Chapter Text
Moon 1, Day 12
Year 591 of Beron
Year 1092 of Ors
Baishin had been studying the way the light pooled along the marble floor when the doors opened.
Dawn was nothing like this. At home the world was quieter in color, washed in lilac and pale peach plaster, with silks the shade of early blossoms drifting from carved wooden beams dark as ink. The light filtered through latticed screens and paper-paneled doors, softening everything it touched until even voices seemed to lower in response. Only red broke the softness: the lanterns hung beneath the eaves, the narrow banners of noble houses, the formal robes of nobility. Yet even the red was measured, never allowed to overwhelm the eye. Dawn favored restraint, balance, the careful placement of brightness within calm.
Summer, by contrast, seemed built entirely of brightness and boldness. Marble floors and pillars caught the sunlight and scattered it across the palace. Beyond the open arches stretched dense green jungle on one side of the palace; from the sea-facing galleries one could see pale sand first, and then the vast blue water beyond it, flashing through the light. Gold accents traced the edges of everything; the railings, the lamps, the delicate filigree worked into the high windows.
It was jarring to his sight, he observed as he stood near the far wall beside the entrance doors of the meeting room, where low sofas upholstered in pale fabrics formed a loose circle around a polished marble table at the center, its surface veined faintly with gold. Behind them, wide arches opened onto a shaded porch where dense green forest pressed close to the palace, the leaves shifting softly in the coastal wind. Sunlight spilled through the arches and slid across the room’s polished marble walls, bright enough that the entire space seemed to glow. He wondered how anyone managed to paint such a place without letting every color fight for attention. A painting needed a point of rest for the eye—something to hold the composition together. Without it, everything simply shouted.
Master Liang waited across the room, seated at the center table with a posture that suggested calm but betrayed itself in the restless tapping of his fingers. It was Baishin’s first time accompanying him to a gathering like this—a trade summit among the seven courts.
Meetings between the Solar Courts and the Seasonal Courts were rare enough that the entire occasion carried a faint air of curiosity. Baishin had found it fascinating to watch his master navigate the earlier negotiations: Spring first, all flourishing politeness and careful compliments that seemed to bloom endlessly without ever quite settling on the point. Then Winter, whose delegates were as cold in their expressions as in their words, every sentence precise and stripped of ornament. Summer, by contrast, had been easygoing in the way of a sea breeze—warm, open, and pleasant enough, though the conversation shifted quickly, jumping from topic to topic with the restless energy of heat.
Baishin had long ago learned that his master’s calm was rarely as effortless as it appeared. Master Liang carried himself with the steady composure expected of a Dawn court official, but small disturbances always revealed themselves if one looked closely enough—the restless tapping of his fingers against the marble table, the slight tightening of his shoulders when the doors had not yet opened, the way his gaze drifted repeatedly toward the entrance.
Even so, Master Liang had not seemed nearly as tense then as he did now. Baishin had long ago learned that his master’s calm was rarely as effortless as it appeared. Most people saw only the composed official seated at the table, his voice measured and his posture impeccable. But small disturbances always revealed themselves if one looked closely enough; the faint pull at the corner of Master Liang’s mouth that had not been there earlier that morning. The shadow beginning to settle beneath his eyes. A vein along his temple, usually the same warm tone as his skin, now standing out in a duller shade beneath the light.
Master Liang had always carried tension quietly.
It was rare, however, to see it escape like this—his knee moving restlessly beneath the table, heels tapping against the marble floor in a soft, irregular rhythm. Which Baishin found strange, considering that the only matter left to discuss with the Autumn Court was apples.
Baishin did not always like what he saw. So, as he often did when the room felt unsettled, he turned his attention back to the light. The reflection of green from the garden porch pooled softly against the pale stone, the shade deepening wherever the pillars interrupted the sun. It was a particular green he had rarely seen in his birth court, this green was deeper, richer, almost luminous beneath the sunlight.
It fascinated him.
He found himself wondering how such a color might be mixed properly—perhaps with more blue. Or a touch of yellow—when the doors opened.
And red walked in.
Not the gentle red of lantern silk or ceremonial banners, carefully balanced against softer hues. Copper hair caught the sunlight like flame as the newcomer stepped into the room, dark auburn clothing beneath it, rich enough to deepen the color rather than soften it. The effect was immediate, disruptive.
For a moment Baishin’s mind did not register the figure as a person at all—Only color.
A vivid intrusion placed squarely within the room’s careful palette.
Too bold for the composition.
His gaze followed the newcomer across the marble floor before he realized he was staring. The male moved with an ease that made the room feel suddenly smaller, as though every line of the space now angled toward him. There was something deliberate in it; the relaxed posture, the unhurried stride, the faint curve of a smile that did not quite reach the eyes. Even the polite inclination of his head toward Master Liang carried the subtle exaggeration of mockery, the gesture stretched just far enough to suggest obedience while quietly denying it.
Baishin watched the expression shift as the male straightened again: the narrowing of the eyes, the glint of amusement sharpening into something more assessing.
Then the gaze turned.
And fixed on him.
And Baishin’s mind betrayed him with an image he could not quite dismiss: a snake lifting its head from the grass, motionless but utterly aware, its attention resting on the small creature foolish enough to wander into its reach.
The snake winked.
Prince Dorian Vanserra was the male in front of him.
He had dropped onto the sofa with a carelessness that bordered on insolence, one arm draped loosely along the backrest, posture entirely devoid of the rigid composure most courtiers attempted to maintain in formal meetings. And yet there was nothing truly relaxed about it. The ease felt deliberate—confident in a way that made the lack of formality seem almost like a challenge.
His coat was burgundy, heavy with brocade and intricate gold embroidery that caught the light whenever he shifted. Golden loop earrings flashed at his ears, and several rings set with deep ruby stones gleamed on his fingers. To a casual observer he appeared almost bored, his expression resting in polite indifference as Master Liang spoke.
However, the faint curve at the corner of the prince’s mouth, the subtle movement in his throat when he swallowed, as if suppressing a reaction. The way his eyes, half-lidded with apparent disinterest, sharpened whenever the conversation approached a figure of profit. He was listening. Absorbing everything.
Baishin, who stood beside the sofa where his master sat, realized with a small jolt that he had been doing the opposite—watching the prince rather than the negotiation itself. His gaze lingered a moment too long on the sharp angles of the male’s face, the amber eyes that caught the light like polished glass. Something uneasy stirred low in his stomach
He lowered his gaze quickly and forced himself to follow the conversation just as Master Liang began laying the documents across the marble table, calmly explaining the proposal.
The matter itself seemed straightforward. Autumn’s orchards produced a rare variety of apple whose flesh held unusual restorative properties for the heart. For decades now the fruit had been exported only in small, carefully regulated shipments intended for medicinal use. Healers in the Dawn Court prized it for strengthening tinctures, and the High Lord Beron guarded the trade closely.
The apples—Red Princes, they were called—grew only in orchards owned directly by the Vanserra family. Their cultivation, their harvest, even their export remained firmly under Autumn’s control.
The fruit had first reached Xian through Dawn Court apothecaries. At the time it had been treated simply as another medicinal ingredient. But merchants had discovered that the apples were also delicious.
Now chefs wanted them. Perfumers experimented with their oils. Vintners had begun fermenting the juice into a sweet, fragrant wine that was rapidly becoming fashionable among western nobility.
Demand had grown far beyond medicine. Master Liang’s proposal sought only to acknowledge that change.
By lowering Autumn’s export restrictions and increasing the number of shipments carried through Dawn’s maritime routes, the trade could expand considerably. Dawn merchants would assume the risk of the long sea journey to Xian, while Autumn would receive a percentage of the foreign sales in addition to the initial export price.
In theory, everyone benefited.
Which was why Baishin could see no reason for the prince sitting before them to oppose it.
In practice—
“Well,” Prince Dorian said lightly. His smile had shifted into something crooked now, the pleasant curve edged with a glint that was mischievous. He leaned forward just enough for the gold embroidery on his sleeve to catch the light.
“Beron is rather fond of his apples,” he said lazily. “I doubt he would consider this arrangement sufficient. Not for… this modest sum.”
Baishin knew very well the proposed profit was not modest.
In fact, the price of a single apple already sold for more than Baishin earned in a month of service as one of Prince Thesan’s courtiers.
Master Liang inclined his head politely, as though the prince’s objection had been expected.
“The proposed price reflects the risks assumed by Dawn’s merchants,” he replied calmly. “The journey to Xian is long, and the responsibility for safe transport would fall entirely upon our fleet. The cost of vessels, crews, and escorts—”
“Yes, yes,” Dorian interrupted, waving one jeweled hand with careless dismissal. “Your ships. Your merchants. Your clever accounting.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward the document resting on the marble table between them. “And yet somehow Dawn still receives the prestige of exporting Autumn’s finest fruit.”
The prince rose before Master Liang could respond.
The motion was smooth, almost theatrical. He stepped forward, reached down, and lifted the contract from the table with two fingers, glancing at it as though it were a mildly disappointing painting.
“For this,” he said, flicking the parchment lightly between his fingers, “The High Lord would expect something considerably more persuasive.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the doors—taking the document with him.
The room fell silent as they closed behind him.
For a moment Baishin stood very still, watching the empty doorway. Only then did he realize the strange hollow feeling settling in his chest, as though something bright had briefly entered the room and now taken its warmth away when it left.
Beside him, Master Liang released a slow, controlled breath.
“Well,” the older male said at last, smoothing an invisible crease from his sleeve, “Prince Dorian Vanserra appears to have inherited his father’s talent for negotiation.”
Baishin glanced at him.
Master Liang’s expression remained perfectly calm.
“Which is to say,” he added mildly, “he enjoys leaving the room more than reaching an agreement.”
By the time the sun began lowering toward the sea, the court had relaxed into the softer chaos of evening.
Baishin had been dismissed by Master Liang along with the other Dawn emissaries, encouraged to “enjoy the palace.” The words had been accompanied by a sweeping gesture toward the terraces and gardens where guests from all seven courts now wandered with cups of wine and easy laughter.
He understood that this was meant to be pleasant. He simply did not feel pleasant.
Too much had happened during the day. Too many voices, too many unfamiliar manners of speech, too many small negotiations layered beneath polite conversation. The palace itself seemed to amplify everything: the brightness of the marble, the shimmer of the sea beyond the terraces, the steady murmur of strangers moving through the corridors.
It was one thing to be a courtier in Xïning. There, the rhythm of court life was quieter, the days unfolding with a deliberate calm that allowed pauses between obligations. Even gatherings rarely rose beyond a gentle murmur of conversation.
This was something else entirely. Seven courts beneath one roof meant seven kinds of etiquette, seven kinds of pride, seven sets of rivalries that Baishin could not yet map in his mind. Every hallway carried unfamiliar colors, unfamiliar scents, unfamiliar voices.
It made his thoughts feel crowded.
And the truth was, Baishin had never truly been much of a courtier to begin with. Prince Thesan simply liked having him nearby.
They had met decades earlier when both were apprentices in the healing halls of Xïning. Thesan had shown immediate brilliance for the craft, the kind of steady hands and unwavering focus that made the work seem almost effortless.
Baishin, by contrast, had been terrible at it. Not because he could not learn. The texts made sense, and the techniques were not beyond him.
But the healing halls were full of pain. The quiet groans of wounded soldiers. The thin breathing of fevered patients. The heavy stillness of rooms where recovery did not come quickly enough. And worst of all were the patients of the mind, their suffering lingered in ways that Baishin could never stop seeing once he had noticed them: the dullness that crept into a person’s eyes until they reflected light without holding it, the slackness at the corners of the mouth where expression seemed to forget how to settle, the way color drained slowly from the skin until even healthy faces carried the pale, muted tone of something long kept from the sun.
Baishin felt all of it too sharply. What others endured with practiced composure settled somewhere inside him and refused to leave. During those years he had slept poorly, waking from uneasy dreams that left him tired before the day even began.
When Baishin finally completed his apprenticeship and admitted—quietly—that he could not imagine spending the rest of his life in those halls, the prince had simply offered him another place instead. A minor position as one of his attendants at court.
The arrangement had been a relief for Baishin’s family, who had struggled to understand why their son had abandoned such an honorable path. In Dawn, and even more so in their homeland of Xian, the work of a healer carried immense prestige.
His father had eventually decided that if Baishin would not become a healer, then he might at least follow another respectable path. The path of an emissary.
It was, after all, the profession that had first brought Baishin’s family to Dawn. His father had arrived centuries earlier as part of the Lady of Dawn’s bridal procession from Xian, accompanying her when she left her homeland to marry High Lord Ors.
A great emissary, respected in both courts.
Which was why Baishin now found himself in the Summer Court.
Learning. Observing. Trying, perhaps unsuccessfully, to imagine himself doing the same work someday.
He was still considering this rather discouraging thought when he slipped away from the brighter terraces and into a smaller courtyard tucked against the forest side of the palace. Most of the visiting courts seemed to prefer the ocean-facing gardens, where the sunset spilled across the water in extravagant shades of gold and crimson.
This courtyard had been left mostly empty.
It was shaded by tall palms and broad-leafed plants that softened the marble edges of the space. At its center stood a single small tree, slender and slightly crooked, its narrow leaves catching the late light in thin strips of muted green.
Baishin approached slowly, letting the quiet settle around him. The air here felt cooler, the light gentler without the open glare of the sea. He studied the tree for a moment before reaching into the fold of his robe and pulling out a small sketchbook along with the short pencil he kept tucked beside it, and returned to the tree. The curve of the trunk first—how it leaned slightly to one side before correcting itself. The irregular pattern of the bark, broken in shallow ridges where the wood had grown too quickly one season and too slowly the next. The way the branches divided, never symmetrical, each one shifting just slightly out of balance with the others.
That was where the interest lay.
At first the lines were tentative, testing the proportions. But the more he looked, the more details revealed themselves: a small split in the bark where a branch had once broken away, the angle at which the leaves clustered toward the light, the faint distortion in the trunk that suggested years of wind pushing it slowly off center.
The world around him faded. It was easier like this—focusing on something quiet, something that could be studied piece by piece until the rest of the noise of the day dissolved into the background.
His pencil moved faster now. The courtyard grew very still around him.
Then a voice spoke behind him. “You seem very devoted to that tree.”
Baishin startled so sharply that the pencil slipped across the page. He turned too quickly, heart jolting in his chest, and instinctively drew the sketchbook behind his back as though it were something private he had been caught doing.
Prince Dorian Vanserra stood only a few steps away.
Baishin had not heard him approach. The realization alone was enough to send warmth rushing into his face.
The prince tilted his head slightly, studying him with open amusement.
“You’re the apprentice from earlier,” he said.
Baishin nodded, eyes lowering almost immediately. Only then did he notice that the air seemed warmer now, though the shade of the courtyard had not changed.
Dorian stepped closer. Then another step.
The distance between them shrank until the prince stood easily within arm’s reach, his presence filling the small quiet space of the courtyard far more effectively than the sunlight ever had.
That crooked, knowing smile returned to his face. Before Baishin could think to move, Dorian lifted a hand and lightly touched his chin, guiding his face upward.
They were nearly the same height.
Up close, Baishin could see the gold threaded through the prince’s eyelashes, the amber of his eyes bright even in the softened light.
“Has anyone ever told you,” Dorian said softly, “how pretty you are?”
Baishin’s grip tightened slightly around the hidden notebook behind his back. He did not know where to look. And he was suddenly very aware that he had nowhere left to step back. “No, sir,” he said quietly.
Dorian let out a low laugh. “How cruel of them.”
Baishin did not answer.
The prince studied him for a moment longer, the smile lingering as his gaze flicked briefly toward the hand Baishin had hidden behind his back.
“What’s so precious about this tree?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir,” Baishin replied quickly. “I was only distracting myself.”
Dorian’s smile deepened slightly.
“I can think of many other—more pleasant—ways to distract oneself in this palace.”
The meaning of the words settled far too quickly in Baishin’s mind. A sudden, unwelcome heat ran through him, and his body betrayed him with the stiffening of his cock—something he could not possibly have hidden if not for the forgiving layers of his robes.
The prince’s expression did not change, but something in the glint of his amber eyes suggested he had noticed the reaction immediately, even through the careful folds of silk meant to conceal it.
Baishin’s breath caught.
Dorian only let out a soft, amused laugh, as though Baishin had just confirmed something he had suspected all along.
The hand that had been resting lightly at Baishin’s chin drifted downward, settling instead at the narrow silk sash at his waist. “There will be a small gathering tonight,” he said.
Baishin realized he had been holding his breath. He tried very carefully not to swallow, keeping his shoulders straight while shifting his weight just slightly back, as though distance alone might keep his composure intact.
“I was not informed by my—,” he managed.
“It is not the kind of gathering one would invite Master Liang to.” Dorian’s thumb traced absentmindedly along the edge of the silk sash.
Baishin blinked. “Oh.”
The prince’s smile returned, slow and deliberate.
“But I am inviting you.”
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then Dorian stepped back, his hand slipping away from Baishin’s waist as easily as it had settled there. The sudden space between them felt strangely colder.
A quiet laugh escaped him—low, amused.
“Think about it,” he said and turned, walking toward the garden path that led back to the brighter terraces of the palace. Just before disappearing beyond the palms, he glanced over his shoulder and winked.
And with that, Prince Dorian Vanserra left the courtyard, leaving the quiet and cold behind him once more.
The gathering occupied one of the great sea-facing balconies of the palace.
Air drifted in from the water, carrying the salt of the tide and a pleasant breeze that softened the heat of the evening. Hundreds of small faelights floated through the space—tiny flames suspended above the crowd. Between the columns hung long banners of Summer blue, their silk stirring gently whenever the wind passed through.
Music pulsed through the terrace. It was lively and rhythmic, driven by quick percussion and bright strings that rose and fell in playful patterns. The melody had a warmth to it that encouraged movement—hips swaying, feet tapping, laughter breaking easily from the dancers who had already surrendered themselves to the rhythm.
Wine flowed just as freely. Golden cups passed from hand to hand, bottles appearing and vanishing between servants weaving through the crowd.
Baishin had been standing near the edge of the balcony for what felt like a very long time, watching.
He had arrived earlier after a servant quietly delivered a folded note to his chamber. The message had been brief, written in a hand he could only assume belonged to Prince Dorian. A location and time. Nothing more. The sight of the writing alone had been enough to place an uneasy flutter in Baishin’s stomach.
But when he arrived…
He found the prince already surrounded.
Not merely speaking with guests—surrounded. Dorian lounged at the center of a cluster of admirers, draped comfortably across a low cushioned seat with several people gathered around him. Women leaned against his shoulders and arms with easy familiarity. One of them sat openly in his lap, her fingers trailing along his collar while another pressed a laughing kiss to the side of his throat.
Baishin had not known where to look. Or why he had come at all.
Still, he had approached.
Only to be ignored.
When he reached the group, Dorian had turned instead toward the female beside him—one Baishin suspected belonged to the Spring Court from the pale green silk she wore—and murmured something into her ear. The female glanced at Baishin immediately and then laughed. The sound made heat rush straight into Baishin’s face, he felt the blush before he could stop it.
Unsure what else to do, he gave a small, awkward bow.
Which only made the female laugh again.
So Baishin retreated. Now he stood near one corner of the balcony, trying to look occupied while the music surged around him and dancers moved in bright, shifting patterns across the marble floor.
It was easier to observe.
At some point his attention drifted toward a familiar figure among the crowd. Princess Cresseida of the Summer Court.
The young daughter of High Lord Tristan stood near the center of the terrace, her dark skin luminous beneath the faelights and her long white hair flowing freely down her back like pale silk. The contrast fascinated Baishin immediately—the way the light settled along her shoulders, the subtle undertones in her skin that shifted as she moved.
Prince Thesan had once spoken admiringly of her beauty.
Baishin could understand why. He found himself wondering how one might capture that depth of tone on canvas without flattening it beneath the paint. The question had barely formed when someone stepped into the open space beside her.
Prince Dorian.
The music shifted into a faster rhythm as he took her hand with effortless familiarity and pulled her into the dance.
And the crowd around them cheered.
Baishin watched for a long time—long enough for the music to change twice and the dancers to rearrange themselves around the terrace—while a tight knot slowly formed in his throat.
Prince Dorian danced easily with Princess Cresseida, his hand resting at her waist as though it belonged there, the two of them laughing at something Baishin could not hear over the music. It was an effortless sort of flirtation, public and entirely unremarkable.
Of course he would flirt with her.
A prince and a princess of the seasonal courts.
Baishin lowered his gaze to the cup of wine in his hand. The liquid inside had barely moved since he had taken it from a passing servant. He had lifted it once or twice out of politeness, but the taste never seemed to reach him.
From where he stood, he must have looked absurd.
The only person wearing the layered robes of the Dawn Court. The only Dawn representative in sight, standing alone in a corner while the rest of the terrace moved to the rhythm of the music.
The realization settled heavily enough that he finally turned away. Baishin slipped quietly along the edge of the balcony and stepped back into the palace corridors without drawing attention to himself.
The sound of the party followed him at first—laughter, music, the soft thunder of dancing feet—but with each turn of the hallway it faded further behind him.
By the third corridor the noise had become little more than a distant murmur. He had just begun to feel the quiet settle around him again when he heard the sharp echo of heels on marble somewhere behind him.
The sound was unmistakably deliberate—unhurried, confident. Before he could turn, a familiar voice spoke. “The party barely started.”
Baishin turned. Prince Dorian was walking toward him, that same crooked, mocking smile lingering on his lips.
“I—” The word faltered almost immediately. He lifted one hand slightly as if it might help shape an explanation, then lowered it again, suddenly unsure what he meant to say in the first place.
Nothing came.
The prince kept approaching.
With every step Dorian took, Baishin felt the uncomfortable heat of embarrassment spreading through him. The feeling rose so quickly it almost stole the air from his lungs, and his eyes burned with the sharp sting of tears he refused to let fall.
For a brief moment the smile on the Prince’s face faltered—just slightly.
Baishin forced himself to speak before the silence stretched any further. “I wasn’t aware,” he said quietly, “that I had been invited only as a joke.”
Dorian stopped in front of him at last, close enough that Baishin could see the faint sheen of sweat left from dancing along the prince’s cheeks and temple.
“A prince is expected to entertain,” Dorian said lightly. “If you know what I mean.”
“I am afraid I do not, sir.”
Dorian’s eyes remained fixed on his—steady, intent. For a moment they did not move at all, and then Baishin felt the weight of that gaze shift, dipping briefly to his mouth before returning again.
The prince stepped closer. Too close.
Baishin felt the warmth of him before he fully registered the movement, the scent of wine and salt and something warm woven into the silk of his clothes—fig, deep and sweet enough that it seemed to belong to the prince himself. Dorian’s hands settled lightly at his waist, fingers brushing the silk sash as though testing how close Baishin might allow him. Dorian leaned in until his lips were near Baishin’s ear, his voice lowering into something softer.
“You are so adorable.” The words sounded like mockery. They probably were. But the closeness of it sent an unsteady weakness through Baishin’s knees all the same.
Before he could react, Dorian brushed a brief kiss against the side of his throat. The touch was quick—almost playful—but it left Baishin momentarily frozen in place.
Dorian pulled back just enough to look at him again, that same crooked smile lingering as his gaze flicked once more to Baishin’s lips.
Then he leaned in again and kissed him.
The kiss was sudden and consuming. Dorian’s mouth claiming his with a confidence that made Baishin’s knees nearly give out.
There was no tentative brush of lips, no polite pause to gauge reaction. Dorian kissed like he had already won something, tongue sliding in with lazy authority. Baishin’s mind blanked for a heartbeat, then flooded with heat: the firm press of Dorian’s body pinning him lightly against the corridor wall, the low, pleased hum Dorian made when Baishin’s lips parted on instinct.
It was filthy in its precision. Dorian angled his head just so, deepening the kiss until Baishin felt it in his teeth, in the pull low in his belly. Every stroke of tongue felt deliberate, teasing, like Dorian was mapping him out, finding the places that made Baishin’s breath hitch, then lingering there until his fingers curled helplessly into the front of Dorian’s embroidered coat.
Baishin had been kissed before, but nothing like this. Nothing that made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his robes, nothing that turned his blood to molten honey. He made a small, involuntary sound into Dorian’s mouth—half whimper, half plea—and the prince answered with a dark chuckle that vibrated between them.
One of Dorian’s hands slid to the nape of Baishin’s neck, fingers threading into his hair and tugging just enough to tilt his head back further. The other stayed at his waist, bunching silk, pulling their hips flush so Baishin could feel exactly how hard Dorian already was. The friction sent sparks up his spine.
Dorian broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against his lips, voice rough and amused. “So, so adorable.”
Then he was kissing him again—harder, hungrier—and walking him backward in the same smooth motion.
Baishin stumbled once, twice, but Dorian’s grip kept him steady, guiding him with infuriating ease. Each step backward pressed their bodies tighter together, Dorian’s thigh sliding between his legs for a teasing second before withdrawing, leaving Baishin aching and gasping into the kiss. The corridor blurred past in smears of moonlight and marble; Baishin barely registered the doors they passed until Dorian’s hand left his neck, reached behind them, and shoved one open without breaking rhythm.
They spilled into darkness.
The door clicked shut behind them. Moonlight poured through the wide porch arches, silvering the marble floor in pale rectangles, catching on the edges of a long meeting table and low sofas pushed haphazardly to one side.
Dorian didn’t give him time to orient himself.
He spun them so Baishin’s back hit the closed door—gently enough not to hurt, firmly enough to trap. Then Dorian was on him again, mouth devouring, one knee nudging Baishin’s legs apart so he could slot himself between them. The press of him was obscene—thick, insistent, grinding slow circles that had Baishin arching off the wood with a broken moan.
“Shh,” Dorian breathed against his throat, teeth grazing skin. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear how desperate my pretty boy already is.”
The words should have embarrassed him. Instead they sank straight to his cock, making him twitch and leak against the silk.
“Look at you,” he murmured, hand sliding down to palm Baishin through his robes. The touch was casual, almost lazy, but it made Baishin buck into it like he’d been branded.
Baishin’s head thumped back against the door. “Prince—”
Dorian’s thumb dragged slow and deliberate over the damp silk covering him. “What do you want?” he asked, voice low, almost gentle, but laced with that same dark amusement that made Baishin feel stripped bare even through all his layers. “Tell me.”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The want was too big, too frantic, too humiliating in its clarity. He didn’t know how to name it. He only knew that if he didn’t do something—anything—he would shatter from the pressure building inside him.
So he did the only thing his body seemed capable of. He sank to his knees.
The marble was cold against his shins. Dorian made a surprised, pleased sound above him—half laugh, half groan—as Baishin’s trembling fingers fumbled at the laces and fastenings of the prince’s belt and leather trousers.
Then he leaned forward and took Dorian into his mouth.
The taste hit him first—salt, musk, heat. Then the weight of him on his tongue, thick and heavy, stretching his lips. Baishin made a muffled, desperate noise around him and pushed forward, taking more, too fast, too eager. His hands gripped Dorian’s thighs for balance; the muscle jumped under his palms.
Above him, Dorian braced one forearm against the doorframe. His other hand dropped to Baishin’s hair—fingers threading loosely as though savoring the sight.
“Fuck,” Dorian breathed, the word rough and reverent at once. “Look at you. So hungry.”
Baishin moaned around him, the vibration making Dorian’s hips jerk forward once—shallow, controlled. Baishin tried to take him deeper, gagging a little on the thickness, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the stretch and the frantic pace he’d set for himself. He didn’t care. He sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks, tongue swirling messily, desperate to please, to earn whatever came next.
He was sloppy. Overeager. Choking himself on purpose because the sounds Dorian was making—low, broken curses, ragged breaths—felt like praise.
Then Dorian’s fingers tightened in his hair.
He pulled Baishin off with a wet pop. Baishin gasped, lips swollen and shining, chest heaving. Shame crashed over him like cold water. He’d done it wrong. Too fast. Too clumsy. He ducked his head, mortified, cheeks burning so fiercely he thought he might combust.
Dorian crouched slightly, cupped Baishin’s jaw with one hand, and tilted his face up. “Hey,” He leaned in and kissed the side of Baishin’s throat—slow, open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to sting. “I still have a long night ahead of me.”
The words didn’t make much sense. Not when Dorian’s other hand was already moving—reaching for the sash at Baishin’s waist again. Silk parted like water, robes fell open, hanging uselessly from Baishin’s shoulders. A few quick tugs and the under-trousers slid down his thighs, pooling at his knees. Baishin’s cock sprang free, flushed dark and leaking steadily against his stomach and Dorian wrapped long fingers around him without hesitation.
The first stroke was firm, confident, thumb sweeping over the head on the upstroke to spread the slickness. Baishin’s hips snapped forward on instinct; a broken whimper tore out of him.
Dorian kissed him again—then lower, sucking a mark just below his collarbone while he worked him with slow, deliberate pulls. Every motion was measured. Controlled. Nothing like Baishin’s frantic sucking earlier. Dorian seemed to know exactly how much pressure, exactly how fast, exactly when to twist his wrist just so.
Baishin’s hands flew to Dorian’s shoulders, nails digging in through the open shirt. “I—I can’t—”
Then Dorian sank to his knees. The shift was dizzying. Baishin stared down at him—disheveled copper hair, amber eyes burning in the moonlight, lips curved in that same wicked, knowing smile—and felt something inside him give way completely.
Dorian didn’t tease. He simply leaned in and took Baishin to the root in one smooth, practiced glide. Baishin cried out—sharp, helpless. His knees buckled; Dorian’s hands on his hips were the only thing keeping him upright. The heat of Dorian’s mouth was overwhelming—wet, tight, perfect. He sucked slow at first, letting Baishin feel every inch of tongue, every deliberate bob of his head. Then faster, deeper. One hand wrapped around the base; the other slid between Baishin’s legs to cup and roll his balls with devastating gentleness.
Baishin’s head fell back against the door again. His thighs trembled violently. Every nerve felt raw, exposed.
“Prince Dorian—please—oh Mother—” Dorian hummed around him—low, pleased—and swallowed.
That was it. Baishin came with a choked sob, hips jerking as he spilled down Dorian’s throat. Wave after wave of it, so intense his vision whited out for a second. Dorian didn’t pull away, he kept sucking gently through the aftershocks, milking every last drop until Baishin was whimpering from overstimulation, legs shaking so badly he nearly collapsed.
Only then did Dorian pull off—slowly, lips glistening, a thin thread of saliva connecting them for one obscene second before it broke.
He rose smoothly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing. Baishin stared at him, dazed, chest heaving, robes hanging open, trousers around his knees, come still drying on his own stomach.
Dorian leaned in, kissed him once—soft this time, almost tender—letting Baishin taste himself on his tongue.
Then he smiled against Baishin’s lips, slow and smug, the kind of smile that said he knew exactly how thoroughly he’d just ruined him.
“Such a pretty, eager little thing,” he murmured, voice low and dripping with condescension. His thumb brushed idly over Baishin’s swollen lower lip, as though admiring his own handiwork.
Baishin’s face burned. The words sank into him like hot oil—humiliating, intoxicating. He couldn’t look away from Dorian’s face: the lazy satisfaction in those amber eyes, the faint sheen still on his lips, the way his copper hair had fallen messily across his forehead.
The Prince straightened smoothly, stepping back just enough to give himself room. His hands moved with casual efficiency—first tugging his trousers up over his hips, then smoothing the fabric with almost mocking gentleness. He fastened the belt in a few quick, practiced motions.
Baishin’s hands fluttered uselessly at his sides. His robes still hung open, chest rising and falling too fast. Shame and lingering pleasure twisted together until he couldn’t tell which was winning.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice cracked and small. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t—I can do better. Please, let me try again. I can—”
Dorian’s laugh was soft, almost fond, but it cut deeper than any insult could have. “Shh,” he said, the sound gentle but final. “You were perfect, pretty boy. Exactly what I wanted.”
“But I have to get back to the party,” Dorian continued, already turning toward the door. “People will start wondering where their favorite prince disappeared to.”
He paused with his hand on the latch, glancing back over his shoulder. Moonlight carved sharp lines across his profile, turning the crooked smile into something almost predatory. The door opened with a soft click and Dorian slipped through without another word, the corridor light briefly spilling across the marble floor before the heavy wood swung shut behind him.
Baishin stayed there a long time, breathing unevenly, trying to piece himself back together while the taste of Dorian lingered on his tongue and the echo of that condescending praise rang in his ears.
Morning came too quickly.
Baishin woke slowly, the warmth breeze of the Summer Court already slipping through the tall windows of the guest chambers. For a moment he lay very still beneath the thin silk sheets, his mind heavy and disoriented, as if sleep had not quite managed to smooth the edges of the previous night.
The memory arrived all at once.
The corridor, the kisses, the quiet room. Dorian’s voice in the dark as they touched each other. Heat rushed into his face so abruptly that Baishin sat up in bed as though the thought itself had burned him.
He pressed both hands over his eyes. Mother above.
After a moment he forced himself to breathe and climbed out of bed, dressing quickly in the layered robes.He had barely tied the final silk sash when voices drifted through the adjoining hall.
Laughter.
Not quiet conversation, but something brighter—almost celebratory.
Several members of the delegation had gathered around the low table at the center, cups of tea and wine already in hand though the morning had barely begun. Their voices overlapped in cheerful conversation, and more than one person appeared to be laughing.
Baishin paused just inside the doorway. Before he could ask what had happened, one of the older emissaries noticed him.
“Ah!” the male exclaimed brightly. “There he is!”
The entire room seemed to turn toward him at once. Baishin blinked.
Then the first person approached him.
“Congratulations,” the female said warmly, clasping both of his hands before he could react.
Another emissary stepped forward immediately after her.
“Well done, young Huo.”
A third followed.
“Remarkable work.”
Baishin stood there as they took turns congratulating him, each offering some variation of praise while clasping his hands or patting his shoulder.
He had absolutely no idea why. By the time the fifth person had spoken to him, his confusion had grown so obvious that several of them began to chuckle quietly.
Finally Master Liang approached. The older male looked far more relaxed than he had the previous day. In fact, Baishin thought he looked almost pleased.
“Master…?” Baishin said carefully.
Master Liang gestured toward the table. Resting at its center lay a familiar piece of parchment.
“The Autumn delegation delivered this to my chambers at sunrise,” he explained calmly.
Baishin’s stomach dropped.
The contract.
Master Liang picked it up and turned it slightly so Baishin could see the bottom of the page. There, written in dark red ink, was the unmistakable signature of the High Lord of Autumn.
Beron Vanserra.
“But—” he began.
Master Liang lifted a second, smaller piece of folded parchment that had been resting beside the contract. “This was attached.”
He handed it to Baishin, who unfolded the note slowly.
The handwriting was unmistakable, the same from his note regarding the party the night before.
The apprentice Huo Baishin proved surprisingly persuasive.
—Dorian Vanserra