"Let's get it over with."
Jasper settled into the chair, every muscle taut, his posture rigid, defiance coiling in the quiet. He held out his hands, offering them.
For the cuffs.
Dorian's fingers moved without hesitation, but it had been years now, and Jasper still couldn't escape the reflex—a flinch, an expectation. The cold, synthetic touch. The reminder that Dorian was no longer entirely human, no longer the man he had once known. A machine. A weapon. Something hollowed out and remade.
But Dorian's touch, when it came, was warm. Too warm. Human, in the way that only Dorian could still be. His fingers brushed against Jasper's wrists with a softness that shouldn't have felt so wrong, considering what was about to unfold. There was no cold precision, no mechanical calculation—just warmth, the simple press of skin against skin.
For a breath, Jasper thought of pulling away, of breaking the moment before it could settle too deeply into the routine that both of them had come to dread. But the cuffs clicked into place, their weight heavy against his skin, and Dorian stepped back, his expression a smooth mask of detachment.
The machine was still scanning, a quiet, invasive hum that filled the space. It prodded for any sign of deviation, for any indication that Jasper had strayed from the King's perfect image of compliance.
But Dorian didn't seem to notice—or perhaps he didn't care. His gaze drifted distant, focused on some point far beyond Jasper as though he were recalling a memory that no longer belonged to him.
"I don't remember why I took those bullets for you," Dorian murmured, almost to himself. "I've got no clear memories of that night. My mind's a blank—new, all of it. But I know... deep inside, in a place that is still mine, I'd do it again. No question. And it drives me mad, you know. Because I still don't understand why. I was supposed to kill you, not to be killed in your stead. "
Jasper's throat tightened, the words landing heavy, dull. He had never asked for this—never wanted it. Not the protection. Not the sacrifice. Dorian's loyalty had never been something he expected, yet here it was, raw and unbidden, a confession that had no place in this cold, sterile room.
"Well, don't lose sleep over it, Grand Justiciar." His voice came out flat. "What's done is done."
He turned his wrists upward, offering his hands for release.
"I think we're finished here."
Dorian uncuffed him with a smooth, practiced motion, then hauled him upright as if he weighed nothing at all.
How do you feel?"
Jasper flexed his wrists, rubbing at the faint indentations left by the metal. "Surprisingly okay," he admitted.
He caught himself staring again, but he didn't bother looking away this time. After all these years, Dorian still had the power to steal his breath. The craftsmanship alone was staggering: the lithe, perfectly balanced frame, the seamless blend of honey-toned synthetic flesh over steel and circuitry. A masterpiece if one was foolish enough to forget the soul trapped inside.
" Like what you see, Prince Jasper?"
Jasper's smile curled sharp, more wolfish than warm—he wondered if it ever looked any different these days. "What's not to like?" he murmured.
Dorian sighed, the sound edged with something unreadable, then gestured toward the door. "Let's walk. You must be tired."
Inside the carriage, Jasper closed his eyes. Unbidden, images surged in the darkness behind his lids—a tide of memory and emotion threatening to pull him under. It had been a strange day, indeed. He let his head rest against the seat, feigning sleep, though he knew full well Dorian wasn't fooled. The carriage rattled softly, its wheels jarring over uneven cobblestones as it rolled toward the narrow road that led to the city's outskirts—the gateway to the poorer quarter, where Jasper had carved out his refuge.
Then, like a reel of old photographs, a day from a decade ago flickered through his mind.A bright afternoon in the palace. He had rushed into the laboratory straight from fencing practice, sweat cooling on his skin, breath still quick from exertion. His father had summoned him, and he'd hurried, arriving flushed and disheveled, the tang of steel still on his hands.
"Prince Jasper."
The lab had been nearly empty, save for Lysander's adviser, hunched over the worktable, frowning absently at the sketches scattered before him. Dorian had looked up then, and their eyes met—Jasper felt it like a pull, an invisible tether tightening between them. And it seemed he wasn't the only one caught in its snare.
"You're early," Dorian had noted.
Jasper had only shrugged, feeling foolish, smitten, and aching all at once.
Dorian was not handsome—not in any conventional sense. His face was too rough-hewn, his features too ragged, more brute than beauty. And yet, from the moment Jasper had first laid eyes on the dark stranger Lysander had brought to dinner two years prior, his heart had never stopped singing in his presence. A foolish thing. In a world where such desires were punishable by death, where the law made no allowances for men like them. And yet, it hadn't stopped his cousin from pursuing Dorian—so why should it stop him?
Punishable by death, yes.
But still.
Father asked for me," Jasper said by way of explanation, shrugging off his fencing jacket. He reached for the end of his braid—tightly bound for the lesson—to undo it, but before he could, Dorian stepped closer, halting him with nothing more than a look.
Amusement flickered in the man's dark eyes. "Need a hand?"
Jasper's hands fell uselessly to his sides. Dorian's nearness had a way of scattering rational thought, chasing it out of his twenty-year-old mind like a startled flock of birds.
"Yes."
It was all he could manage.
Dorian reached for the braid, fingers brushing against Jasper's nape as he tugged the tie loose, unraveling the strands with unhurried care. The space between them shrank to inches, the air thick with something weightier than mere proximity.
There was no denying it; the – pull was mutual, and they stood at the trembling edge of something neither of them should—under any circumstances—cross.
"Prince Jasper," Dorian murmured, transfixed by the golden image before him.
Jasper swallowed hard. "What?"
Dorian exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he drew back, severing the moment before it could become something irreversible.
"You will be my undoing," he sighed. "I can feel it in my bones."
Maybe he would be. Maybe he wouldn't.
Jasper chose not to dwell on such thoughts. Dorian was older, with far more to lose if anything ever came of this—whatever this was. There was Lysander's protection, for one. His cousin's rare and fickle affection. Then there was Dorian's standing in the Grand Thaumaturge's committee, that prestigious assembly of the kingdom's sharpest minds—scientists and magicians bound together in pursuit of something extraordinary. Dorian was buried in their latest project, his hands deep in the machinery of progress.
Jasper was nothing but a distraction. An unwelcome one at that.
But knowing it didn't change a damn thing.
"Dorian."
The cool, clipped voice rang across the room.
Jasper stiffened as Lysander stepped inside, moving soundlessly despite his fencing attire. His cousin's obsession with Dorian was no secret, nor was the vengeful temper that lurked beneath his polished exterior.
Jasper was treading dangerous waters, and he knew it.
"Cousin."
Jasper inclined his head, stepping aside. Lysander swept past without so much as a glance as if Jasper were nothing more than a shadow on the wall. Instead, he stopped beside Dorian, his expression shifting—softening, even. Jasper barely recognized it. Affection.
Well. Wasn't that something? Dorian had a rare talent for wringing warmth from even the most cold-blooded creatures.
"Ready to unveil your experiment?"
"As ready as I ever."
Dorian shrugged, his expression smooth and unreadable, his focus shifting to Lysander and the formally dressed procession now entering the room. Jasper barely spared the others a glance—until the first man stepped forward. Someone he'd never seen before.
Jasper's breath hitched.
The stranger was stunning. Deep honey colored skin, striking indigo eyes framed by a fringe of dark lashes, a gaze both curious and unflinching. And those cheekbones—razor-sharp, absurdly elegant. Jasper became abruptly aware that his mouth had fallen open.
Dorian flicked a glance his way and smirked.
That bastard.
"Jasper.'
The familiar voice pulled him from his reverie, scattering the ghosts of memory.
"All good?"
"Splendid."
Jasper blinked, glancing out the carriage window. They were nearing his part of town—his apartment would be coming up soon, and he could sit in silence and wrestle with the past at his own damn leisure.
"I have a favor to ask of you."
Jasper turned, incredulous. "And why do you think I'd even consider granting it?"
He nearly choked. The nerve of him. Had Dorian lost all of his artificial marbles?
Then, slowly, the real question settled in—what could Dorian want from him in the first place?
"I know about your plans."
Jasper's heart dropped.
"I know you want to run away from here," Dorian continued voice level. "And I don't blame you."
That was the last thing Jasper had expected. A thousand possible responses flickered through his mind, but none mattered. What mattered was keeping Dorian from dragging this to Lysander. If that happened, it was over. Everything was over.
"How?" he asked, his voice rough.
Dorian waved the question aside. "Not important. What's important is that the ship docks again in two weeks. And this time, you're getting on it. No stalling. No excuses. You have enough money, and if you need more, I'll give it to you. Whatever it takes—just go."
Jasper stared at him.
"You are smart," Dorian pressed. "You're resourceful. Go and make a new life for yourself. Lysander will never let you go. And when your father dies, he will kill you too. So—run."
They stepped out of the carriage beneath the dim glow of street lanterns swaying from cracked poles, Jasper still reeling from Dorian's words.
He barely noticed the rain until it was pouring down his face, slipping cold fingers beneath his collar. Dorian waved off the driver with a sharp flick of his hand, then steered Jasper toward the covered entrance. He didn't resist, though whether it was from exhaustion or something far more dangerous, he couldn't say.
Water blurred his vision—rain, or maybe tears. He didn't care to know.
What mattered was the look on Dorian's face. Urgency, stark and unguarded. The raw emotion bleeding through the careful mask of indifference. It was unfamiliar and achingly familiar all at once—a ghost of something Jasper had spent a decade trying to destroy. He had taught himself to hate those indigo eyes, if only to preserve the memory of the man he had once loved.
But that man was dead.
And this thing standing before him? This was no man. It was a creation of science and sorcery—an intricate weave of metal and arcane circuitry wrapped in the illusion of flesh. Lysander's grief given form, given breath. Kept moving by the steady, stolen rhythm of Dorian's salvaged heart. A soul bound, trapped within the machine, neither fully present nor truly disconnected.
A paradox. A ghost made tangible. Jasper wasn't sure what to think of it still – was it the miracle or the monstrosity?
Jasper had spent ten years trapped in the contradiction of it. His mind at war with his heart, knowing there was no resolution, no clean way out. But tonight, something had shifted. The tension that had held everything tightly bound had begun to fray.
And if he weren't careful, it would consume them both.
Jasper exhaled, the breath sharp and unsteady, as he forced himself to meet Dorian's gaze.
"And why do you care if I live or die, Grand Justiciar?" He meant for the words to cut, but they came out thin, brittle. A blade dulled by doubt.
Dorian didn't flinch. He didn't even pause. "For the same reason I cared the first time, my Prince." His voice was measured—but there was no mistaking the longing beneath it, the pull of something deeper, older. Something Jasper had spent a decade trying to bury. -"So that you would not become the death of me for the second time." Dorian took a step closer, deliberate, his presence a force Jasper had never learned how to resist. His fingers twitched at his sides, the only betrayal of restraint.
"I never demanded anything of you, Dorian. Except for one thing. And if memory serves correctly, you were more than willing to give it." A slow, deliberate pause. Then, a tilt of the head, just enough to make the question cut deeper. "So is that it? The only reason? You don't want me to become your ruin all over again?"
"The other reason is mine to keep."
Dorian's hands pressed against Jasper's chest—steady, firm, heartbreakingly gentle. A careful push, widening the space between them, though not far enough to sever the pull that had always existed between them.
"I'll see you in a month, Grand Justiciar," Jasper said, though the words felt brittle, as if something far more volatile were seeping through the cracks in his calm. Disappointment? Anger? Resentment? It was all there, raw and unspoken, but buried beneath layers of control.
"No, you won't."
Dorian's voice was quiet but final—sharp, as if the air itself had snapped, taut with the weight of his certainty. He stood with the kind of stillness that made his words a silent promise that disobedience wasn't an option.
"When the ship docks here in two weeks, you'll leave. We agreed on that."
The rain ceased at last, leaving the air cold and sharp, the silence pressing in. Above, the moons hung in the violet sky, their pale light spilling over the jagged peaks of the spheres below.
"Only I get to decide what to do with my life, Dorian," Jasper's voice was steady, though his hands clenched at his sides. "I appreciate the sentiment—whatever it's born from—but I am my own man. Only I can determine my fate."
Dorian's eyes narrowed, and the tension thickened like the cold air. "Yes," he said softly, almost too softly. "Only you are—not—your own man. Not while Lysander has a grip on you. Not while he's shaping every choice you make. Get some sleep and make a decision, Jasper. The only one we both know is right."
He walked away without a second glance, his footsteps steady against the uneven cobblestones, the carriage long vanished into the misty night. Like a fleeting specter that never quite arrived, Dorian had appeared with nothing more than his point—valid, perhaps, but ultimately hollow. Jasper would not leave Serathis. The thought came to him sometimes, a desperate, fleeting fantasy, but he knew it for what it was: an illusion. The only way out was through -through his past, through the endless, suffocating grip of Lysander's designs. He would either rise from it all, triumphant, or be swallowed whole by the mess they have made. No other outcome existed—no easy way out. The decision was final, carved deep into the present like a scar that wouldn't fade.