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The outfit laid across the bed looked nothing like anything Fount would ever wear by choice. It shimmered faintly in the lamplight; a deep navy garment embroidered in pale silver thread, the pattern like a curling smoke. It was beautiful and meant for admiration.
Definitely not to be worn for his comfort and certainly not to be worn by someone with dignity.
Fount stood by the edge of the mattress, hands held stiffly in front of him, fingers intertwined so tightly his knuckles blanched. He didn’t reach for the garment, infact didn’t move at all until Truthless Recluse stepped behind him.
The man's fingers pressed against the small of his back.
“Put it on,” Truthless murmured, “We’re not to keep them waiting.”
Fount didn’t trust his voice. He gave a small nod instead and reached out to touch the fabric, reluctantly but not daring to be too slow with it.
He silently lifted the outfit piece by piece, feeling the expensive weight of it settle over his arms and shoulders as he dressed. Truthless watched him the entire time, he could feel that gaze on him like a touch despite the distance between them.
The thing that once had been his life, lecture halls, discussions on ethics, subtle rebellion tucked between the lines of his syllabus, it all felt impossibly far away, as if it had belonged to another man entirely. In that life, he had made choices, had spoken freely, he had lived.
The one fastening the last clasp of the embroidered garment beneath Truthless’ gaze was not that man.
When Fount finished, Truthless stepped forward. He adjusted a fold of fabric under Fount’s collar, smoothing it with a practiced sweep of his hand. For a moment he seemed strangely satisfied, almost softened by the sight.
Then his voice returned to its typical unyielding timbre: “At the door, now.”
Fount followed him out of the bedroom, down the wide staircase and toward the front hall. Each step felt heavier than the last. Only when the large double doors loomed in front of them did the reason for this performance, these clothes and display, become real.
Truthless positioned himself in the center of the entryway, one gloved hand resting casually on his hip, the other gripping the edge of a table beside him.
He gave Fount a glance, “Stand by me.”
Fount obeyed as his heart beat hard beneath the layers of cloth. His breath felt tight and shallow but he knows he isn't allowed to show any of that.
Truthless’ hand brushed his lower back, just once, a silent command to be still. Then a knock echoed through the corridor.
The first guest arrived.
The doors swung open under the hands of the household guards and a tall man stepped inside, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, draped in a formal uniform adorned with polished steel insignias. His boots clicked loudly against the marble floor. His gaze found Truthless immediately and he grinned.
“Mr. Major General,” he greeted.
“General.” Truthless returned the nod, tone almost cordial.
The general’s eyes passed briefly over Fount, acknowledging him only with a short, uninterested hum. Fount kept his head slightly bowed and gaze downward, the way Truthless expected.
More footsteps approached behind the first guest.
Another officer entered, a colonel Fount recognized. He greeted Truthless with a firm clasp of the forearm before giving Fount a fleeting nod. The third man, arrived moments later, waving off his own coat with a dramatic flair. He barely glanced at Fount at all.
Then the fourth guest arrived.
Her boots were soft-soled, her steps quieter. She walked with a composure that contrasted by a wide gap with the heavy presences before her. She was dressed in a dark coat that gave the white braid trailing over her shoulder more room to shine. Her expression was smoother and her smile was small.
She greeted Truthless with a warmth the others did not have, like deeper familiarity. “It is good to see you again, Truthless.”
Truthless inclined his head but didn’t say anything. His silence was acknowledgment enough.
Then the woman’s eyes slid toward Fount.
And she actually looked at him rather than glancing past him like furniture placed for decoration.
Her smile widened just slightly.
“You didn’t tell us you had something so lovely hidden away here,” she said, voice honeyed. “You should bring him out more often. You have fine taste.”
Fount stiffened, nauseated by the scrutiny. Truthless did not react outwardly but Fount felt the man’s hand drift to rest near his waist, subtle movement but unignorable.
The woman nodded once more to Fount, as if approving of him like one might approve of a well-crafted vase and then swept into the manor. Only after all guests had crossed the threshold did Truthless place his hand firmly on Fount’s shoulder.
“Let’s not keep them waiting.”
The blond practically maneuvered him towards the parlor room where the evening’s gathering would take place. The air inside was dim.
Only a single hanging lamp cast light down onto the central table, its glow a stark island of brightness in the otherwise shadow-heavy room.
The guests settled into their seats around the table.
Fount did not receive a chair.
Truthless lowered himself into his place at the table and gave Fount a sidelong glance. Not a word nor gesture. He simply had an expectation of him.
So Fount stood. He positioned himself at Truthless’ right side, posture straight despite how his muscles trembled with nerves. The silence thickened as the officers began to arrange their cards, tokens and small personal items for the game.
Soft clinks, quiet rustling, the faint shift of clothing; these tiny sounds became enormous in the otherwise oppressive quiet.
No conversation. No laughter. As if speaking might break something sacred to them.
Truthless barely moved except for the flicker of his fingers over the cards. Fount tried not to stare at the faces of the officers but the dim lighting made their expressions harder to read, turning every shadow into something threatening.
Minutes passed like hours.
Then Truthless’ hand moved, not in a strike, not in an order but in a sudden, playful slap against Fount’s side. The once-professor jerked slightly, taken by surprise.
“Drinks,” Truthless said lightly, as if speaking to a trained servant. “Brandy for me.”
The guests remained silent, though one of them seemed to eye Fount expectantly, as if waiting to see whether he would fumble.
Fount nodded obediently, stepping away from Truthless’ side with careful, measured steps. He moved toward the cabinet at the far end of the room, acutely aware of the weight of four elite officers’ gazes, even when they seemed uninterested.
Even when they weren’t looking directly at him. Their presence pressed in on him like a cold hand wrapped around his throat.
He reached the cabinet and opened it, scanning the shelves for bottles he could identify in the dim light. Brandy was obvious, but the rest? He didn’t know what each officer preferred. They hadn’t told him. They expected him to simply fetch them something.
His hands shook as he selected bottles—bourbon? whiskey? perhaps a rare rum?—and placed them onto a tray alongside clean crystal glasses. He hesitated only a moment before lifting the arrangement.
The tray felt too heavy. His palms were slick with sweat.
Fount set it down with exaggerated care near Truthless’ elbow, the glassware barely clinking. He started passing out the drinks, starting with Truthless’ brandy first, keeping his motions unobtrusive.
But as he leaned forward to place the second glass, he felt fingers brush the curve of his hip, then settle over the back of his thigh.
His breath hitched at the feeling. Truthless wasn’t even looking at him, his attention still fixed on the cards fanned between his other set of fingers while the fingers on his body tightened then slid higher.
Fount’s knees locked.
He forced himself to keep moving, to keep serving the drinks out even as his skin crawled under the touch. He should be used to this by now.
The officers took their glasses with indifference, barely nodding in acknowledgment of his small labor. Only the woman, the one with the white braid, glanced up as Fount placed hers down.
Her gaze flickered to where Truthless’ grip was undoubtedly visible, then back to Fount’s face. She didn’t react with neither expression nor comment. She just took a slow sip of her drink, her thoughts were not discernible.
Fount’s stomach twisted. He could feel the tremor in his hands now.
Truthless finally released him as Fount stepped back, the absence of his grip somehow more humiliating than the touch itself. Fount retreated to his designated spot, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
The game resumed, the officers’ expressions shifting minutely as cards were laid down, bets silently calculated. Fount tried to focus on the table play.
Then the woman spoke, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife through silk. “It is hard to focus when Truthless has this beauty in our faces.” She tilted her head, smiling faintly. “I think he did this on purpose to win.”
Truthless didn’t deny it.
Infact, he shrugged, the motion was lazy and indifferent, as if her words were nothing more than idle conversation about the weather. His fingers tapped once against the table as an unspoken command for the game to continue.
The others went along with it without hesitation or perhaps it was lack of care, their expressions indescribable in the dim light.
Fount stood rigidly beside Truthless, his breath shallow, his pulse hammering in his throat. The room felt suffocating, thick with unspoken power plays and the weight of their collective gaze.
Some time passed, in that oppressive silence before Truthless finally leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He lifted his brandy glass, swirling the amber liquid lazily before taking a slow sip.
Then, with a careless glance at his cards, he muttered, “I win.”
His free hand slid around Fount’s waist, pulling him closer in an almost casual grip, as if he were merely adjusting a piece of furniture.
The officers reacted in scattered murmurs, one groaned, another chuckled darkly, while the white-braided woman simply arched a brow, seeming amused by it all.
One by one, they slid their forfeited jewelry across the table; rings, cufflinks, a pocket watch, pushing themall towards Truthless. He didn’t even look at them, his attention instead fixed on Fount’s slight trembling form beside him, his grip tightening just enough to remind him of his place.
The game wasn’t just about the cards, it seems.
Fount’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t surprised by the result. Truthless had a way of winning everything he intended to.
The players prepared for another round. Still no conversation, just the heavy quiet.
Fount stared at the floor, then at the flickering pattern of light on the table. His head felt too light. His vision wavered slightly around the edges. The oppressive atmosphere pressed on him like fierce, cold win, even as sweat collected under the collar of the elegant outfit.
Truthless didn’t ask, Fount couldn't recall a time this man ever did, the blond's fingers curled around Fount’s wrist and tugged downward sharply.
Fount stumbled forward, barely catching himself before collapsing into Truthless’ lap. The man adjusted him with an absentminded grip, positioning him like a doll before returning his attention to the game.
The officers didn’t react except for the slight tightening of someone’s jaw, the fleeting glance of another. Fount could feel the warmth of Truthless’ thighs beneath him, the arm draped loosely around his waist, the slow drag of fingers against the embroidered fabric over his hip.
The cards were dealt, the bets laid out. Fount watched the flick of fingers, the clink of tokens against wood. He kept his breathing low, tried not to exist too loudly. Truthless’ grip tightened every time he shifted.
The game played out in agonizing slowness and silence. Then Truthless exhaled through his nose, a quiet, satisfied sound and laid his cards down.
“Again,” was all he said, as the other slid their forfeits towards him again.
The white-braided woman leaned forward, her fingers steepled beneath her chin.
“Maybe we need more motivation,” she mused, voice like soft cloth moving over grass.
Her eyes dragged over Fount’s form. “Lest this turn into a celebration for Major Recluse.” She tilted her head, smiling faintly. “Something should be on the line to make this a real match, hm?”
Her gaze lingered. Fount’s skin prickled. Truthless’ fingers stilled against his waist. The air thickened just from Truthless' side of the table.
Truthless exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening until the embroidery bit into Fount’s skin. “White Lily,” he said, low and warning. “We are not gambling for him.” The words were firm but the pause before them had been a fraction too long.
White Lily laughed, a soft sound as she flicked a card between her fingers. “You’re too relaxed,” she chided. “I knew this would make you competitive. Come on.” Her nails tapped the table. “Just one round?”
Fount’s breath caught. His vision tunnelled. They couldn’t possibly mean—
Truthless shoved him off his lap without ceremony.
“Kneel there,” he ordered, already refocusing on the cards.
Fount stumbled, knees hitting hardwood with a dull thud. The officers shifted, their backs straightening, fingers twitching toward their tokens as if someone had tossed freshly cooked meat onto the table.
The atmosphere crackled.
White Lily’s grin widened. “Ah,” she murmured. “Now we’re playing.” Fount stared at the floor, nausea rising in his throat at the new change of events.
Of course.
Of course this was how they saw him, people like them.
The game resumed with a newfound intensity. Truthless’ posture had sharpened, his movements precise where they’d been languid before. The others mirrored him, eyes locked on the table, drinks forgotten, breaths held. Even the shadows seemed to lean in.
Fount kept his head down, counting the grain in the wood beneath his fingers. He could feel White Lily’s gaze flickering to him between plays, could hear the way Truthless’ gloves creaked as he clenched his cards.
The air tasted metallic like blood had been spilled and predators followed the trace.
White Lily laid her hand down with obvious slowness, her fingers lingering atop the cards as if savoring the moment.
“Ah,” she murmured, lips curling. “Would you look at that?” Her voice was rich in victory.
Fount didn’t need to glance up to know what expression she wore. The silence stretched like something brittle.
Then Truthless exhaled sharply through his nose and shoved Fount forward with a brutal nudge of his foot. “Whatever,” he muttered, already gathering the scattered tokens with jerky movements.
“Do what you want.”
Fount gasped, catching himself on his palms, the hardwood biting into his skin. He didn’t dare lift his head, couldn’t bear to meet White Lily’s gaze but he felt it lingering on the dip of his spine where the fabric had ridden up.
She laughed and reached out to tap a single manicured nail against his chin.
“He’s cute,” she mused, “but I think I’d wake up dead tomorrow if I took him tonight.” Her thumb brushed his jaw, a meaningless caress before she leaned back, grinning at Truthless. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so fired up, my friend.”
Truthless exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tapping once against his thigh, an impatient motion of his.
“Fount,” he said, voice low and clipped. “You’re excused.”
The dismissal was casual but the weight behind it sent a shudder down Fount’s spine. He didn’t hesitate. He bowed shallowly, a practiced dip of his shoulders, before retreating toward the door, his pulse roaring in his ears.
The officers’ gazes followed him, like wolves noting the path of prey they had no interest in chasing yet.
The hallway outside was dim, lit only by sconces flickering with weak candlelight. Fount’s breath came faster now, his fingers trembling as he clutched the fabric of his sleeve.
He knew what awaited him tonight. Truthless’ restraint had snapped the moment the game turned against him and Fount had seen that look before.
It was the dark, simmering frustration that only ever found release one way. His stomach twisted.
He quickened his pace, his outfit whispering against his skin like a taunt as he hurried to his quarters.