t look up as his vision blurred. He blinked hard, willing the wetness away, but it only made his throat burn hotter. Crying here would be a humiliation, a surrender.

Every number called brought the reality closer—the possibility of being dragged off by that older man in green, or worse, not being chosen at all and being dragged back to the Torture Room to be murdered in cold blood.

Don’t break. Don’t break. Don’t break.

“Now… Six-Three-Nine-Zero.”

Oh no.

The boy. Tien.

Kaladin looked towards him. The boy stood there, chains rattling faintly as his chest rose and fell in rapid panic. His eyes darted across the room, wide, shining with fear.

The silence stretched. No one spoke. No one wanted him Was it mercy that no one wanted him? That he’d be spared the cruelty of being bought? Or was it a curse—that he’d be thrown to the Torture Room for failing to sell, and punished for Kaladin’s defiance the day before?

Kaladin’s fingernails dug into his palms.

This is all your fault, his mind whispered, All of it. If you hadn’t opened your mouth he wouldn’t even be here. You stupid, worthless waste of space. You should—

“I’ll take him,” The words rang out from the crowd.

A tall, slender man stepped forward from the line of lighteyes, his green uniform fitted neatly, the cut fashionable enough to mark wealth but not nearly as beautifully designed as blonde man’s had been. His tan eyes caught the light as he surveyed the boy with a calm, practiced smile.

There was something beneath that exterior, something cruel. It was the same kind of hidden malice Kaladin had seen in Obeyers, in men who smiled with blood on their hands.

He wasn’t a good man. And the boy seemed to feel it too.

The Highobeyer raised his arms, satisfaction dripping from his words, “Slave Six-Three-Nine-Zero has been claimed. Six-thousand, three-hundred and ninety spheres, paid by Highlord Meridas Amaram.”

Two Obeyers strode forward immediately. They bent over the boy, unlocking the shackles from his wrists and ankles. The boy’s hands shook as he was pushed forward, stumbling into the waiting grasp of his new master.

Kaladin’s throat closed. His chest heaved once, and then again, as hot tears blurred his vision.

Storms, not him. He’s just a boy. Just like Tien. He— He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep his tears from falling.

And then he felt eyes on him. The hairs on his neck rose. Against every instinct, he lifted his head, forgetting to wait until the tears soaked back into his eyes.

His gaze met the blonde man’s. Their eyes locked across the room at the very moment a tear slid down Kaladin’s cheek. For an instant it was as though the noise of the auction, the sound of spheres being passed, and the mutters of lighteyes all fell away.

He didn’t know how long their eye contact lasted—if it had only been a few seconds or a couple of minutes. But Kaladin tore his gaze away right in time for the Highobeyer to say: “And next we have… Nine-One-Five-Two.”

It was Kaladin’s turn.

Chapter Text

Adolin woke up the morning of the auction.

He’d dreaded this day for years, always hoping that somehow it wouldn’t come. That maybe some new law would be passed or that there’d be a collective rebellion against slavery.

But none of that had happened.

Today, he’d walk through the gates of his childhood home—thinking that alone made his heart hurt—and he’d see what had become of the place he once felt safe in. He’d see the cells and the blood-stained walls that used to be decorated with their House glyph and polished to perfection. He’d see the infamous Auction Room and the innocent darkeyes that had been through worse things than he could imagine.

And he’d have to take one of them home.

Storms take him.

He dragged a hand down his face, sitting upright. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a long moment, elbows on his knees. He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair until it stuck up in every direction.

He was already so tired and he hadn’t even properly gotten up yet.

After a moment, he finally pushed himself to his feet and moved towards his bathing room. He splashed water over his face, cold enough to shock his system awake. It trailed down his neck, dripping onto his sleep shirt. He didn’t bother drying it.

Instead, he reached for his hairbrush. He always brushed his hair every morning. It was almost therapeutic for him in a way—it grounded him and took his mind away from overthinking about the cruel world around him. And not to mention, his hair was one of his favorite—and most attractive—features. He had to make sure he looked good. Though he doubted it would help him with his upcoming purchase of a slave.

When he was done, he leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head to see how it looked from every angle. For once, he left it messy. People liked that.

Not that it matters now. You’re not going on a date. You’re going to purchase a human being, he reminded himself. Storms, it still hadn’t fully sunk in.

Then, he walked over to his closet. He stared at the neat row of uniforms, arranged by color and formality. At this point, most of them felt like costumes, things he wore to present himself as the perfect Kholin heir, not as Adolin Kholin himself. None of them represented who he was anymore.

His hand hovered before settling on one of his favorites—though that was somewhat of a stretch—a deep blue coat heavy with embroidery and intricate designs. It was fancy, but not too fancy. It was one of the few uniforms that still felt like his.

He dressed in silence, adjusting the collar and smoothing the fabric over his chest, before finally pulling his boots on. By the time he stood before the mirror again, the man staring back looked like a prince. A prince that still partially resembled the man beneath the layers.

Adolin dragged a hand down his face, rolling his shoulders, trying to stabilize himself. He gave himself one last glance in the mirror before he went to the door, pulling it open with more force than necessary.

When he entered the main sitting room, Dalinar, Navani, and Renarin were already waiting, seated in a half-circle around the low table as if this were a council rather than a family gathering.

“Ah, there you are,” Navani said, “We thought you might keep us waiting.”

Dalinar grunted, “Today’s important. You’ll want to be rested and ready.”

Adolin inclined his head, “I’m ready.”

Navani leaned forward slightly, her hands folded in her lap, “Are you excited, Adolin? It’s not every day one is sent off with such responsibility.”

Responsibility. Sure. Adolin swallowed audibly, nodding again, “Yes, of course,” His voice came out rough and clipped.

“Unfortunately,” Dalinar added, “Elhokar couldn’t join us to see you off. Kingly duties, you surely understand. He sends his best wishes, naturally.”

Adolin gave another nod, lips pressing together, “Naturally,” He lowered himself into a seat across from them, forcing a half-smile.

Across from him, Renarin looked at him, their gazes meeting for the first time that day. Unlike the others, Renarin didn’t bother with masks. Adolin held his stare for a moment too long, and in that silence, everything unspoken between them revealed itself once again.

Renarin had been the first one to ever tell him what he’d really thought about all of this. He’d whispered that he didn’t believe any of this was right—that no matter what their family or their God claimed, no one should live in filth, fearing death with chains around their wrists and collars around their necks.

“It eats at you,” Renarin had said once, “Even if you try not to look at it... not that they’d even let you to begin with.”

And Adolin had agreed. He’d leaned close and embraced his brother with everything he had inside him. They’d both needed the comfort of knowing they weren’t alone, “It helps,” he’d said, “To know you’re here… that I’m not the only one.”

Their family hadn’t owned slaves for years. Not since Gavilar’s vision, when Adolin was still a boy too young to understand but old enough to remember the whispers. The old King had claimed Odium himself had shown him a path: a promise that their household would achieve a kind of semi-freedom, and that their names would be blessed in the eyes of their God, if only they lied.

On the outside, it might’ve seemed innocent enough. It was only one lie, wasn’t it? But no… it was one, single lie that changed everything—that was worth everything.

Adolin could still recall the words, murmured in dark corridors—the tale that Dalinar, Elhokar, and Gavilar himself had made up together: that their slaves were disobedient and had rebelled against them. They’d said that their slaves’ deaths were a necessity. A cruel but righteous way to keep order in the Kingdom.

And it had worked. They’d been praised for their honesty and heartlessness, and with the blessing of Odium himself, granted freedom from ever needing to own slaves again. They had been marked as chosen. And their innocent slaves—Adolin hadn’t known them, not really. But he could’ve bet all his money on the fact that they’d never done anything wrong—had been executed in front of the entire court.

But the stain of their actions had never faded. Even now, years later, House Kholin was known for being the House that had owned the most slaves, and that had murdered them just to receive Odium’s blessing.

And naturally, that meant that Adolin was known for that too. Adolin, who’d never hurt another human, not to mention a defenseless broken soul.

He forced a smile at Navani’s expectant look, as if he hadn’t just been dragged back into memory, “Yes, I’m excited. Truly.”

But Renarin’s gaze didn’t waver.

Adolin told himself that his family weren’t bad people. They weren’t who the public thought they were.

Even when they used to own slaves, they didn’t punish them or whip them or drag them through the streets the way some Houses still did. They didn’t practice their beliefs openly anymore, that was the thing—the whole point, Adolin guessed, of everything that had happened with Odium. Dalinar and Navani had hidden themselves beneath the reputation of a family that had been chosen by Odium. It was their armor. Something that made other Houses fear them and bow down to them.

And despite what Adolin truly thought, he knew better. He knew that if he ever opened his mouth and revealed how his heart broke at the sight of slaves being tortured right in front of him… he wouldn’t make it alive. It would be too dangerous to let that out into the public—or even to his own family. Perhaps especially with them.

He shook off his remaining fear and focused on what Navani was saying to him.

“Will you eat before you leave?” she asked, her tone almost maternal, as though this were no different from any other morning, “You’ll need strength for the day ahead.”

The thought of food right now almost made him gag. If he touched so much as a slice of bread, he’d throw it up before he reached the gates of the reformed Kholinar palace. He shook his head quickly, “No, no. I’ll… I’ll eat once I’m settled—once we come back. I wouldn’t want to be late.”

Dalinar hummed in understanding, “And you’re still meeting Jakamav before you go?” he asked.

“Yes,” Adolin said, “We’ll ride out together.”

Dalinar nodded, “Good. He’ll keep you focused. You’ll need a clear head.”

“We’ll have the adjacent room to yours made ready. Your new slave will need to be near you at all times,” Navani added, smiling proudly.

Adolin’s chest tightened. He forced his jaw to unclench, and he dipped his head in agreement, “Of course… thank you.”

Dalinar’s eyes studied him for a moment too long, but then he nodded with a heavy sigh, “Then we’ll wish you luck, Adolin. Don’t fail to remember what this means for our House.”

Adolin smiled wider, trying to make it look as real as possible, “I won’t,” he said smoothly, “I promise.”

The streets of Kholinar seemed quieter than usual as Adolin and Jakamav approached the palace. And Adolin knew the reason why. They all did.

The palace rose above them, covered in Odium’s red-and-black colors and banners, where Kholin blue-and-white had once flown.

Beside him, Jakamav let out a long, appreciative whistle, “They’ve certainly dressed it up since the old days, haven’t they?” he said, a smile twisting his lips, “I wonder what the halls look like now. Must be crawling with those Obeyers.”

Adolin didn’t reply. He dismounted Sureblood and handed the reins to a waiting stablehand without looking at him.

Jakamav fell into step beside him as they climbed the palace steps, “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “About what I’d like in a slave… I’ll need someone strong, of course—big enough to carry my armor and my boots after a long ride,” He chuckled, “But, I wouldn’t complain if the slave was… flexible. You know, useful in other ways too. Nothing wrong with having someone who can warm your bed as well as do everything you ask of them. Two for the price of one, eh? It’s the least of what we deserve.”

Adolin froze mid-step. For a moment he thought he’d misheard, that maybe Jakamav had said something else, something less vile. But no, the smile on his lips made it clear Adolin hadn’t misheard anything.

Adolin thought of how easy it would be for him to punch that smile straight off Jakamav’s stupid face. But he couldn’t—not with storming Obeyers everywhere, lurking in every shadow, listening closely.

Instead, he forced his legs to move again. He put a fake smile on his face, as if he thought exactly the same disgusting things, “I get it. You’ll… have to see what’s available,” he muttered.

Before Jakamav could press him further, a voice cut in, “Names?”

An Obeyer stood at the doors of the palace. He was young—younger than Adolin expected, around their age, with cropped dark hair and tan eyes. He held a scroll in one hand, pen in the other.

Adolin stopped, giving his name, and Jakamav followed. The man nodded slowly, marking them both down.

There was nothing different about him—nothing that separated him from the dozens of other Obeyers Adolin had seen at court. But… something about him made Adolin shiver. There was something wrong with him… he was different from the others. But how? Adolin didn’t know that. He only knew that the man had looked at him for a beat too long, and not with the respect he usually received.

I need to keep an eye on him—get his name, he told himself. He had a feeling that specific Obeyer would cause problems for him in the future. It was a feeling. And he knew to trust those.

“You may proceed, Brightlords,” the man said, stepping aside.

Adolin and Jakamav pushed through the open doors, walking towards where the Obeyers gestured them. The interior was so dark that Adolin could barely see anything, the only light flickered from the lit fire-lamps near the ceiling. The walls were scratched up, draped in Odium’s colors and glyphs. Everything around them smelled of barely covered-up blood, various bodily fluids, and rotting food. It was clear to Adolin that the Obeyers didn’t even care to make it seem like they weren’t merciless, cruel people. They wanted their visitors to know what would happen to them if they ever chose to rebel.

Jakamav kept talking beside him, voice a pitch too high and amused, but Adolin barely heard him. They reached the end of the entrance hall where another Obeyer stood there, hands folded behind his back. His gaze flicked over them quickly, then he bowed slightly, lowering his head towards Adolin before swinging open the heavy double doors.

The Auction Room.

Everything around Adolin seemed to vanish the moment his gaze landed on one of the slaves. The man was the only one who hadn’t been washed and prepped for the display. His matted hair went past his collarbones, and he wore torn rags that were stiff with grime and blood. His feet were bare with shackles around his ankles keeping him in place. He didn’t even look like a human anymore, he looked like a spooked animal who was being punished for simply daring to breathe.

The moment their gazes locked, a tear slipped down the man’s cheek, mapping out a path across the grime. He watched the way the slave tried not to show it—with how he clenched his jaw and blinked repeatedly, unable to look straight at Adolin for longer than a second.

The man was crying for the boy—Six-Three-Nine-Zero—who’d just been sold off to one of the vilest men Adolin had the displeasure of knowing, Amaram.

Adolin’s chest squeezed painfully at the sight. That boy didn’t deserve that, and neither did the man he was looking at. He didn’t know why—he hadn’t even heard his name yet—but something about him was different from the rest—something even more painful. The weight in those exhausted eyes, the secret defiance, the way he’d had to have done something to not deserve the Obeyes’ basic human decency… it struck deeper than he could’ve ever imagined.

Then, the Highobeyer’s voice split the air, “And next we have… Nine-One-Five-Two.”

The man startled and instantly broke their eye contact. He looked away quickly, humiliation coloring his face, as though even meeting Adolin’s gaze had been a sin.

Storms, help me. What has he been through?

“Who will take this one?” the Highobeyer called, sweeping a hand towards the slave.

For a moment, silence stretched. Adolin took a deep breath, ready to… something—he wasn’t even sure what yet. But then, a rich and self-assured voice called out: “I’ll take him.”

Adolin hadn’t even noticed Sadeas move closer, but there he was, standing right before the slave, ready to take him.

Instantly, Adolin’s vision flashed red. No. Over my dead body. He knew Sadeas’s reputation too well: he bought slaves for the sole purpose of working them into the ground and tossing them aside when they could no longer perform. Adolin was convinced that every single one of Sadeas’ slaves had died within months of him purchasing them.

“No,” Adolin heard himself say without even fully thinking what he was doing. He stepped forward until he was at Sadeas’s side, “No. I’ll take him.”

The Highobeyer froze, his mouth hanging open. Jakamav stepped right next to Adolin instantly. Storms, go away. I don’t want to be associated with you right now, Adolin wanted to say. He knew his friend would stop him from buying Nine-One-Five-Two.

Sadeas’ head slowly turned towards Adolin, his expression unreadable, thought it was clear he didn’t appreciate the interruption. Adolin didn’t back down and met Sadeas’s eyes, “He’s mine.”

Jakamav leaned close to Adolin’s ear, speaking low enough that only he could hear, “Are you storming crazy? That’s the one you want? That filthy wreck? Look at him—he’s half-starved, hasn’t even been washed for the auction. He won’t last a week.”

Adolin didn’t let Jakamav’s words get to him. He lifted his chin, a mask of princely superiority settling over his face like second nature, “Yes,” he said smoothly, “That’s the one I want.”

Jakamav looked at him like he was crazy, “But why? He won’t do labor, not like you need—he looks like he’d crumble from carrying your Plate alone, and…” His eyes flicked over the chained man with pure disgust, “He certainly won’t please you in any other way. Come on, Adolin…” his voice lowered to a hushed whisper, “You deserve better than a man who’s definitely never touched a cock before. If anything, he’s only ever been used. How are you going to get him to—”

A spike of hot anger shot through Adolin. He wanted to shake Jakamav and demand how he could speak so casually about something so cruel—how he thought Adolin was the type of man to force himself onto anyone, especially someone who’d feel like they couldn’t say no. But he forced himself to stay calm.

“No, no. That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, lowering his voice and adding a slightly mocking tone, “You didn’t see it, did you? The man was crying. That’s perfect… it means that he’ll break and I’ll be able to mold him into whatever I want,” He swallowed down the bike in his throat as he added, “I’ll make sure that he’ll like and trust me enough to never say no. I’ll pretend to care about whatever he’s been through—maybe someone’s touched him before and he has some stupid trauma—but I won’t actually care. I’ll make him mine in every way, no matter what it takes.”

Jakamav frowned, but something in his eyes lit up at Adolin’s words. He was intrigued.

“And besides,” Adolin continued, “I can’t let Sadeas have him. He already has more slaves than he can keep track of. No—no, this one’s mine. You’ll see just how obedient I’ll make him.”

“Hmm,” Jakamav hummed, looking back towards the slave, “You might be right. I’ll admit, I’m curious myself what could be made of a wreck like that.”

Adolin cursed himself for even saying those horrifying things out loud. He prayed that the man hadn’t overheard and that he wouldn’t believe that disgusting persona to be real. Adolin didn’t want him thinking that he’d meant any of it—not when that tear was still burned into his memory.

“Remarkable!” the Highobeyer’s voice interrupted Adolin’s thoughts, “No one has ever fought over a slave before. Very well. Let’s start the bidding.”

The… the what? The bidding? Oh, storms take him. Adolin thought Nine-One-Five-Two would be automatically given to him, being who he was. And now Prince Adolin Kholin had to fight with storming Sadeas over a man. It sounded absurd even to his own ears.

“Starting at zero,” the Highobeyer said, “Who’ll give more?”

Sadeas’s voice cut in before Adolin could take a breath, “One thousand.”

“Nine thousand, one hundred and fifty-two,” Adolin called back confidently. It was the original price—the full worth of the man’s number.

Surprised murmurs echoed through the room.

Sadeas looked right into Adolin’s eyes, a sneer on his lips, “Ten thousand,” he said. He clearly expected Adolin to back away now, that he wouldn’t go beyond the expected price now that Sadeas had offered more.

But Adolin wouldn’t let that happen. He straightened, cleared his throat, and said, “Twenty thousand.”

Lighteyes gasped. Even Jakamav’s eyes widened in disbelief. Sadeas tightened his jaw, his face flushing red with fury at the loss. But he said nothing. He didn’t offer more than twenty thousand spheres.

The Highobeyer’s grinned, positively delighted with the course of events, “Slave Nine-One-Five-Two has been sold for twenty thousand spheres to Prince Adolin Kholin!”

Adolin Kholin. The son of the Blackthorn. A prince of Alethkar. The man who belonged to the most powerful family in the entire Kingdom—one who’d owned more slaves than anyone else.

His master.

The word rattled around his head like, refusing to make sense. Out of all the vile lighteyes gathered, of course, it had to be him. The worst one Kaladin could’ve gotten.

No, no, no. Maybe this is some mistake, his mind told him, Maybe the Highobeyer had said the wrong number. Maybe he’d mispronounced the man in green’s name. Please, please, please— He prayed for that. Storms, he prayed that it was some misunderstanding.

Because if it wasn’t a misunderstanding, then Prince Adolin Kholin—the most beautiful man in Alethkar—would own him. But that wasn’t all that people said about the Kholins, especially Adolin. Men like him didn’t buy slaves for strength, they bought them for other reasons. For reasons Kaladin’s-new-master’s friend had made it clear he intended to do with the slave of his choosing.

He looked at Adolin’s uniform, at how perfectly pressed it was, and at how all the embellishments and threads shone in the light. His hair shone like it had never been dirty—never been anything but brushed to perfection. His skin was smooth, and shiny, and untouched. He didn’t need to speak loudly or laugh like the others—men like him never needed to. His silence was enough for people to know exactly who, and what, he was.

Then, an Obeyer stepped behind Kaladin and unlocked the chains around his wrists and ankles. He should’ve felt lighter and freer. But he didn’t. If anything, he felt worse. Now that someone like Adolin had bought him, everyone was staring at him, judging him, and waiting for his first mistake. It was like they were waiting to see exactly how his new master would punish him.

His legs refused to move. His body knew what his mind hadn’t caught up to yet: stepping down meant submitting to Adolin Kholin, offering himself just like his master wanted. It meant saying yes, I’ll do whatever you want, Adolin. Anything for you, my master, and he just couldn’t do that.

But Adolin Kholin stepped forward, clearly expecting Kaladin to do as all the others had—to walk down the wooden platform and present himself to his new master.

A rough hand shoved Kaladin forward, making the decision for him, “Move.”

Kaladin stumbled forward, legs aching from how long he’d spent standing in place. For a terrifying second, he was sure he’d collapse face-first in front of Adolin and embarrass himself before he’d even pleased his master. But somehow—truly he didn’t know how—he caught himself, moving upright just before his knees buckled.

Automatically, he straightened his back so much it hurt, and bowed his head, trying his best to show his submission. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adolin’s hands lift just a fraction… as if to catch him if he’d actually fallen.

Kaladin’s heart was beating way too fast. He didn’t understand it—why would someone like Adolin Kholin dirty his hands to keep his slave from stumbling? No, it had to mean something else. His master probably just didn’t want Kaladin to embarrass him. Adolin’s instinct wasn’t kindness or comfort, it was pride—he was clearly just trying to protect his own dignity.

“Before we continue with the next purchase,” the Highobeyer announced, “We must first make an announcement. This—” he gestured towards Adolin and Kaladin “—marks the first time in years that a member of House Kholin has taken possession of a slave. How very exciting!”

A ripple of laughter and applause rose among the crowd. One person even shouted, “About time!” Adolin’s friend-or-lover clapped him on the back with a smirk, “Well done. I knew this time would come sooner or later. I’m proud of you,” His hand moved to Adolin’s shoulder, leaning into him slightly.

Adolin smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he didn’t quite want to but had to, and inclined his head in thanks to the surrounding lighteyes.

Slowly, the applause and laughter began to die, replaced by a strange, expectant quiet. Kaladin didn’t understand it—why had everyone gone silent? He risked a glance up through the tangle of his hair.

Everyone was staring at him, Adolin included. There was something slightly different in his gaze though, he didn’t look expectant in the same way as everyone else—it was something like pity. Kaladin didn’t understand it.

Storms. Have I already done something wrong? he wondered, panicking. He felt so humiliated. Was he standing wrong, breathing wrong? Was this some ritual he was supposed to know?

Adolin’s friend-or-lover snorted loudly, “What, is he mute?”

A few lighteyes chuckled at that.

Kaladin frowned, confused. He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could form a word the man cut him off.

“You’re supposed to congratulate your new master,” he said, “And thank him for purchasing you. Do you not know that? Storms, are you stupid?” He leaned closer to Adolin, still smirking, “Well… obviously.”

Kaladin’s stomach dropped, an uneasy feeling blooming. He lowered his eyes to the ground, swallowing hard. The taste of iron filled his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. He felt tears burn behind his eyes, threatening to spill again. He’d rather die than be subjected to this humiliation every day.

Slowly, he looked up at Adolin. He bowed his head respectfully, his voice coming out raw as he said, “Congratulations, Master. And… thank you… for purchasing me.”

But, for some reason, Adolin Kholin’s expression looked nothing like triumph. Instead, he looked sad… almost disappointed. And Kaladin had no idea why.

Chapter Text

After the auction—after almost every lighteyes in attendance had personally congratulated Adolin on his new acquisition—Adolin finally allowed himself to breathe.

He still couldn’t get over the fact that he now owned a person. A person. The thought alone disgusted him. His mind had a hard time accepting that the human being who was walking behind him, was now his property. Someone he could hurt, control, and do anything he wanted to.

More than that, it was expected of him. Encouraged.

Storms. If only he had the power to change the state of Alekthar… he’d do it in a heartbeat. He’d not only ban slavery, but he’d imprison those who’d so vehemently supported it in the past.

Not like Elhokar.

Though, in reality, Adolin didn’t have anything against his uncle. He tried his best, and Adolin knew that, but sometimes it felt like Elhokar had given up on being the King of Alethkar. And that to him, it was just an empty title.

Even before Odium’s reign, when Gavilar was still King, no one opposed slavery. And when they did, they made sure their King never found out about it. Gavilar was the type of man who didn’t take criticism lightly, especially from those beneath him, no matter if they were a lighteyes of second or tenth dahn.

And so when Elhokar became King, he refused to put an end to any of the immoral laws that had been enforced by his father. He was convinced that everyone thought him useless.

Adolin sighed heavily. He knew that realistically no real change could be made without the help of the Knights Radiant—the non-existent Knights Radiant. He also knew that hope was an extremely fragile thing: Renarin had told him many times that he’d lost hope in this nightmare coming to an end.

But somewhere deep, deep down inside him, Adolin swore he felt that hope starting to bloom once again. A part of him knew something was coming—someone maybe—that’d change the trajectory of their Kingdom forever.

A nudge to his side broke him out of his thoughts.

Adolin blinked repeatedly, shaking his head slightly before looking to his left, where Jakamav and his new slave—the singer he’d pointed at before the auction had even started, Four-One-Zero-Zero—walked beside him.

Jakamav stared at him with a furrowed brow. He’d clearly been speaking this whole time. Not that Adolin had heard any of it.

“Adolin, what—what’s up with you? You’ve been acting so strange lately,” Jakamav said, sounding equally worried and suspicious, “And you’re completely out of it today. On such an important day in our lives. It seems as if you’re not enjoying yourself at all.”

Adolin stopped walking at once. He paused and desperately tried to come up with an elaborate excuse—one Jakamav wouldn’t question. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest. He could say he—

Jakamav beat him to it.

“Is it because of your slave?” He nodded carelessly at Nine-One-Five-Two, who stood with his head bowed behind Adolin, his stringy and matted hair still obstructing most of his face.

What? Why would it be—

Seeing Adolin’s confused expression, Jakamav clarified, “I mean, if you’re disappointed you ended up with him, I understand,” He smirked, a gleam of something vicious in his eyes, “I’m sure you could get a replacement—a better slave. One that’ll actually be useful. We all know you picked this one on a whim.”

Adolin’s jaw dropped. His heart squeezed in his chest.

What was Jakamav saying?

“I’m sure the Highobeyer would let you get another one,” Jakamav continued, shrugging as if it was obvious, “I saw some more interesting ones out there on that stage, some that’d definitely suit your needs more. Storms, it’s a shame we can’t buy more than one at once.”

Adolin forced himself to take a deep breath before slowly letting it out. He had to calm himself. One more foul word from his friend—he honestly didn’t know why he even called Jakamav that anymore—and he’d end up doing something he’d regret forever.

“No… it’s fine,” he said, his voice rough with barely held-back anger, “Nothing’s wrong, really. I’m only wondering what my father and Navani will think of him. Their approval… you know how important that is to me.”

Jakamav nodded, his expression turning to a more understanding one. He put a hand on Adolin’s shoulder and squeezed tightly.

“It’s going to be alright, Adolin. I promise,” He paused for a second, and then chuckled, expression turning sheepish, “You know how I feel about your slave. But as long as you’re happy, I’m happy. Don’t worry too much about it. You told me you’d make him submit to you, and I know you’ll achieve just that. I’m here if you need anything,” He looked right into Adolin’s eyes, softening a bit, “Regarding your slave or… anything else. Really.”

He finished his sentence with a quick side hug—he put one arm around Adolin’s shoulders and squeezed slightly, all while putting his head in the crook of Adolin’s shoulder—which was clearly meant for comfort and to calm Adolin’s worries. Not that it did at all.

Adolin didn’t let it show. He gave him a small, grateful smile, and put his head over Jakamav’s for a heartbeat. Their position was extremely awkward, not to mention their new slaves behind them. And for a moment Adolin wondered how their interaction looked to other people. If someone would—storms forbid—mistake their comfortable friendship for something more. Something… romantic.

Storms, Adolin hoped not. The thought of anything romantic between them made his skin crawl. There was nothing wrong with Jakamav, truly there wasn’t—he was Adolin’s lifelong best friend, and it wasn’t like Adolin hadn’t noticed how attractive his friend was—because he had—but nothing about him made Adolin’s heart feel like it would explode by just being near him. He needed to find someone who did. He’d always dreamed of it, no matter how silly or girly it might’ve seemed to others.

Adolin didn’t know why he did it. But after he pulled away from Jakamav’s hug, he turned around slightly, just enough to glance at Nine-One-Five-Two. Just to… check. Check how he was holding up. Maybe to give him some sort of sign that said: I’m sorry for acting like a typical lighteyes. I promise I’m not really like this. Like them.

He didn’t know what he had expected. But it definitely wasn’t for the man to be standing directly behind him, still as stone, hands clenched behind his back instinctively—he looked like he wasn’t even breathing.

It seemed like he was scared to. Like one wrong move, one wrong breath, and harsh punishment awaited him.

Was Adolin truly that scary? Storms, he hoped not.

As soon as they got home, he’d get to prove just how non-threatening he really was.

…Hopefully.

As soon as they got to the entrance hall, an Obeyer stopped them just before they could exit.

It was the same man who’d checked their names just a few hours ago. The same man who made alarm bells go off in Adolin’s head. There was something fundamentally different about him, different from all the other Obeyers.

And Adolin had determined to find out exactly what it was.

“One moment, Brightlords,” he said, trying hard to sound disinterested, professional. He glanced over them with a watchful eye, as if checking something, gaze focused on their slaves, particularly Adolin’s.

What now? What more could there possibly be?

Adolin didn’t bother masking his annoyance anymore. He simply turned his head and stared at the man.

It was clear the Obeyer had something against Nine-One-Five-Two, and even though Adolin didn’t know what it was, he knew enough to know it wasn’t anything minuscule. Nothing in here was. But the thought of a complete stranger, a stranger who was known for bigotry and violence, having an issue with someone who was now under Adolin’s care…

He’d never let anything come of it. He swore that on his mother’s life.

Adolin watched as the Obeyer gestured behind himself. And what Adolin saw there made a shiver run down his spine.

Behind the man was a display of what looked like torture devices. There were arrays of numerous types of muzzles, chains, collars, and whips. Anything you could think of. Anything you could want when it came to handling a slave. Some items were broken, others were jagged and worn down—so used up that rust had started to develop in certain places.

It made Adolin sick to his stomach.

He knew that in a moment the Obeyer was going to ask them if they were interested in taking any of these for their slaves.

Jakamav’s eyes widened instantly when he glanced at the rough chains. But not in shock. In awe. He leaned in closer, eyes wandering over all of their specific details.

The Obeyer gave Jakamav a grateful smile and asked him which ones he wanted for himself.

Adolin tuned out of the conversation, unable to keep listening to them discuss chains and handcuffs like it was nothing abnormal.

Stormfather, save me, he begged, Please, let me get out of here. Let this be over as soon as possible.

He turned around slightly and saw how the singer, Four-One-Zero-Zero, kept glancing between him and Nine-One-Five-Two, as if testing to see if Adolin would do the same. If he’d also get tools to help him control and dehumanize his slave.

Adolin’s heart broke. Storms. He felt such intense protectiveness over the singer even though he didn’t know him. He looked so scared, weak, and wary. Like if Adolin even glanced towards where the Obeyer was showing Jakamav how to use one of the devices, it meant he was the same.

One wrong glance and all hope was lost. Adolin wished he could save him too.

The moment Four-One-Zero-Zero‘s gaze met Adolin, he ripped his eyes away, ashamed. But Adolin didn’t look away. He kept staring at him, hoping he’d glance back again. Adolin wanted to show him that he’d never treat anyone the way Jakamav was for sure going to treat him, but he wasn’t sure how to do so—perhaps a nod or a simple kind look would be enough.

But the singer didn’t look back. He kept his gaze on the floor, eyes wide, as if physically restraining himself from glancing back.

Adolin sighed, shutting his eyes for a heartbeat and tilting his head back. He resisted the urge to groan and drag his hands down his face. How much longer—

“Would you also like some for yours, Prince Adolin?”

Adolin’s head snapped to the side.

The Obeyer looked at him expectantly as Jakamav held his new—old—chains in his hands, the metal groaning with every move. He looked like this was the best thing that had happened to him as of late, even better than acquiring the slaves themselves. And Adolin knew how much Jakamav had liked that. It unsettled him more than he could say.

“Uhh…” Adolin struggled. He let out a small, quiet chuckle and ran a hand through his hair, pretending to be unbothered, “No, that won’t be unnecessary,” he said.

He made a show of smoothing down his coat, making sure all his decorative pins and chains lay straight, before gesturing casually to Nine-One-Five-Two over his shoulder, “I’m sure I’ll be able to control him without any additional… tools, no matter how useful they may be.”

He paused and cursed himself internally for what he’d say next. He didn’t want to say it. But he needed to. He needed to make this seem real.

“I’ll have you know I can be very…” Adolin continued, leaning in closer to the Obeyer, watching as his brows furrowed at Adolin’s close presence. Adolin winked, “Persuasive, if you know what I mean.”

He leaned back, raising his eyebrows, and smiled confidently. He hated what he was doing—hated every word that’d come out of his mouth—but he didn’t have any other choice.

The Obeyer glanced between him and the slave standing behind him, expression unreadable, calculating. After a moment, he nodded once, accepting Adolin’s reasoning, “I see, Brightlord. Good luck to you both then,” he muttered, clearing his throat.

Jakamav had already started walking towards their horses with his new items, his slave following him. But Adolin couldn’t resist saying more, especially when the Obeyer had already acted strangely towards his slave. He had to evoke more of a reaction.

He bit his lip and turned around, pretending to hungrily look up and down Nine-One-Five-Two‘s body. He moved his hand as if to touch him—he’d never, not without his slave’s permission. But he had to make it seem like he would.

Kaladin forced himself to tune out every conversation between Adolin—no, he couldn’t call him that. He didn’t know him as Adolin, he knew him as his master. It wasn’t right of him to use his master’s name when Adolin himself hadn’t bothered to ask for Kaladin’s.

He kept his breathing shallow, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart, careful not to cause any disturbance. He hoped that if he was silent enough, his master and the Obeyer would forget he was there.

Maybe they’d just let him slip away—

But then from the corner of his vision, through the hair in front of his eyes, he saw his master’s hand reaching for him. Kaladin glanced up and saw the look on his face—the bitten lip, the blush on his cheeks, the glint in his eyes. It screamed of want and possessiveness.

Kaladin squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, keeping his body frozen in place. It took everything in him not to flinch away. But he couldn’t. Rejecting his master’s touch, especially in public and in front of an Obeyer—though he didn’t dare to look at him—would get Kaladin severely punished. Punished before he’d even set foot out of this cursed place. He couldn’t let that happen.

He’d been right about his new master. All he wanted from Kaladin was… sex and his body. It terrified Kaladin more than anything ever had, even the various forms of torture he’d been subjected to a few days ago.

Kaladin waited. But the touch never came.

“—don’t have to worry, sir,” his master was saying, his hand suspended in the air between them, only a hair away from Kaladin’s rags they called clothes, “Truly. I assure you, my slave will listen to me under any circumstance. He may not show it, but I know just how thankful he is that I chose him. There’s this look in his eyes… one he only gives me.”

Kaladin opened his eyes and looked up fully, shaking his head a little to get his hair out of the way. His master had dropped his hand and was now looking directly at the Obeyer, who lifted a hand as if to stop Adolin from continuing.

“It’s fine, Brightlord. I understand. You aren’t—” he rasped, something in his tone signifying he wasn’t entirely comfortable with Adolin’s behavior.

But he didn’t listen.

Kaladin’s master shook his head, laughing charmingly under his breath, like the Obeyer’s words were meaningless. He looked back at Kaladin and tilted his head, giving him a look that Kaladin knew he only saved for those he wanted in his bed.

It made Kaladin shiver from disgust.

“You’ll listen, won’t you?” Adolin asked him, his voice low and seductive.

Kaladin’s eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. But before he could even get a single breath out, his master continued.

“You wouldn’t dare to disappoint me. Not after I bought you for so many spheres, hm?”

The words were full of a terrifying promise, one that wouldn’t end well for Kaladin if he declined.

But the more he looked at his master, the more he realized that those sounded like empty words. Because as soon as Kaladin made eye contact with him, Adolin’s eyes softened a tiny bit, his shoulders dropped, and his eyes… there was something different in them now. They didn’t have the same hungry, irresistible look from before. It didn’t make sense, not to Kaladin, but they almost looked—

The Obeyer cleared his throat loudly, interrupting the strange moment between them, making Kaladin flinch.

Kaladin panicked slightly. He looked down immediately, away from his master. He tried to steady his voice as he said, “Of course, Master. I—I’d never do anything against your wishes. I promise.”

Silence followed his words.

Then, he heard a sigh. He didn’t know if it came from his master or from the Obeyer. Not that it mattered. Sighs mean tiredness, disappointment. So that meant he’d made someone angry and tired just by speaking.

Of course he did. He couldn’t do anything right.

Kaladin heard some shuffling and whispered conversation, and after a moment he heard a quiet, “Come on. Let’s go,” from his master. It was followed by a beckoning hand gesture.

Kaladin immediately followed his master, not wanting to disappoint or frustrate him further.

As they walked, he felt the eyes of the Obeyer on his back the entire time.

As they approached Sureblood, Adolin was handed the reins back by one of the Servants.

His horse snorted at the sight of him, whipping his tail happily.

Adolin smiled, his entire demeanor brightening instantly. There was something so special about their connection—something he’d never had with anything or anyone.

When he got close enough, he reached out and rubbed Sureblood’s snot, calming him. Adolin pressed their heads together and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, “Yes, yes, I missed you too,” he whispered.

He was so focused on his horse that he hadn’t noticed Jakamav was already saddled nearby.

“Adolin.”

Adolin leaned back in surprise, snapping his eyes open, his heart in his throat. He looked to his left and—

He felt all the blood drain from his face.

Jakamav sat on top of his horse, back straight, looking every bit proud of himself. And on the ground, right next to his horse, stood his slave. His expression said it all: this was worse treatment than he’d gotten from the Obeyers. At least there they hadn’t chained him up around the neck, arms, and legs, inadvertently restricting his breathing, and then forced him to walk like that for hours. It was like the singer had already accepted defeat, like there was no world in which he’d receive better treatment. His eyes were completely devoid of light—empty, and fixed on the ground.

Adolin’s heart stuttered in his chest at the sight, Storms, how he wished he could say what he actually thought.

Instinctively, he turned around to glance at Nine-One-Five-Two, something inside of him insisting he check that he was safe from Jakamav’s influence. His slave stood frozen behind him, and when their eyes met, his eyes snapped down at the ground, clearly trying not to gape at what Jakamav had done with Four-One-Zero-Zero.

Adolin wished he could go up and tell him: I’ll never do that to you—or to anyone else. You don’t have to worry with me. I promise.

“So, what do you think?” a loud voice asked him, making him flinch and rip his eyes away from his slave, “Neat, isn’t it?”

Adolin looked up at Jakamav again and realized that the men probably thought that this idea of his was his best one yet. It alarmed Adolin greatly. But he quickly wiped the concern off his face and replaced it with a cocky smile, “Yeah,” he said. He swallowed before adding, “It’s… definitely creative. I’ll give you that.”

He tried to let out a laugh but it didn’t work. It sounded more like a scoff mixed with a cough. He needed to get better at pretending.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nine-One-Five-Two glance at him for a split second. Adolin cringed at himself.

Jakamav chuckled at that, meaning Adolin’s weird reaction thankfully went unnoticed. He grabbed his reins and gestured with his head at Adolin’s slave, “Aren’t you going to tie him up too? I got some extras—” He turned around to grab some chains for Adolin to use, “—in case you needed some. Wait, let me find them.”

Adolin quickly stepped forward, a no! on his lips.

“Got them,” Jakamav turned around and presented Adolin with a few rusting chains and a pair of handcuffs. He smiled proudly, “Here, take them. I’m sure you’ll need them with…” His lips turned into a disgusted scowl as he glanced behind Adolin, “…that.”

Adolin tried to keep his composure. He—without looking back at his slave—extended his arm and took the tools from Jakamav with a polite nod. He examined the handcuffs, knowing that his friend wouldn’t have let him say no to them. The metal was rusted all around the inner ring where it touched the skin. It made Adolin shiver. He didn’t want to use them—it was wrong, and his slave had done nothing to deserve them.

But then… a thought struck him. He could pretend to close them around his wrists. He could just… close them without snapping them shut. Jakamav certainly wouldn’t notice from such a distance, would he?

Storms, Adolin hoped he was right.

He looked back up at Jakamav with a grin on his lips, “Thanks,” he said gratefully. He pointed over his shoulder at Nine-One-Five-Two, rolling his eyes and scoffing, pretending to be annoyed that he even had to go this far to ensure his slave’s obedience, “I’ll go put them now. Give me a minute.”

Hearing Jakamav’s distracted hum in response, Adolin turned around and took a small step forward towards his slave. He was about to lean in and say something like ‘I’m not going to actually put these on you, I’ll only pretend to,’ but the man simply lifted his wrists in front of his face, presenting them for Adolin to cuff. His head was still bowed. He was afraid to even look at Adolin now.

Storming storms, Adolin cursed internally, No. Stop. That’s not what I meant.

Knowing it was a bad idea, he leaned in anyway, very aware of how loudly his heart was beating and how his body language seemed on the outside. Nine-One-Five-Two probably thought Adolin was about to whisper some sort of seductive, vile thing—something to incentivize him to put on the handcuffs. Jakamav, on the other hand, probably assumed Adolin was going to threaten him. Not to say, that both were threats in Adolin’s opinion—and things he’d never do. Not to the man in front of him.

Trying hard to ignore his slave’s slight flinch at their proximity, Adolin put his mouth right next to Nine-One-Five-Two‘s ear, doing his best not to touch him under any circumstance—his earlier behavior had been horrifying enough, “Look, I need you to listen very closely to me right now,” His voice came out sounding more like a low growl than the calculated-plan-voice he’d been going for.

He waited a breath for a sign that his slave had understood his words, but there was nothing. He was still frozen in place.

Adolin sighed heavily and shut his eyes for a moment, praying for strength. He leaned forward again and said, “I… didn’t mean it like that,” he forced his voice to soften a bit, “I meant like, I really need you to listen to me and do as I say, alright?” And before he could stop himself he added, “Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I promise. I just need you to cooperate.”

He heard Nine-One-Five-Two inhale a sharp breath, and noticed how fast his heart was beating from the vein pulsing on the side of his neck. But finally, he gave Adolin a small nod in understanding.

Good… good. Finally.

Adolin leaned back an inch, lifted up the handcuffs, and put them on his slave’s skinny wrists, but didn’t tighten them. Nine-One-Five-Two frowned at that and looked up, finally catching Adolin’s eyes, his expression full of suspicion, fear, and something else Adolin couldn’t place. Adolin gave him—attempted to give him—a gentle smile and leaned forward again.

“This is how it’s going to work,” he breathed, his hands still holding the handcuffs in place on the man’s wrists, “I’m not going to tighten the handcuffs. They’re dirty, and sharp, and rusted all over, so… uhh… I—I’m just not going to,” Heat bloomed in his cheeks at how his voice rose at the end. Why was this so embarrassing?

Adolin cleaned his throat, trying to get a hold of himself, and opened his mouth to continue when he was interrupted.

“Yes, I under—”

“Shh.”

“But Mast—”

“No. Please, be quiet now,” Adolin whispered. He needed to explain his plan, and to do so, he couldn’t be interrupted. Though, he felt bad for doing it—he knew it was extremely rude… but definitely expected from him. He cringed at his own behavior.

“Oh. I—I’m sor—” Nine-One-Five-Two whispered, visibly panicking now. And before Adolin could shush him again, he clamped his mouth shut, cutting himself off, red blooming all over his face.

“It’s… okay,” Adolin whispered back, for some reason needing to make it clear he wasn’t upset. His hands slowly let go of the handcuffs, though his slave didn’t lower his hands yet.

Adolin continued, “Just remember that you’re not to move your hands around too much, so the handcuffs don’t fall off. We don’t want others to know that they’re not locked around your wrists,” He looked down again, forcing eye contact with those wary brown eyes, “It’s both for your benefit and mine. But mostly for yours. Okay? Do you understand?”

His slave broke eye contact for a moment, as if unable to look at Adolin for more than a few seconds at a time. He slowly—so, so slowly—lowered his chained hands so they rested against his torso. He glanced up again, shut his eyes, and nodded once.

But Adolin needed to hear it. He sighed and tried for a half-smile, “I… need you to say it,” And before he could stop himself he awkwardly added, “…sorry.”

What am I even doing right now? Storms, help me.

Nine-One-Five-Two’s eyes snapped open at that. They widened impossibly and then he looked away blinking repeatedly, like he couldn’t believe Adolin had just apologized to him—not that Adolin himself knew for what he was apologizing. He just felt like he had to.

I’m sorry for pretending to be like this. I’m sorry for subjecting you to this horrible treatment. I wish I could let you ride Sureblood with me—that way your already injured feet wouldn’t get worse and bleed all over the ground. I promise I’ll try to help you once we get home. I’m sorry for everything.

“I… I understand, Master,” his slave finally
whispered back, his voice almost inaudible. He still wasn’t looking at Adolin.

Adolin supposed that was enough. He couldn’t ask for more at this time. But that word… Master.

It was on the tip of his tongue: Please, call me Adolin.

As soon as Adolin spotted the stone walkway that separated the path towards Sadeas’ war-camp and theirs, he let out a relieved breath.

Thank the storms.

He could finally free Nine-One-Five-Two from those vile handcuffs. He was glad Jakamav hadn’t noticed how he hadn’t fully locked them in place—he’d been too busy telling Adolin all of his upcoming plans anyway. Something about them hanging out next week. Adolin wasn’t excited in the slightest. He knew how “hangouts” with Jakamav always ended.

They stopped at where the roads split. Jakamav sighed heavily, like he any right to be tired. Adolin had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Jakamav pointed behind his shoulder at the path leading towards Sadeas’ camp, “I’ll be going. But it’s a shame we can’t hang out more today—”

Mhm. Right. Adolin definitely agreed.

“—I’ll spanreed you as soon as I get home, yeah?” Jakamav asked, smiling, his head tilted to the side.

Just a few more seconds and he’ll be gone.

Just a few more seconds and he’ll be gone.

Just a few more seconds and he’ll be gone.

It was like an alarm was going off in Adolin’s head. After a moment, he nodded and put a smile on his face, reflecting Jakamav’s, “Yeah, definitely,” he replied cheerfully.

Jakamav gave him one final nod, before directing his horse—and his slave, harshly—to the stone path which led to the Sadeas war-camp.

Adolin watched as Four-One-Zero-Zero stumbled, effectively choking himself for a moment. Jakamav did nothing to help him. He didn’t even stop walking—he just dragged his slave forward, making him almost fall to his knees. He couldn’t even save himself from the humiliation, as his arms and legs had been shackled together. Adolin looked away before it could get worse. His heart couldn’t handle seeing that.

He looked down from Sureblood at his slave, who was staring at the ground. They hadn’t stopped walking even for a moment in the past hour. Adolin very much wanted to, but he knew his friend wouldn’t have agreed.

“Umm—” Adolin cleared his throat, “Come on… let’s… let’s go,” he said, nodding his head forward.

I’m so embarrassing.

“Y—yes, Master,” Nine-One-Five-Two said back, his voice barely above a whisper.

Adolin ignored that word and nudged Sureblood forward.

He’d have to learn his slave’s name as soon as they got home. And then he’d kindly tell him not to call him that cursed word. He hoped he’d be able to convince his slave to call him Adolin or… maybe just ‘you.’ He honestly had no idea. Anything sounding too official was just… wrong. Many people called him sir or Brightlord, and that was fine—he even liked it sometimes, it stroked his ego. But with the man walking beside him and his horse… it was different. He didn’t exactly know why or how different it was, but he was sure of the fact that he’d never let him address Adolin as such. To him, Adolin would be Adolin. His… friend… maybe… at some point? He really hoped so.

It wasn’t weird, right? Every man needed a friend—especially someone who’d probably never had one before. And Adolin naturally just wanted to help him. That’s not weird, no, he told himself, It’s completely normal and a very nice thing to do. I’m just being kind… yes.

“You… uhh… can take those off now.”

Kaladin stiffened at those words, heart pounding. He couldn’t let himself be fooled that his master had actually meant to remove the handcuffs. It was a prank. A prank at his expense, to test if he was an obedient slave. If he actually removed the handcuffs, he’d be punished. He knew it.

He continued walking, through his panic not noticing that his master and his horse had stopped.

“Wait—no,” he heard his master say, slightly out of breath, voice high, “Stop. Come back.”

Kaladin only then realized what he’d done. Oh, storms. He quickly turned around, the chains around his wrists clinging together at the sudden motion.

Adolin sat atop his horse, his hands clenched around the reins. His mouth was parted and his eyes wide, as if he’d actually panicked and cared about whether or not Kaladin came back. Well, Kaladin knew that his master cared, but only because he’d spent so many spheres on him, not because he actually cared about Kaladin. That much was obvious.

Kaladin bowed his head and quickly walked back to his master. Adolin hadn’t sounded particularly mad but that was something he’d done before, and Kaladin now knew it was a mask. In reality, he was probably fuming. And if they weren’t in public—not that anyone was around at that time—he’d use his horse’s whip to whip Kaladin. He’d seen Obeyers do that to slaves, and Adolin was no better.

Kaladin swallowed hard, not knowing how to save himself. He contemplated getting on his knees and begging for forgiveness but realized he wouldn’t be able to stand back up, having his wrists handcuffed. Instead, he looked at his bleeding feet and said, “I’m sorry, Master. Please—I… I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no. What… what are you…?” his master interrupted him, his tone sharp but not angry. More like… worried.

Kaladin dared to look up and saw that Adolin’s brow was furrowed. He was confused.

No, don’t fall for it, he told himself, This is his mask, remember? He isn’t kind or thoughtful or gentle… or any better than his friend-or-lover or that other lighteyes that wanted me.

Kaladin lowered his head again, his hands beginning to sweat, resulting in the handcuffs sliding around, making small cuts in his skin, “I—I walked—” he stumbled over his words, trying to mask the small hisses of pain that he let out involuntarily, “—walked ahead of you when you stopped. That was wrong of me, Master.”

Adolin let out a pained groan, something Kaladin didn’t think he’d ever heard from a lighteyes. It seemed too… normal.

Kaladin looked up to see that his master looked like he was the one in pain. Had Kaladin said something wrong? He was about to keep apologizing, maybe he’d get on his knees after all… he knew Adolin would expect that from him sooner or later, regardless of the context. That upcoming reality made him feel like he’d had ice water poured all over him. He shivered from the sensation.

Then, his master said: “Hold on. I’ll help you get the handcuffs off. I put them on so I’ll…” He secured the reins of his horse and moved to get off, “I’ll take them off. No worries.”

Kaladin blinked repeatedly, trying to understand what was currently happening. His… master… was… going… to… help… take… off… the… cuffs…?

No… no. Mask, remember? The moment he steps down he’ll hurt you. He won’t take off the handcuffs but tighten them, just to inflict more pain. He’ll make you pay for stepping out of line. It’s better to plead with him, so that way the real pain begins when we make it to the palace, he locks the door of my new cell, and makes me please him.

Kaladin hurried to stop him. He put his handcuffed hands up, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. It felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He tried to control his breathing, “There’s no need, Master, really. You don’t have to—” he rushed out. He shook his head quickly, “Please. I—I promise I’ll wear them. You don’t need to… please,” he begged, almost choking on his words.

Adolin frowned, pausing his movements, “But… you can’t take them off yourself, can you? So I’ll help you and then when we’re near the palace I’ll help you put them on again,” He smiled gently. Smiled.

But no, Kaladin wouldn’t let Adolin Kholin’s perfect smile fool him.

He shook his head again, looking back at the ground, “Please, Master. Let me wear them. I promise I’ll be good,” his voice shook on the word good. He squeezed his eyes shut, “I won’t step out of line again. I promise I won’t upset you again. Please—just please don’t…” He clenched his fists, trying to stop them from shaking. It was hard when each even minuscule movement made his wrists throb more and more.

He didn’t look back up, but he heard his master sigh heavily, settle back properly onto his horse, and say, “I wouldn’t have…” Another sigh, “…never mind. As you wish,” Adolin cleared his throat, lowering his voice, “Let’s go.”

And Kaladin went, shaking and bleeding as he deserved.

Chapter Text

It had taken them around another hour to reach the Kholin Palace, which Adolin had called ‘home’. Kaladin wasn’t sure whose home it would be, but it definitely wouldn’t be his. He hadn’t had a real home in so long that the word had lost meaning. And whatever rotten cell he’d be put in… that wouldn’t be a home. It would be a prison.

But he was ready for that. He’d always been ready. This was all he was worth, wasn’t he?

A sudden and quick—so quick he’d almost missed it—flash of blue light filled Kaladin’s vision before it disappeared. He shook his head and blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his vision. That had been happening ever since he and his master had separated from Adolin’s friend-or-lover. Kaladin didn’t understand it, really. He just gathered that some windspren liked to bother him, and in the process blind him momentarily.

And before he could think more of it, they were right in front of the gates to the palace.

“We’re here,” he heard his master mutter, voice full of exhaustion, “Storms, finally.”

Finally. Kaladin thought exactly the same thing.

This is my last moment of semi-freedom before. After we make our way through the gates… I’m never leaving this place again. My personal nightmare begins… now.

He felt a ghost of a touch and an almost inaudible girlish giggle in his ear before the gates opened, welcoming them in.

“Welcome back, Prince Adolin,” the guards said as soon as they walked through the gates, bowing respectfully. They didn’t spare one glance at the man now walking slightly behind Adolin.

Adolin didn’t quite understand why that bothered him.

Nevertheless, he smiled and replied casually, “Hey. It’s great to be back. I’m never taking a trip that long again,” Before handing Sureblood’s reins to one of the men.

The guards chuckled. “One can only hope,” the one handling Sureblood said lightly.

Adolin just nodded and reached out one final time to pet his horse’s snout. He turned to the guard, “Make sure to tell the stablehand to give him some treats. He deserves them after today.”

The guard nodded once, “Of course, Prince Adolin. Sureblood will get his usual treats and more,” He smiled and bowed his head again, “Have a good day.”

Adolin bowed his head back in thanks. Then, he turned to his slave and gestured forward with his head, “Let’s go,” He made sure to wipe the smile off his face, knowing that despite his friendship with guards he couldn’t openly be kind to his slave in front of them.

Nine-One-Five-Two nodded, looking back at the ground. After a second, he muttered, voice tense, “Yes, Master.”

Stop.

As they started walking towards the palace, Adolin couldn’t stop thinking back to how his slave had chosen to wear the handcuffs despite having the option to take them off. Adolin worried that the cuffs had dug into his skin and scratched it up. He’d made sure not to lock them, but that didn’t mean that the sharp, rusted metal wouldn’t cause any damage. His heart squeezed just thinking about it. The poor man didn’t deserve that. It was bad enough that his feet had been bleeding. Adolin had tried to ignore it, knowing that he couldn’t do anything to help him—at least not on their way home.

Adolin didn’t understand why the Obeyers didn’t allow the darkeyes to wear shoes. Even some simple sandals would do. But perhaps it was on purpose. Maybe they wanted the slaves to be put through as much pain as possible—maybe they hoped that by forcing them to walk for hours on sand and sharp stones some of them would step on something that would kill them. That way more darkeyes would die, and therefore their masters would be forced to buy another slave.

He turned his head to the side, glancing at his slave’s feet and the bloody footprints he was leaving behind. Storms, that had to hurt. Adolin had to help him somehow. Though, he didn’t know how. He couldn’t just… carry him… or—or offer to clean his feet. That would be… weird. And he was sure Nine-One-Five-Two wouldn’t allow it. Not to mention his family.

Stormfather… he’d forgotten that he’d have to introduce—was that even the correct word?—his slave to them.

He was sure Renarin would automatically accept him. Maybe they’d even become friends. Oh, storms that would be perfect. But Dalinar and Navani… not to mention Elhokar… well. That would be—

“Prince Adolin?”

Adolin flinched, snapping out of his thoughts and shaking his head to get a hold of himself. Right in front of him was the entrance door to the palace. The wood and gold accents shone in the light. The guard who’d spoken, stood right beside the door, a slight frown on his face. Adolin had only now realized that his distraction had caused him to almost walk right into the door.

“Are you feeling alright, my prince?” the man repeated, “If something is—”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I promise,” Adolin rushed to explain. He swallowed and smiled professionally, locking eyes with the guard, “You see, I’ve had such a long day that I’m not thinking straight anymore,” He forced out a fake chuckle.

The guard nodded respectfully, “Understandable, sir. We’re all glad you’ve made it home safely,” He gestured to the door, opening it, “Your rooms have been prepared accordingly to host your…” He tilted his head to the side, looking behind Adolin, his eyes wandering up and down the length of Nine-One-Five-Two’s body, “…guest.”

“Thank you,” Adolin replied, trying to ignore the way his eye twitched at how the guard perceived his slave. He let out a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, ready to face his family. It’s going to be fine, he told himself.

He took a step forward and entered not only his home, but also the new home of the man he owned.

The moment they entered the palace, Kaladin tried not to gape at the sheer size of the place. The high ceilings were covered in numerous carvings, the blue Kholin banner hung from the walls, the meticulous stitches and embellishments shimmering against the lit-up lanterns.

He took another step forward—they’d only barely taken two steps into the entrance hall—when his master suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Kaladin froze immediately, not daring to move an inch, as otherwise he’d bump into his master. He didn’t want to accidentally touch Adolin without his consent. Not that he’d ever consent to that, given who—what Kaladin was. Kaladin didn’t want to dirty his master’s uniform with his filthy… everything. It was better for him to stay frozen—that way the torture would only start once they were alone. Storms forbid that Kaladin did something to anger his master in front of his family.

His master slowly turned around, an awkward yet panicked expression on his face. He was staring at Kaladin, half-looking as if he’d forgotten something and half like someone was going to get in trouble. For what Kaladin didn’t know. Had he done something wrong? Had he—

“Father?! Navani?!”

Kaladin’s heart stopped. The fear that overcame his body was incomparable to anything he’d ever felt. His feet were glued to the floor, his arms aching from being in the same position for hours, and he could no longer feel his wrists. The only thing he could feel was the blood pumping like a heartbeat against his wrists where they were all scratched up. He felt his brain die for a moment before he finally found his voice.

“I—Master—” Kaladin managed, his voice as dry as paper and eyes wide.

Why was Adolin calling for them? Did he want to tell them just how disappointing and disobedient a slave Kaladin had already been?

Adolin shook his head quickly and put a finger up to his lips, a symbol for silence. He bent his head back and paused for a few heartbeats. When nothing happened, he turned back to Kaladin, let out a relieved sigh, and muttered something that sounded like ‘Thank the Almighty.’

Kaladin had no idea what was going on. What… what’s—

Then, he heard it. Or, well, he thought he heard it. It might’ve just been his broken mind playing games with him.

“Ohhh. They’re not here,” It was a voice that sounded suspiciously like a… girl. It sounded almost like a giggle…?

Kaladin shook his head. No, it wasn’t real. He was simply losing his mind and that’s what happened to people when they went insane: they heard voices. Maybe it was better for his master to just get rid of him the same way Kaladin had heard the other Kholins had gotten rid of their slaves. It would save them both the trouble.

“‘Trouble.’ Right. Do you even know the meaning of that word?”

It was that voice again.

A cold dread pooled in Kaladin’s stomach. What was happening? Was the Kholin Palace haunted? Were these the voices of the previous slaves warning Kaladin? Storms, what if—

“No, no! Stop moving. Stop—”

Now that was his master’s voice. Storms.

Kaladin snapped out of his trance, realizing he’d been trying to find the source of the voice. He’d been looking all over the hall, twisting and turning in every direction. He instantly paused his movements and turned to face his master. He prepared himself to see the angry look on his face. And Kaladin wouldn’t blame his master if he slapped him, forced him to his knees—if he punished him in any way, really. Kaladin couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t even stand in place.

Adolin’s face wasn’t angry exactly, it was more panicked and concerned, and he had his arm stretched out as if to help Kaladin. But Kaladin didn’t believe that.

It’s a mask. It’s all a mask, his mind repeated.

Kaladin looked down at his feet, ready to start apologizing… again when he saw it.

Oh.

His feet.

They’d started so bleeding long ago that he didn’t feel the pain anymore. But just because he didn’t feel it, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t happening. His bloody feet had left footprints on the pristine marble floor of the palace.

He’s going to kill me. Oh, storms.

“Kill you? Pff. More like he’s going to offer to clean the floor himself.”

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up, he begged the voice.

He scrunched his eyes shut, pressing his mouth into a line. He tried not to curl into himself too much, but he simply couldn’t help it. He was scared. He hadn’t prepared himself to be punished this early. He’d never… he’d never been punished in the way his master planned to. He’d never even… done anything with anyone consensually. He didn’t know how it worked. And now not only would he be forced to experience that for the first time as a punishment but afterwards he’d have to clean up his bloody footprints.

“I—I’m ready, Master,” he whispered, “I’m ready for whatever punishment you think is necessary. And a—afterwards I’ll scrub the floor. I promise,” His voice cracked slightly near the end.

And for a moment he just stood there, barely able to control how much his body was shaking, waiting for the command or the blow. But it didn’t come.

He heard a heavy sigh, “Open your eyes. Please,” Adolin said gently, “That’s not what I meant.”

Kaladin kept his eyes shut.

Then, the voice again, but this time it wasn’t belittling or teasing, “Open your eyes,” it whispered—she whispered?—Kaladin didn’t know how to call it, “He’s not going to hurt you.”

There was a huff and the teasing, giggly tone was back, “It? Really? That’s what you’re calling me in your head?” it—she tsked, “That’s very rude of you, you know.”

Kaladin didn’t know what to think about that anymore. He didn’t even know how to explain what was happening to him. But he opened his eyes, knowing he couldn’t disobey his master.

His master’s eyes were wide and soft, his mouth parted. One of his arms was still outstretched towards Kaladin, almost touching him. The moment he realized Kaladin had opened his eyes, he tore his hand back, his palm slowly curling into a fist. He let out a tired breath and smiled just slightly, enough to give Kaladin a false sense of ease, “I’m… sorry,” he murmured, his voice was incredibly soft and gentle, as if he were speaking to a spooked animal and not a hardened man who was his slave, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just noticed how much your feet were bleeding and I… panicked,” His eyes widened impossibly, “Not because you did anything wrong, of course,” He rushed to explain, his tone of voice rising, “But because I was worried for your feet.”

Kaladin’s brain stopped working. What had he just said? Worried for your feet. What did that even mean?

Adolin seemed to think the same thing as he cringed and dragged a hand down his face, pressing it against his mouth for a second longer, as if he regretted his previous words. Finally, he shook his head, dragged a hand through his hair, and spoke again, “That sounded stupid. I’m sorry,” He cringed again, chuckling self-deprecatingly. He buried his face in his hands again and groaned, “I’m really bad at this… as you’ve probably already realized.”

“Aww…” the voice cooed, her tone sad.

Kaladin ignored her—he still couldn’t believe he was calling a voice ‘her’—and wracked his brain for what to say. His master was talking badly about himself. What was Kaladin supposed to do about that? Was he supposed to calm him, comfort him, or offer himself?

“Umm… no,” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, swallowing hard, “You aren’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Kaladin sucked in a breath, his heartbeat picking up again, “I—I’m not—”

His master groaned again, louder this time, and muttered a “Storms, help me.” He bent forward, shutting his eyes, as his hands moved to his hair. He gripped the roots, pulling on them slightly. His whole frame was shaking with frustration—or at least what Kaladin assumed was frustration.

“It’s not frustration,” the voice said, “Not at you at least. He’s angry at himself. At the fact that you even have to be doing this—that both of you have to be doing this. He doesn’t want to have to treat you this way.”

Right. As if Kaladin would believe a voice his mind had hallucinated.

Kaladin stepped forward hesitantly, the cold floor sharp against the cuts on the soles of his feet. He hissed at the sensation. His heart was pounding inside his chest, as he tried to reach out, maybe to help his master somehow. He really didn’t know what he was doing.

The moment his shaking, still-handcuffed hands were near Adolin’s shoulder, Adolin’s head snapped back up, his hands falling to his sides. His hair stood up in multiple directions and his eyes were wide. He was… smiling—no, grinning. He looked… insane.

Kaladin opened his mouth and then shut it again. He was… completely lost.

“He’s so cute!” the voice piped up, “Not so princely anymore, is he? I like it.”

Adolin gestured to Kaladin’s feet, still grinning like a crazy person, “Okay!” He lifted his hands up, “So I have an idea on how to help you. What if I let you borrow my shoes? I could take my boots off and give them to you so that you don’t damage your feet any further,” He paused, “And so there’s no more bloody footprints on my uncle’s expensive flooring.”

Kaladin just blinked at him, his mouth parted. His brain had stopped computing. There was no way he’d heard any of that correctly.

His master glanced down at his slightly wrinkled uniform and smoothed it down. He let out a small “Oh” and reached up to fix his hair back to its perfect-messy style.

“Sorry,” he muttered, playing with the strands, “I didn’t mean to look and sound so…” He blushed, “…crazy. I just… didn’t know how to help you and had to think about it for a moment,” He scratched the top of his head, giving Kaladin an embarrassed smile, “I don’t really know what I’m doing. And uhh… I hope to get better at this whole thing with time. Not that I even know what ‘this’—” He gestured vaguely between them, “—is. But I just really hope that you’ll give me a chance. A chance to be someone… you’re not afraid of. Truly, that’s all I want.”

No… that couldn’t be right. It just… couldn’t. He couldn’t let himself believe the kind words coming out of his master’s mouth. If he even believed it for a moment, everything would come crashing down. Everything he believed about lighteyes—about the Kholins. His master was simply saying the exact words Kaladin wanted to hear. It was all on purpose. Kaladin couldn’t fall for them.

It was all a part of his mask. The mask Adolin Kholin always wore: the beautiful and charming prince who could make anything happen in a snap of his fingers. Who could have anyone he wanted whenever he wanted them. Well, that part was true. But deep down, he was so much worse, and now Kaladin knew exactly why. Adolin lied to people. He pretended to be this nice and gentle man who’d never hurt anyone. And if Kaladin was honest, he was good at it. A weaker man would’ve believed Adolin’s words in a heartbeat. But a man like Kaladin—a man who had experienced what he’d experienced—saw through that farce.

Prince Adolin Kholin would never be more than his owner. His enemy.

Upon seeing Nine-One-Five-Two’s surprised—and frankly terrified—face, Adolin knew his attempt at a truce hadn’t worked. But that wasn’t going to discourage him from trying. And it definitely wasn’t going to discourage him from helping his slave.

He put a finger up and said, “Wait here a moment,” before turning around and walking further into his home. He had to find someone to help him, whether it be a messenger or a guard, or anyone really.

It was obvious Nine-One-Five-Two didn’t approve of Adolin’s idea to give him his boots. Adolin didn’t understand why but that didn’t matter. He was going to get the man some shoes no matter what it took. Adolin wasn’t going to just let his injuries get worse.

Then, Adolin saw a figure exit one of the numerous hallways. Instantly, he quickened his pace and called out, “Excuse me!”

They turned around at the sound of his voice, a slight frown on their face. But when they realized it was Adolin calling for them, they straightened and bowed their head, “Yes, Prince Adolin?”

It was one of the maids. Adolin breathed out in relief. He would never live it down it had been someone like Wit or one of his officers.

Adolin opened his mouth to speak—

“Oh, Highprince Dalinar and Brightness Navani have left for a meeting,” She rushed to say, giving him a small smile, “They’ll be back any minute now.”

That’s exactly why you must help me.

Adolin nodded quickly, “Yes, yes. Well—uhh…” He faltered, a blush rising on his cheeks, “I need your help with—”

Her eyes lit up and she folded her hands in front of her, “Of course! What can I do for you?”

“—something I’d rather my father and Navani… not find out about,” he finished, giving her his best ‘I’m innocent’ expression.

The maid blinked repeatedly, her smile slowly vanishing. She shuffled her feet and looked down at the ground before clearing her throat and looking back up at Adolin, “I see…” she said, suspicion in her tone, “What do you need help with?”

“I—well—”

“Something illegal?” she inquired, raising her eyebrows.

Adolin’s eyes widened and his entire body tensed. Panicked, he looked behind him, praying that his slave hadn’t moved from his spot. He’d just trusted someone he owned—someone who openly hated him—not to run away. Storms, he was such an idiot.

He looked back at the woman, not knowing how to answer that. He’d thought that he had a good relationship with everyone loyal to their House. But now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Was she going to tell his father? Or worse… Elhokar? So what—

A smile broke on the maid’s face and she waved her hand, “I’m joking, of course. Don’t worry, Prince Adolin. I’m not going to tell anyone,” she said teasingly, “So what’s this secret thing you need help with?”

Thank the storms, Adolin thought, his heartbeat in his throat.

He let out an awkward, still slightly panicked chuckle and said, “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Seeing his master return with some woman and conspiringly whisper in her ear hadn’t eased any of the anxiety in Kaladin’s chest. He still felt like he was dying.

Adolin had lied to him, pretended to be a good person, offered him his boots—tried to trick him—and now had sent his servant to get something for him.

To say Kaladin was losing his mind would be an understatement.

He’d wanted to ask what was happening but he knew better. His master wouldn’t appreciate the question, and besides, it’s not like Kaladin would get a truthful answer. So he chose to stand still and wait for whatever disaster was going to happen to him.

“Ohhh! I just checked and you’re going to hate what Adolin has planned,” the voice said, a giggle in her voice.

Well… that was certainly unsurprising.

“No, no. Not in that way,” she corrected sternly, “But in a you’re-going-to-hate-it-but-a-normal-person-would-love-it way. Trust me.”

Trust me? He never trusted the voices in his head.

A moment later, the woman emerged from one of the hallways. She was… holding something.

Adolin turned around as she approached them, a beaming smile on his face. He clapped his hands together, “Thank you so much,” he told her, pure gratitude in his voice.

She smiled at him, handing him the item, “Of course, my prince.”

In his master’s hands were… slippers. Soft, white slippers with blue and silver accents.

What… Kaladin looked from Adolin to the woman, at a loss for words. They were both smiling at him. The woman openly and Adolin with a hint of wariness.

He heard a gasp, “See? They’re so nice!” the voice said.

Kaladin didn’t know what to do. He didn’t understand. Panic rose in his chest and he ripped his eyes away from them, choosing to look at the ground. Tears gathered in his eyes. He didn’t know why, he just knew that it was too much for him. He was in pain, overwhelmed, embarrassed, scared—he couldn’t handle this anymore. He wanted to be alone where no one could judge or hurt him more than he already had been.

Why are they looking at me like that? Stop looking at me. What are the slippers for? What—what’s going on?

“They’re for you,” the voice answered softly.

No.

Kaladin heard someone clear their throat. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t let them see his tears.

“They’re—umm—they’re for you,” his master said hesitantly. He stepped closer—not too close, but close enough for Kaladin to feel his body heat, “I… asked for them to be brought down from my rooms for you. You can wear them so your injuries don’t get infected from the dirty floor,” He huffed, chuckling awkwardly, “I mean you’ve already had to walk for hours on sand and sharp stones so it’s not like things can get any worse but…”

“You’re such a good master, Prince Adolin,” the maid whispered, a smile in her voice, “As soon as you leave, I’ll clean the floor and make sure it’s spotless. You don’t even have to worry about it.”

Kaladin blinked away the new tears that had gathered and looked up, trying to stabilize his breathing. Adolin was holding the slippers, his arm stretched out towards Kaladin.

His master’s smile faltered just slightly when their eyes met. He looked down at Kaladin’s feet and then back into his eyes. But then, his eyes flickered down again, this time, to Kaladin’s wrists. His eyes zoned in on them.

Kaladin flinched and clenched his fists, making the rusty metal of the handcuffs dig into his skin further. Not being able to control it, he let out a small hiss of pain.

No, no, no. Shut up. Just shut up. He clamped his mouth shut and gritted his teeth. What was he? A child who couldn’t handle a cut? He had to learn how to control himself. His pain didn’t matter anymore.

Adolin’s smile vanished. He turned his head and made eye contact with the maid. She looked back at Kaladin and gave him a gentle smile, before leaning in and whispering something in his master’s ear.

“She’s saying that Adolin should wash the cuts with clean water and then—”

I don’t care, he told the voice. He didn’t want to know. It was better if he didn’t.

His master leaned back from the woman and gave her a small nod. She squeezed his arm, said something about “getting supplies,” and walked away.

And before Kaladin could even get a breath in, his master stepped towards him and kneeled on the ground in front of him. He looked up at Kaladin with the softest smile Kaladin had ever seen, “I’ll put them on for you since your hands are still handcuffed—sorry about that by the way,” He grimaced, his smile turning a bit sour, “And for the cuts… I’ll deal with that once we get to my rooms,” He placed the slippers in front of Kaladin’s feet, “I know they’ll get dirty with your blood as soon as you put them on but it’s fine. I have a lot of these, so no worries. I’ll give you another pair once we heal those injuries.”

We. ‘Once we heal those injuries.’ We like—like… like he wanted to help. Like he wanted to take active participation in healing Kaladin’s partially self-inflicted wounds.

No. It wasn’t…

Kaladin stood still like a statue. He was hallucinating again. He was sure of it. But the realness of Adolin in that moment and the tears still drying on his own cheeks said otherwise.

His master nodded to Kaladin’s bloody feet like they weren’t some disgusting, disease-ridden thing, but like they were something worth caring for.

“Come on, put your feet in these. You’ll instantly feel better,” he promised, “I won’t touch you, don’t worry. Only if you ask for assistance. It’s your choice.”

It’s your choice.