Perched on the narrow window ledge, Jasper stared into the evening, his eyes searching the horizon for the shape of Dorian's carriage. The sky burned a deeper violet tonight, more vibrant than the fading light of day. The air carried the sharp scent of metal. Across the street from his window, the brightly lit tattoo shop stood as a rare point of comfort amid the city's chaos. Its neon glow beckoned to Jasper, a welcome sight that lingered in the back of his mind. Perhaps, after the interrogation was over, he would finally go in and get another one. The itch had been there for a while now—today, it was sharper, more urgent. A small indulgence, a piece of control in a world where he had so little.
He could only afford a room in this part of the city—where the forgotten and the forsaken made their homes, where the light from the palace never reached. The streets were cracked, the buildings leaned like weary old men, and the air smelled of rain on rust. But the rent was low, and no one asked questions. No curious neighbors, no prying eyes—just the quiet understanding that everyone here had their own ghosts, and no one wanted to meet another.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
But falling would have been the easy part. No, Jasper had been knocked down, trampled, spat on by those who once bowed, kicked by passersby who didn't even bother to see if he was still breathing. And the rest? The rest had moved on without so much as a sideways glance, indifferent to whether he ever got back up. Not that he was sure he wanted to, not on this planet, at least. He was close, so close to affording his way out. The starship docked here once in three months, and its Captain, well—Jasper had made a friend there. A friend who might take him if he could pay his way.
Serathis stood, caught between epochs—an ancient kingdom in a perpetual state of transformation. Its spires knifed into the darkening sky, their silhouettes stark against the cold glow of distant moons. From the vast sprawl below, towers of pale stone rose like the bones of the planet's first settlers. Yet, at their peaks, the shimmer of modern technology crowned them—mechanisms of light and power thrumming beneath the surface, a quiet pulse echoing the restless heart of the planet itself.
It was a kingdom where the old and the new collided—a land where knights still rode on horseback beneath banners of crimson and gold while, in hidden chambers, brilliant scientists and thaumaturges tinkered with the very fabric of life. Machines were woven seamlessly into the lives of the people whose bloodlines stretched centuries, bound by tradition and loyalty to a crown that held more than earthly power. Both ancient and young, the home of Jasper's ancestors vibrated alive with the hum of future promises, yet the ghosts of its history still haunted it. Jasper had been born into this unstable balance, an heir raised under the watchful eyes of those who swore fealty to the crown, yet always with the shadow of rebellion in the air.
But the world had changed. Power had shifted.
The knock came finally—sharp, insistent – a summons. Jasper had missed the sight of Dorian's carriage, his gaze lost to the violet sky, to the murmur of his own thoughts.
Jasper's heart jerked, the rhythm of it erratic as if his body knew something his mind didn't want to admit. A fine sheen of sweat clung to the back of his neck, and his chest felt too tight as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He could have ignored the first knock, pretended to be somewhere far away, somewhere safe, in a place where nothing could reach him. But the sound came with weight, with certainty. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. It reverberated deep within him, making everything in the room feel smaller, closer.
Like a thickening fog, inevitability crept over Jasper, suffocating him in its embrace. There was no escape—not even in his thoughts, which scrambled, clawing desperately for an answer he knew wasn't there. He wanted to shout, break free, and force his body to move in some way that would undo what was coming. But he couldn't.
The hinges groaned as the door swung open, unveiling a ghost wrapped in steel and sinew. Dorian.
King Lysander's former adviser. His most trusted confidant. The man who had orchestrated the fall of a dynasty, tearing Jasper's father from the throne and setting Lysander in his place.
And now—the first successful heart-and-soul transplant. The High Thaumaturge's only triumph, a miracle in metal and flesh.
He ought to have been dead. He was dead. And yet, there he stood—unyielding, breathing in a body that had no right to draw breath. Jasper wanted to hate him. Hate him for the ruin he had wrought, for tearing him from his family, for condemning his father to rot in that cold, forgotten cell. But fate, cruel and perverse, had twisted itself into a shape so improbable, so beyond reason, that even hatred slipped through his grasp.
The world had called the old King a tyrant, and rumor had it he'd met the fate he deserved. His rule straddled the line between medieval cruelty and the advancing age of diplomacy and science—a thin line that few could distinguish amid the relentless struggle for power within the palace.
Monster felled by his hubris, a relic of a crueler time. But Jasper had always known the truth was far more complicated than that, and nothing was ever that simple. His father had never been a kind man nor a gentle ruler. His justice was cold, his decrees absolute, and his mercy a rare thing. Yet, for all his severity, Jasper had never doubted that the man cared fiercely for his kingdom, its future, its place in the greater Star Alliance, and, most of all, for his only son. Not that such thoughts were safe to entertain. In time, after everything that had transpired, Jasper had learned the art of silence. In a world like this, in his position especially, opinions were as dangerous as blades. And no one wanted to hear the truth anyway.
Before the coup, Jasper had been alone with Dorian only handful of times - and always under far different circumstances. But even then, there was something about him —a presence that warped the air, bending it to his will as effortlessly as a storm shaping the tides. It was as though the world itself was a thing to be commanded, a quiet promise that nothing, not even fate, could resist him. Jasper just turned twenty then, brimming with unfiltered emotions he barely knew how to navigate. Every stolen glance toward Dorian felt like an act of rebellion—an indulgence in something forbidden yet impossible to ignore. Each look was a sin he couldn't confess yet couldn't stop committing. Those were veery different times, indeed.
"You are staring, Jasper."
Dorian's voice was sharp, pulling him from the haze of memory. A flicker of something—was it amusement? passed across Dorian's lips, gone in a heartbeat, like a storm cloud on the horizon.
Jasper's laugh that followed was a hollow thing.
"Looking extra handsome today, Grand Justiciar. Been keeping up with those recommended tunings?"
There was no reaction, nothing to give away the thoughts behind Dorian's eyes. His gaze was steady as an ever-present wall between them. In the ten years that stretched between Dorian's almost death and now, Jasper had come to know him better than he ever had in all their years within the palace walls. He saw the weight in Dorian's face now—the subtle curve of his mouth that spoke of something much older than the crisp lines of his mechanical form. This was the face he now knew better than the one Dorian had been born with—the one that had drawn Jasper's eye so fiercely back then. Beneath the polished surface, there were shadows. There were traces of something that wasn't entirely machine.
Did machines get tired? Did they feel the burden of the day pressing down on them? Did Dorian long for the quiet comfort of another person's presence, the simple touch of skin on skin? Or had that part of him had been burned away, erased by the cold fire of science?
"You know why I'm here." Dorian's voice was steel, cutting through the quiet. "Let's not do anything foolish. It'll be over before you know it."
Jasper let out a soft, humorless breath, his shoulders rolling with the weight of resignation. "No point in arguing, I suppose." He stood, stretching his arms, letting the tension seep out of him like air from a deflated balloon. "Give me a moment to change."
Jasper pulled his shirt off without ceremony, unaffected by Dorian's gaze. They had seen each other broken in every way a man could be. Blood, sweat, and tears—nothing had ever been between them but the truth of who they were. But the truth of who they were wasn't so easy anymore.
"Hurry up." Dorian's voice was taut now, his impatience thinly veiled, the muscle in his jaw twitching ever so slightly.
"What's the rush? Got somewhere to be tonight?"
"I want this done just as much as you do." Dorian's voice softened an almost imperceptible shift. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't enjoy interrogating you." His words were measured, but there was something dangerous underneath, something raw. His fingers curled around Jasper's elbow, his touch surprisingly warm. Jasper shivered, instinctively pulling back, but not far enough to break the connection. Dorian moved, guiding him out into the cold, the harsh wind biting at their faces, a reminder of everything that was lost and everything that would never be the same again. They climbed into the carriage, the door shutting with a dull thud, sealing them inside the dim, enclosed space. The scent of damp wool, aged leather, and faint traces of oil clung to the air. Jasper shifted against the seat, unsettled—not by the ride or the destination, but by Dorian. Something about him felt different tonight. He couldn't quite name it, but the sensation curled in his gut like the first breath of a coming storm.
For ten years, this ritual had played out like clockwork. Once a month, without fail, Dorian arrived at his door. He escorted Jasper through the city's maze of cold stone and flickering gaslight to the Executioners' Block, where Jasper's cousin—King Lysander—ensured, through long hours of interrogation, that Jasper remained precisely as he was: contained. Harmless. Outside, the city blurred past in shadow and dim lantern light. Inside, Dorian sat unnervingly still, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, unreadable as ever. But something was different. Jasper could feel it. Tonight was not like the others.
"What's new in your world, Grand Justiciar?'
The ride to the station was not long—twenty minutes, maybe less. Yet, it stretched in silence, thick and heavy, filling the small space between them like a fog that refused to lift. Jasper stole a glance at the perfect profile beside him, a sharp jawline carved in cool elegance. The dim carriage light caught in the fall of dark fringe over Dorian's brow, casting half of his face in shadow. His long eyelashes fanned against the stretch of his cheekbones, deceptively delicate. But Jasper knew better—there was nothing fragile about him. Still, something was off. Dorian's lips were pressed together harder than usual, tension ghosting along the sharp planes of his face. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but the stiffness in his posture betrayed him—a barely perceptible crack in the immaculate armor.
Jasper turned his gaze back to the window, watching the city roll past in blurs of flickering gaslight and wet cobblestone. A part of him wanted to speak, press, and dig into whatever shift had settled over Dorian like an ill-fitting cloak. He let the silence stretch and settle over them both, filling the carriage like something alive.
"Which world are you referring to, Jasper?" His voice was calm, too calm. The kind of stillness that preceded a storm.
Jasper tilted his head, letting his smirk curve just a little sharper. "I don't know - Lysander's bed-warmer world?" He let the words hang between them, then added with deliberate slowness, "That is, of course, if you can still do it."
The silence that followed was a living thing pressing against Jasper's ribs, thickening the air in the carriage.
Dorian didn't blink. He didn't move. He simply looked at him.
And Jasper, for the first time in a long time, felt like he might have made a mistake.
Jasper forced himself to meet Dorian's gaze, though every muscle in his body screamed to look away. It wasn't just the words—the cold precision with which they landed—it was how Dorian said them like each syllable had been carefully honed, sharp as a knife.
"I can," Dorian murmured, as though the admission was as simple as breathing. His gaze drifted toward the soft glow of the streetlights beyond the carriage window, the shadows casting a faint sheen over his features. "Maybe even better than before." He turned back to Jasper, his eyes unreadable, as though he were studying a specimen under glass. "The question remains—why do you care, Jasper? Would you rather I warm your bed instead? Even after I destroyed your family, cost you your birthright?"
Jasper's throat tightened, the words sinking in like poison. The chill in Dorian's voice, the casual cruelty—it all felt too familiar, too suffocating.
"Screw you, Dorian," Jasper spat, his voice harsh, but his words faltering just a touch.
A flicker of something passed over Dorian's face—a smile or something like it. A curve of his lips was barely perceptible. Amusement? Or something darker, something more dangerous.
"You always did ask the wrong questions," Dorian said, his voice low, as though he were the one holding all the answers, and Jasper was too lost to see the truth.
The carriage rocked gently over the cobblestone streets, the silence between them stretching thick with everything unspoken—the past, the present, the sheer absurdity of them sitting here ten years later, exchanging barbs like two men who had never shared blood and ruin.
Jasper haled sharply, forcing himself to lean back, feigning the same indifference Dorian wore like a second skin. "You also saved my life." His voice was quieter now, measured. "And got shot to death in my stead." A pause, just long enough for the words to settle, to demand an answer. His gaze flickered over Dorian's face, searching for something—anything—that would give him away.
Dorian's expression didn't change, but something in his posture did.
Jasper pressed on. "I've always wondered why you came to my room that night. Why you took the bullets meant for me." He tilted his head, studying the perfect planes of Dorian's face and his features' inhuman flawlessness. "What was the reason?"
For a moment, he thought Dorian wouldn't answer.
But then—so softly it almost didn't register—Dorian said, "I've often wondered about the reason myself."
They took a familiar turn, and Jasper felt it before he saw it—the looming fortress of the Executioners of the King's Will. It was a fusion of past and present, a relic of an ancient kingdom forced into modern-day law enforcement's cold efficiency. The foundation was built from weathered stone, while sleek metal columns and sterile glass windows glared down like watchful eyes. Turrets that once housed archers now held security cameras, their mechanical gaze sweeping the streets below. The main entrance, a heavy iron gate, stood flanked by reinforced steel doors, a contradiction of eras that made the building more imposing. It was a place where history and tyranny intertwined, where justice was wielded as a weapon in the name of the crown.
It was also the place Jasper was forced to visit once a month to endure hours of relentless interrogation. Here, the truth was not determined by his words but by the cold, unfeeling machines that monitored every flicker of his pulse, every hesitation in his voice. The moment the machines detected a deviation, a jolt of agony would rip through his nerves, punishment delivered without hesitation. The pain was sharp, calculated, a warning that he belonged to this place, that every breath he took remained under their control.
They stepped out of the carriage, and Dorian fell into step beside him. Not subtle. Not a coincidence. Just a quiet, unspoken warning: don't even think about running. As if Jasper would. As if there were anywhere to go.
Uniformed Executioners moved through the halls, some nodding in acknowledgment, others stepping aside. Strange how the weight of a title still clung to him, even in exile. He had no crown or power, yet he was still an heir. And not everyone in this place—the very heart of Lysander's regime—had forgotten that. It would be easy, wouldn't it? Gather the right people and push in the right places. Topple Lysander the way he had once toppled Jasper's father. He could even imagine it. The crackle of fire, the roar of a crowd, the Executioners turning on their master. Dorian, dragged down and torn apart by people who feared and hated him.
But no.
Ruling had never interested him. He wanted space, quiet, a life that was his own. And whatever else Dorian was—captor, enemy, the King's enforcer—Jasper wasn't willing to trade his life for a future he didn't even want.
Dorian's voice rose just slightly above the sterile silence to remind him of where he was.
"Stay calm."
It was a quiet warning but carried weight—like everything Dorian said. They kept walking every step bringing them closer to the interrogation room. The portraits of his ancestors lined the corridor, their dark eyes fixed in quiet judgment. Tall and fair, all of them, their sharp features lending them an otherworldly air. He and Lysander shared the same blood and set of long-dead grandparents. Ironic, but hardly unusual. Monarchies had a way of folding in on themselves.
The room was almost laughable in its simplicity—just a chair in the corner and a pair of handcuffs fastened to the armrests. The handcuffs were attached to a machine, innocuous at first glance. It hummed quietly in the corner, a subtle, almost comforting noise—except Jasper knew better.
He'd learned all too well what that hum meant. It wasn't just noise. It was the sound of pain waiting to be unleashed.
No one ever told you how much it hurt at first—how the shocks started soft, like a tremor in your bones. Then, when you thought you could handle it, the machine would twist that pressure, pushing harder until it felt like your very soul was being scorched. Jasper had survived it enough times to know that even the memory of it could make him tremble.
"Can you still feel it, Dorian?" Jasper wondered aloud, his voice barely a whisper, anticipation threading through the words. "The pain?"
Dorian's gaze never wavered from his, the silence stretching taut like a wire between them. Finally, his lips parted, a slow, deliberate breath escaping before he spoke.
"I can feel everything that you feel."
Jasper somehow doubted that, but the mere possibility of it brought him a small measure of comfort, nonetheless. The interrogation had begun.