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The basement of Master Olsted’s workshop was always freezing, but tonight, the chill felt heavier. Thick with the scent of chemicals, iron shavings, and dried blood.
Legs knelt in the dark, his fingers trembling as he held a small, dented cup of watery broth, torn strips of clean linen, and a pathetically small bottle of medicine. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, his mind screaming at him to go back, to flee to safety – there was nowhere safe in his life – but he inched himself forward instead.
Upstairs, Olsted had finally fallen asleep. The cruel, vindictive blacksmith was dead to the world after an evening of drinking, ordering around Legs in the forge, and complaining about those damn Northern bastards up in the Winter Kingdom. The usual.
But Legs couldn’t sleep.
Not when he knew what – who – was lying injured in the basement.
Legs's eyes adjusted to the dark room, landing on the silhouette of the Northern war prisoner. The most recent 'resident' of the workshop after being bought by Olsted at the auction block a week ago. Even battered, bruised, and forced into exhausting manual labor without a moment's rest, the blond slave looked entirely unyielding.
When Legs had first seen the slave on the stage, he had been utterly stunned. Amidst the mockery of the Summer Kingdom crowd and the propaganda painting the Winter Kingdom as vile scum, the blonde slave had stood with a quiet, unrelenting dignity. His striking lilac eyes burning with a quiet, fierce life that refused to die no matter what filth was thrown or spat at him.
The slave had been both desired and avoided for his visibly muscled, tall frame. Even with heavy iron chains binding his arms and legs, his sheer physical presence remained intimidating and frightening to those around the stage. He looked like he would be able to break those chains with just a shrug, though he remained motionless amongst the other slaves on stage.
Despite his younger age, perhaps his early twenties, there was little doubt this blonde slave was a former soldier. One of the despicable enemies who had cut down their allies and fellow Summer Kingdom members in the ongoing war.
This had been confirmed by the auctioneer who stated that this slave had been found unconscious and captured during a recent battle, though very little was known beyond that. Not that anything needed to be known to make the crowd's hatred and fear towards the slave grow even further.
Despite the slave's imposing stature, the auctioneer reassured the crowd multiple times that the captive was completely harmless. He pointed directly to the glowing slave mark etched into the skin of the blonde man's neck – a binding enchantment that magically stripped away his ability to fight back, forcing him to obey the absolute orders of whoever held the corresponding Master Command Mark.
To prove his point, and display how genuinely helpless the giant was, the auctioneer struck the slave.
Repeatedly.
Making a spectacle of it as the young man was hit with both hand and cane.
In the crowd, Legs had been frozen as he watched the display, deeply horrified by the casual brutality and crowd's encouraging cheers.
And yet, the slave didn't make a single sound under the blows.
He simply gritted his teeth, his expression twisting into a look of fierce frustration that slowly dissolved into hollow resignation.
(Somehow, that expression felt far worse than any cry of pain would have.)
Master Olsted, however, had looked on with cold satisfaction. There were very few who hated the Winter Kingdom as much as he did, which he displayed in both his words and his actions as a key contributor to the war effort through armor, weaponry, bombs, destructive inventions, and other useful items.
But as a result of his growing prestige, the forge's workload had grown far beyond what Olsted and Legs could manage on their own. Legs had passed out three times in the same day before Olsted had rolled his eyes, scoffing at how pathetic the gutter rat was.
As a result, Olsted had come here to the slave auctions. He had more than enough funds, and easily won the bidding for the former soldier. He ordered Legs to pay the steep rate before stepping forward to claim his prize. He'd been very displeased to find out that the Command Mark would go directly on his skin.
"We used to just give out rings," the seller had replied in an apologetic and joking tone. "But too many owners were having their rings stolen, especially by those pesky rebels, so please bear with it. Now, with the Mark on your skin, no one can take the slave from you. He's bound to you unless you willingly use a spell to transfer his ownership away."
With a somewhat more satisfied nod, Olsted had then turned his attention to his new purchase. He activated the magic immediately, barking an order for the slave to bow down before him.
"I am your master now, Winter Scum," Master Olsted informed the slave coldly, looking down as the magic forced the young man to his knees. "Try anything to defy me, and I will use this Mark to tear your body and mind apart piece by piece until you are nothing but a drooling, mindless shell. Do you understand me, slave?"
The former soldier slowly raised his head, looking Olsted dead in the eye as he spoke for the first time.
"My name is Scott."
He had been punished greatly for the comment, left bleeding and breathless on the floorboards upon returning back to the workshop, but that single act of defiance changed the way Legs saw him.
In that instant, the man before him was no longer just a terrifying enemy soldier or a guilt-wrenching slave, but a person.
A real person with a name.
Since then, Scott had worked continuously under Olsted’s brutal regime. Olsted only ever called him "slave" or some other derogatory term, barking out words like an order to a dog.
It was like how he had always treated Legs, but a million times worse. Legs was at least allowed breaks, to receive food on a regular basis, and a blanket near the hearth to stay warm at night.
Scott, however, was driven to the absolute physical exhaustion, tasked with the most punishing and hazardous jobs in the workshop. He spent endless hours hauling massive crates of raw ore or firewood, pumping the heavy leather bellows until his muscles must have screamed in agony, swinging a massive sledgehammer against glowing steel until his hands blistered and bled, and any number of other exhausting or humiliating tasks.
Despite the insane amount of work, Scott was very rarely allowed to rest. Only given a few hours of sleep on the cold, stone floor of the forge basement.
Food was equally scarce – Olsted provided nothing more than stale crusts of bread, throwing it at the slave on the ground the way one would do to a stray animal. Just barely enough calories to keep his new worker from collapsing entirely.
And yet, the slave never complained.
Nor rebelled.
Just continued to endure the brutal routine of starvation and backbreaking labor in silence.
Not that he can rebel, Legs thought in sickening guilt. No matter how bad it gets, he physically can't run away. Not with that Slave Mark.
No matter how dark it got in the workshop, the magical slave mark would always glow brightly on Scott's neck – a collar of light that would kill the slave if he ever tried to run too far from the main control sigil. Any disobeying of direct orders – regardless of whether they were said by the master recently or not – would trigger immense waves of pain through the body. It had been described as pure lightning running through your nerves by the auctioneer.
(It seemed like an accurate description for the times Legs had seen Olsted purposefully given orders that Scott physically couldn't obey, watching in cruel entertainment as the slave writhed and screamed in silent agony as his body was consumed by the cruel magic.)
All of this, and far more, told Legs that he shouldn't approach the slave.
For one, it was a massive risk. Both to his own safety and Scott's. If Olsted got any idea that Legs had come down here, or talked to the slave regarding anything but orders to do more work, both of them would be severely punished.
But even more importantly, Legs knew the slave had to despise him.
To Scott, Legs was a member of the Summer Kingdom. The willing apprentice to his cruel new master. An enemy no matter how you looked at it even without this wretched war making hatred on both sides grow every day. Legs embodied everything that had stripped Scott of his freedom, dignity, and wellbeing.
To make matters worse, Legs hadn't done a single thing to help the slave since he'd arrived. He had simply stood by silently during Olsted's cruel rants and brutal beatings, watching the injustice unfold without ever speaking up.
Legs had even flinched away whenever the massive slave got too close, letting fear dictate his reactions despite knowing full well that the magic kept the former soldier entirely harmless.
...a part of Legs wished that Scott could hurt him.
He deserved to.
He deserved to kill Olsted, Legs, and everyone else involved in his suffering and then escape back to the Winter Kingdom without ever looking back.
But he couldn't.
The Northern warrior was trapped, forced to endure every ounce of degradation and abuse because of that damn Mark burned into his neck.
And yet, in spite of the certain resentment and knowledge that Legs should at least leave the slave alone during what little rest and peace he got, Legs couldn't stop himself from slowly approaching where the slave rested now.
"H-Hey," Legs whispered finally, his voice cracking slightly. "A-Are you... awake?"
Scott didn’t jump. He slowly lifted his head, those lilac eyes catching the dim moonlight filtering through the high, barred window. He looked exhausted, his chest heaving shallowly, cuts and dark bruises purpling his jaw, bare torso, and arms.
"I... I brought some soup?" Legs stammered lamely, nervously holding out the tin cup with trembling hands. "And... some cloths to help treat your wounds. Master Olsted, he... he really went too far with the whip today."
(Olsted had been determined to make the slave finally break today.)
(And he had.)
(Whether it was from the pain, or because he knew the cruel man wouldn't stop until he made a sound, Scott had finally screamed.)
(The sound would forever haunt Legs's nightmares.)
Scott didn't move to take the cup. He looked at the broth and bandages, then up at Legs's nervous, guilt-ridden face. He spoke softly, his voice raspy and dry as sandpaper.
"You shouldn't be here."
Legs flinched, stepping back slightly.
He had expected this. He deserved the slave's hate and revilement, but–
"Go back upstairs," Scott said, his tone completely devoid of malice, yet firm. "Don't get yourself into trouble with your master. If Olsted catches you helping me, he'll turn that whip on you."
Legs stilled, staring blankly. Was... the northern man worried for him?
That can't be right, Legs rebuked himself. There's no way. It has to just be wishful thinking on my part. A selfish attempt to assuage my own bystander guilt and accountability.
And yet, Scott's words themselves were correct.
Legs knew even better than the slave did how correct he was.
Olsted was a terrible master to his apprentice, quick to berate and even quicker to strike. It'd been that way for all the years Legs had been with Olsted and he be shocked speechless if it ever changed. Even if Olsted had raised Legs since his parents had died long ago, there was no sense of affection or companionship between the two beyond that of master and servant.
To put it simply, Legs owed Olsted his life and everything in it.
(Legs was only nineteen, but a part of him was terrified that he would spend the rest of his days trapped under the man's heavy thumb, bound by a twisted sense of debt that felt almost as unbreakable as the magical curse upon Scott's neck.)
So, if Olsted thought Legs was going 'soft' on a vile Northern prisoner... the punishment would be worse than anything even Legs had ever experienced before.
"I..." Legs swallowed hard, trying to summon a courage he didn't possess. "If... if he catches me, I'll just make the argument that you're an investment. If you die of starvation or your wounds get infected, he won't get his money's worth. I'm just... protecting his property–"
Legs froze at the last word.
WHY did I say that!? Legs screamed at himself. Even if I have zero practice at actually conversing with others, even I know that's a horrible thing to say! I need to apologize immediately–
A snort broke the quiet.
Legs looked up, astonished to see a tiny, rough laugh leave Scott's mouth. He didn't look upset by the word 'property' – instead, the tension in his broad shoulders seemed to bleed out slightly. He relaxed against the cold stone behind him, though his lilac eyes still swam with worry.
"You're a terrible liar," Scott said softly.
"I am," Legs admitted, his shoulders slumping as he moved closer again. He carefully set the broth down and reached out, moving slowly as he raised a damp, medicine-soaked rag towards a nasty tear on Scott's forearm. "Can... can I?"
Scott stilled at Legs's movement, but didn't pull away.
"I-It might hurt," Legs admitted, guilt twisting in his stomach painfully at the idea of causing even more pain to the slave, "but I swear it's just medicine. It's, it's not much, but it should help stave off infection."
The Northern man was quiet for a few moments. Then he gave a small, barely noticeable nod.
Legs moved slowly, giving the prisoner time to change his mind or move away, but he didn't. Scott winced as Legs began to dab at the deep cuts, but slowly relaxed after a few more moments, settling into watching Legs work with a half-lidded gaze.
How much pain has he gone through? Legs wondered, stomach lurching and feeling sick as he surveyed the extensive damage. I can't believe he's even still conscious after everything Olsted has put him through.
"...I thought you were afraid of me," Scott murmured suddenly, making Legs jolt. "This entire time, you wouldn't even look me in the eye. I thought you expected me to cut your throat in your sleep."
Legs’s face burned hot in the darkness, the heavy guilt and shame of his cowardice rushing back all at once.
He swallowed, struggling for the right words as he brought out a small vial of medicine he'd secretly bought while running errands for Olsted. It had used up his meager savings for the past year, but it had been worth it.
(Not like he was going to spend it on anything worthwhile anyway.)
"I... well, maybe a little bit at first?" Legs mumbled, thoroughly flustered. "The officials are always saying people from the Winter Kingdom are... monsters?"
Legs gave an awkward, strained chuckle, instantly wishing he could bite his tongue. Why did he keep putting his foot in his mouth every time he tried to speak!? It was probably a good thing that no one wanted to talk to the pathetic little mechanic apprentice.
"S-Stupid, right?" Legs mumbled, trying to convey his apology as best as he could with his tone. "Especially since we have actual monsters and evil magical creatures running around."
However, Scott didn't smile.
Instead, his gaze became dim, growing distant as he seemed to stare off at something that Legs couldn't see.
"...war makes everyone into monsters," Scott said quietly, his voice hollow. "Including me."
Legs swallowed. He'd imagined different scenarios before, but now, more than ever, he wondered what kind of life the person in front of him had lived. Before he had been captured. Before, when Scott had been an enemy warrior on the battlefield.
Legs had heard so many the horror stories in passing. Gruesome whispers passed down by broken, shell-shocked soldiers returning from the front, tales from the sobbing widows left behind, rants by heavily outraged nobility, and so on.
The stories painted vivid pictures of a relentless enemy, describing frozen battlefields turned into scorching hellscapes. Of a people with an unyielding defiance and loyalty to each other, refusing to break no matter what devastating forces or magic the Summer Kingdom threw their way. Though the population of the Winter Kingdom was far less than their warm southern counterpart, they held a lethal, near insurmountable home advantage.
The Northern Warriors were perfectly adapted to the brutal, unforgiving terrain, utilizing the treacherous mountain passes, blinding blizzards, and subzero temperatures as weapons in their own right. Combined with their excellent teamwork and defensive guerilla tactics, their forces had managed to stall, outlast, and utterly devastate the massive invading armies that dared to cross into their frozen borders.
However, there was one terrifying, recurring figure in the stories.
The Crown Prince of the Winter Kingdom.
Pyro Dagmeare.
A name that was spoken in hushed, trembling breaths of absolute terror, or spat with rage-filled hatred.
In contrast to his home of snow and ice, Prince Pyro was infamous for their twisted, obsessive love of fire. Rumors spoke of how he'd boldly stolen a dragon egg from the Dragon Academy itself with the help of rebels, raising the kidnapped hatchling into a weapon of war. They'd even gained powers over the flame as a result, becoming an even more lethal threat on the battlefield.
As a result, the Queen had even sent Dragon Riders after them.
Many had believed that would be the end of it.
That they'd finally get rid of the biggest threat of the Winter Kingdom, reclaim the stolen dragon, and end this wretched war that stacked corpses on both sides.
But they had been proven dead wrong.
Prince Pyro and their private elite had slaughtered every Dragon Rider to come their way, somehow besting the elder riders despite the years of experience and knowledge they had upon him. None of them had been spared, all hunted down the moment they crossed the border.
Now, only Osteon Duskhammer remained – the sole survivor of the 21st Dragon Company. An atrocity that had earned Pyro the deep-seated fear and enduring hatred of the nobility (many of whom who had been connected in some way to the 21st Dragon Company).
From there, the stories had only grown. Legends that were as awe worthy as they were despicable and horrifying.
Detailing how Prince Pyro would march into battle with flames licking up his arms, burning down entire villages into nothing but scorched earth and charred bone. Or sealing entire fortresses shut, leaving enemy legions inside to burn alive from dragon fire while their allies watched the smoke rise against the sky.
And lately... the rumors had become even darker.
Whispers from the front lines claimed that Prince Pyro had become entirely unhinged in the past few weeks, transforming into a terrifying, tireless, and uncontrollable force of absolute destruction. Their attacks were no longer calculated and coordinated military strikes, they were reckless and manic – even putting their fellow warriors in danger at times.
(It was as if a desperate, furious madness had consumed the Fire Prince, driving him to torch entire landscapes without any of his previous, if limited, restraint.)
(It was as if he was searching for something hidden in the ashes... refusing to stop until he either found it or burned the world to ash.)
Of course, Legs had no way of knowing how much of the stories were true.
However, he had to regularly listen to Olsted curse and spit at the mere mention of the Fire Mage's name, so that was proof enough of the Winter Prince's combat prowess. Every time a new emergency shipment of armor was demanded from their forge, it was often to replace gear that had been completely melted into worthless, twisted scraps on the battlefield.
I wonder if Scott ever saw Prince Pyro on the battlefield, Legs wondered briefly before mentally shaking his head. What am I saying? The Winter Kingdom is massive, and Scott is likely just one of thousands of common foot soldiers swept up in this war. Prince Pyro's personal guard was undoubtedly made up of noble elite, and Scott simply doesn't carry himself like a high born noble.
Legs had dealt with plenty of entitled aristocrats. Most of whom had commissioned custom armor or weaponry from Olsted, yet looked down upon those who worked for a living (especially those as pathetic, scarred, and messy as Legs).
Nobles didn't have hands heavily calloused from a lifetime of hard labor, but Scott was very clearly used to doing manual work. Nor did many nobles have Scott's quiet politeness. More than anything, a proud nobleman wouldn't last a single hour under the relentless verbal and physical abuse Olsted dished out non-stop.
(Or, well, there was one noble that Legs knew of that might survive such conditions.)
(It was the recently returned Princess Ros, secret daughter of the Summer Queen. There were rumors that Princess Ros had been raised as a commoner, which she had confirmed while briefly chatting with Legs during a meeting Olsted was having with the Summer Queen. Princess Ros's stance had been uncomfortable with the surrounding finery and war, but proud when speaking of her adopted family and hands-on upbringing.)
(But Princess Ros's story was anything but typical, so Legs highly doubted any other noble would act similarly.)
But in the end, the war stories, rumors, and endless theories weren't what mattered.
The person in front of Legs was.
The young man who watched Legs now, waiting patiently for the struggling mechanic to collect his thoughts. Never once complaining even when Legs's shaking hands pressed too hard on his wounds.
"I... I was afraid," Legs admitted again, using the last of the medicine he had on Scott's wounds. It wasn't enough, but it was all he had right now. "But then... I saw how hard you work. You never complain, even when Olsted is awful. And..." He swallowed, heart squeezing in his chest. "You've been kind to me."
"Kind?" Scott blinked, looking genuinely baffled. "I haven't done anything."
"You have," Legs insisted, his voice growing a fraction louder. He was terrified of Olsted hearing up and waking up, but he needed to get his words across. "Two days ago, you intentionally stacked the heavy crates closer to my station so I wouldn't have to carry them across the yard. Yesterday, when Olsted dropped that bucket of burning coal, you stepped in front of it so my body wouldn't get hit. And you always leave the extra kindling by the hearth, so I don't have to go out in the freezing rain to get it."
Scott stared at him for a long moment.
Then let out a breath that was almost a sigh.
"...that isn't kindness." Scott swallowed, suddenly looking as if Legs was the one to be pitied here. "Where I'm from, that's just... basic human decency. You look out for the people around you."
Legs let out a hollow, empty laugh. He looked down at the bloody linen in his hands, throat tightening at the thought of a place like that. It sounded unreal, but what reason did Scott have to lie to him?
(But even if such a place existed... it wasn't for someone like him.)
(A cruel, selfish, pathetic coward.)
"Well... there isn't much basic human decency around here," Legs mumbled, turning away. "...not like that, at least."
Both went quiet, the damp cold of the basement settling heavily over them.
Then, Scott broke the silence.
"What's your name?"
Legs jolted, shocked by the question. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
No one asks for my name, Legs thought finally, heart pounding in his chest. Olsted only calls me "boy" or "runt" or "gutter rat" or whatever else crosses his mind at the time. But my name... I... I can't remember the last time I heard anyone even say it.
(I've almost forgotten it myself.)
Scott seemed to read his thoughts, frowning. "You... do you have one? Olsted might only call you... terrible things, but..."
"I... I do have a name," Legs said quickly, flushing in mortification. "I-It doesn't matter though. Especially since Olsted calls you far worse things."
However, Scott's frown only deepened.
"To him, I'm an enslaved enemy of war. It only makes sense to treat me badly." Scott shifted, his lilac eyes suddenly focusing on Legs with a piercing, intense gravity. "But you... there is no reason to treat you badly."
Legs felt his throat go completely dry, unsure where to even begin with that statement. He fidgeted, intensely flustered and uncertain under that steady gaze, before finally lowering his eyes.
"My name,” he said finally, feeling strangely bashful, “is… Legundo..."
"Legundo..." Scott sounded out the syllables slowly.
The way his deeper voice carried the vowels made a strange, sudden shiver travel straight down Legs' spine. He swallowed hard, his heart beating even faster in his chest, but he couldn't understand why.
“Good name.” Scott said with a nod, making Legs’s face burn. "Maybe Legs as a nickname among your friends?"
That, finally, broke the mechanic out of his stunned stupor. Legs let out another empty, self-deprecating laugh.
"I'd need friends to have a nickname."
Silence descended again, thick and awkward.
Legs immediately wanted to curl up and die. He'd meant it as a joke, but his mind now accurately screamed at him for saying something so pathetic. Did he sound like he was complaining? To a slave who had just been beaten and tortured? Despicable.
He opened his mouth, desperately about to apologize and change the subject, when Scott suddenly spoke up again.
"Well, I think you'd be a good friend," Scott said. He gestured to the bowl, finally reaching down to take it gingerly in his scarred, trembling hands. "This proves it." He paused, suddenly seeming a bit bashful. "...thank you, truly."
Legs startled, nearly dropping the bandages out of sheer shock. He looked up, his face twisted in shame and guilt.
"Don't thank me," Legs half-begged. "This... a cup of watered-down broth and some dirty rags? It's nothing. It's pathetic. I should do more, but I'm too much of a coward."
"It isn't nothing," Scott insisted, his voice dropping to a softer, fiercer register. He leaned forward slightly. "Especially since I know you aren't given much food yourself. I've seen your portions. You're giving me half of what little you have, aren't you?"
Legs froze. His heart did a strange, violent flip in his chest.
How did he notice? Legs wondered in amazement. Has he been watching me? Is it to try and gain information for a way to escape? But what good would knowing my meal sizes be in any way?
"I-I... it's really not a big deal," Legs stammered, his face burning a bright, furious crimson. He fiddled with his hands, desperately wanting to hide his embarrassment. "I'm in a better situation than you are. I have a roof, I'm an apprentice... so I should help. Right? It's just logical."
Scott didn't answer right away. He kept his lilac eyes fixed on Legs, his expression softening into something incredibly warm.
"You are very kind," Scott remarked softly. "Thank you, Legs."
And then, Scott smiled.
It wasn't a broad grin, just a small, gentle curving of his lips.
But to Legs, it felt like the moon breaking through the clouds of the night sky – bringing with it the stars that shined so distantly far above. Even battered, bruised, covered in sweat and soot, Scott looked entirely beautiful. The sheer strength radiating from him, combined with that soft, genuine smile, hit Legs like a physical blow to the chest.
Legs choked on his own breath, completely overwhelmed by a sudden, terrifying rush of heat in his chest. His mind went entirely blank, leaving only the image of Scott's smile burning behind his eyelids.
"I-I have to go!" Legs blurted out, scrambling to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. Shame and confusion warred in his gut. What was he thinking? Why was he looking at a forced prisoner of war like that? "I... Olsted might wake up, and I have a dozen new swords and shields to prep before sunrise."
Scott’s smile vanished, replaced by an immediate look of concern. He tried to shift his weight to stand, but unable to hide a wince of pain as he did.
"That's too much work for one person before dawn," Scott protested. "Let me help you, I can–"
"No!" Legs cut him off, waving his hands frantically, then firmly. "No, absolutely not. You need to rest. Get as much sleep as you can before he wakes up."
Scott paused, holding Legs's frantic gaze.
"You should take your own advice. You need rest too."
"Eh, I'm used to it." Legs let out a nervous, self-deprecating chuckle. "I've lived nineteen years like this. Or, at least, as long as I can remember. I don't mind."
Scott’s expression shifted, turning deeply unhappy and uncertain. His lilac eyes darkened with a profound, quiet sorrow that Legs couldn't figure out. He looked like he wanted to say something more, hands twitching as if to reach out, but he ultimately held back, giving a slow, reluctant nod.
"Take care of yourself, Legs," Scott said quietly. "Please."
Legs, his mouth dry as sawdust, gave a jerky nod. With his heart pounding so hard he could hear it echoing in his ears, the apprentice turned and hurried up the basement stairs. He slipped into the forge, trying to focus on his work so he could actually get some sleep, but his chest felt impossibly tight.
Take care.
For the first time in his entire nineteen years of life, someone had cared how he was.
Someone had actually looked at Legs, noticed his suffering, and wished him well.
Had even asked his name.
Said his name.
Without a hint of mockery, or cruelty.
And it wasn't a friend, his master, or a fellow citizen of the Summer Kingdom...
It was Scott. A person who was treated a thousand times worse than he was, but still found the room to worry about a pathetic, hypocritical apprentice.
Legs compressed his lips tightly, swallowing past the thick lump of shame in his throat. He knew he should forget the encounter, for both their sakes.
But even as night turned into day... he couldn't quite shake the memory of their quiet conversation, the sound of his name, or the breathtaking warmth of Scott's smile.