Chapter 20 #2
“Here comes the show.” Kylix trailed his fingertips under Mirel’s shirt, skidding over bare skin. Milanov’s speech rolled above them, full of values and order.
When he finished, Daven Caelith walked into the arena.
“Daven Caelith!” they called.
“Long live the dead!”
He emerged tall and lean, with storm-grey eyes that seemed to hold their own weather. Pale blond hair streaked with silver lifted in the currents he commanded, his white uniform threaded with gold that caught each gust.
The captive begged once, raw and too loud now that the stands had gone quiet. Behind him, Kylix chuckled hoarsely in Mirel’s ear, blowing heat across his skin.
The drums began, a slow, relentless rhythm. Outside, both men faced each other across the sand.
Mirel pressed his palm flat to the pane. Frost spread from his hand in thin veins, catching the last outline of the prisoner standing alone.
The frost kept moving after he stopped touching it.
It crawled in threads across the glass, thin as veins, tracing the prisoner’s shape until the outline looked alive.
Breath fogged the surface from inside the booth, caught between heat and cold, the world mirrored in pale and gold.
Beneath his palm the glass throbbed faintly, as if it had learned to pulse with him.
Below, the crowd hushed. The hush was never silent, it carried the creak of seats, the intake of air, the rustle of ten thousand hearts waiting to be told what to feel. Sound pressed through the glass and into his chest. He could taste it. Metal. Dust. Salt from his own skin.
Kylix’s hand slid along the back of his neck. The touch steadied him even as it broke him open. Heat rolled through the contact, a command disguised as calm. The scent of the opium haze sweetened around them, heavy as fruit gone overripe. Mirel tried to breathe through it and felt the world tilt.
The prisoner lifted his head. Even from this height Mirel saw the tremor in the man’s knees, the dull gleam of sweat under the arena lights.
He might have been any street soul pulled from the gutter and dressed in purple for spectacle.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the sand.
The man’s mouth moved in prayer or curse.
Frost bloomed brighter where Mirel’s fingers pressed.
“Watch,” Kylix said. His voice was quiet, not kind. “Every Aureate is a mirror. The crowd will see what they are. You will see what you are.”
Mirel’s breath hit the glass again. The frost filmed thicker, trapping the prisoner’s reflection until it looked like ice remembering him. The crowd began to chant. A low tide of sound rolled over them, rhythmic and cruel, each syllable landing like a blow.
When the first flame rose from Daven’s hand, the noise turned holy. Air folded inward, swirling until it carried its own voice. The prisoner screamed. Mirel flinched. The frost cracked beneath his palm, a faint snapping sound that echoed louder in his bones than the crowd below.
He felt Kylix’s mouth at his ear, speaking low. “Feel it. The beauty in the moment before something dies.”
Mirel wanted to turn away but could not.
The glass had become a lens and a wall at once.
Heat swelled on one side, cold on the other, the two elements fighting for space.
Every breath he took came back hotter, thicker, full of the scent of smoke.
His vision shimmered until it seemed that fire was burning through the ice itself.
Daven’s figure blurred, surrounded by wind. The captive rose in that invisible grip, limbs flailing, mouth wide in a sound lost to the roar. The frost on the glass trembled like skin under touch. For a moment it looked as if the prisoner’s soul had pressed through to the other side.
Mirel’s knees weakened. His hand slipped but Kylix caught him. “Stay.” The command was quiet, final. Mirel obeyed.
The body dropped. Sand burst upward, golden and red. The glass rattled once. The frost fractured into a hundred tiny mirrors, each holding the same picture of death, each one glittering like prayer.
The frost kept its ghosts. Each tiny mirror still showed the man suspended, eyes wide, mouth caught open. When Mirel blinked, the faces blinked too. It was like staring into a thousand versions of the same ending. The glass had learned memory, the cold refused to forget.
A low vibration moved through the booth floor, the hum of engines below the sand.
The sound climbed his legs and lodged behind his ribs.
He felt it where heartbeat should have been.
The crowd began to cheer again, wild and bright, their delight rolling upward in waves that cracked against the glass.
Kylix’s breath touched the side of his throat. The smell of smoke mixed with fruit and metal. “You see?” he murmured. “This is why we exist. To make them believe there’s meaning in cruelty.”
Mirel tried to answer, but the words stuck. The opium haze pressed closer, turning every inhale into syrup. His reflection wavered in the frost, mouth parted, eyes too bright. The noise outside folded back into rhythm, the same three syllables rising and falling like tide:
Daven. Daven. Daven.
Heat gathered behind him again, deliberate and patient. Kylix’s chest met his back, steady as the hum beneath their feet. Mirel’s pulse stuttered, caught between wanting to escape and wanting to lean into the warmth. The air itself seemed to breathe with them, thin and hot.
When Kylix’s fingers brushed the inside of his wrist, Mirel shivered.
The touch found the vein that still raced, the one that tied him to the living world.
For a heartbeat he forgot the crowd, the sand, the noise.
All that existed was the heat behind him and the frost in front of him, each one waiting to see which would give first.
Then Kylix reached for the glass and lifted it to Mirel’s mouth. “This might take a while. After all, little Daven has never done this before.” He brushed his free hand over Mirel’s groin.
“Don’t.” Mirel tried to push him away, but Kylix caught his wrist and pressed it over his erection.
“Feel that, baby? You’re already hard, and they haven’t even started.” The room grew warmer with every breath Kylix gave.
A quick slap across Mirel’s knuckles made him flinch.
“Good,” Kylix purred. He poured the drink into Mirel’s mouth, then unbuckled his trousers.
They fell to the floor. His fingertips brushed over Mirel’s cock, making him hiss against the glass.
“My, that’s got to hurt, little ghost.” He dipped his fingers inside, circling the head until Mirel’s hips bucked, seeking friction.
“So impatient,” Kylix teased.
In the arena Daven began to move, each step deliberate and slow, distance shrinking by degrees.
Sand whispered under his boots. The crowd’s din dimmed into a hush that carried only his footfalls.
The prisoner backed away, frantic where Daven was measured, the difference between predator and prey made visible.
He started running, banging on the gates as he begged to be let out.
A flame burst from Daven’s palm. Wind took it, ate it whole. Daven lifted his hand and closed his fingers around nothing. The fire jerked and rose from the sand as if pulled on a hook. The body fought for air and found none.
Kylix clicked his tongue. “The fool. They won’t let him out.”
Air leashed Daven. The torches leaned in fear and then back again. Daven studied his work as if admiring the lines it made.
“He takes the air first. Listen to the body fight it. Hear the pause before stillness. He is teaching them how beauty kills,” Kylix said.
Mirel flinched when Kylix sank to his knees, hands steady at Mirel’s hips. “This will take a while, and I’m too hungry,” he murmured with a dark smile.
Mirel’s breath caught as warmth grazed the backs of his thighs. His pulse thundered when Kylix spread him, the sound of the crowd reduced to a far hum. When he started licking his crease, Mirel shuddered.
“Good, little darae?”
“Oh…” Mirel’s hips rocked helplessly.
Daven raised his hand, the air bending. Wind folded inward and spiralled around his victim, dragging up a cyclone of dust and grit.
The prisoner struggled, caught inside the vortex.
Sand rose in waves that shimmered like glass under the lights.
Daven’s eyes narrowed; the wind obeyed. The body lifted, arched once, twice.
Blood flecked the air. Then Daven closed his fist. The limbs went slack, the storm snapped shut.
The body hung for a heartbeat before dropping.
The arena released a single vast breath, and then screamed.
“Is he dead?” Mirel moaned.
“Not yet.” Behind him, Kylix flattened his tongue, and Mirel mewled at the wicked mixture of pleasure and obscenity.
The prisoner now crawled over the sand, hair wet with sweat, while Daven basked in applause. “Fuck my tongue. Let me work for it.”
“No,” Mirel moaned, but his hips obeyed, his breath filling with haze.
“He’s so cruel.”
Kylix pulled off. “Of course he is. It’s what he is, Mirel. What you are, baby. And look, it’s what the people want. They live for it.”
The bottle of lube clicked open. The faint scent of cocoa filled the air. Mirel’s heart thrashed with hunger. The prisoner shrieked as Daven turned back toward him. Mirel hissed at the sting of Kylix’s fingers, needing it.
“Kill?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Kylix withdrew and gave him a sharp slap that made his teeth chatter. “You like that, hmm?”
“F-ff…”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.” Another slap. Pain flared, met by heat. Mirel rocked back, mouth against ice, frosting the pane as he begged silently for friction.
“Not long now,” Kylix whispered.
“P-please.”
Kylix hummed. “Are you begging me, little darae?” His thrusts deepened until Mirel cracked, leaking and trembling, desire pulsing through his veins.
Outside, Daven held up his hand, mastering the air as he sucked the prisoner back into it. The man was held upright, unable to stop Daven from ripping down his jumpsuit. Daven growled as he took him. The crowd kept shouting his name.
Mirel held to the frosted window, enraptured as the prisoner stopped fighting and yielded.
“They love us, little darae,” Kylix whispered.
“But how—”
“Heroes. They want heroes. Even if we take their future away, they need us to give meaning to their lives. And this is the punishment. Look at that little slut, look how he moans for it.”
Then Kylix thrust faster, circling Mirel’s leaking slit. Sparks crawled under Mirel’s skin.
“I can’t take more.”
“Good Light, Mirel, you’re perfection. Hot and tight, baby. Gonna fill you up. Gonna show you who you belong to.”
“Please.”
Their faces smeared into one shape in the glass, light and shadow, heat and frost.
Below, Daven came on a feral howl. Pulling back from the used body, he touched two fingers to the sand. Torches straightened and then the wind was brought back to life like a trained animal.
Kylix suckled Mirel’s neck, licking the marks he’d already made. “Good boy.” He traced a finger over Mirel’s swollen shaft. “Look at that eager cock, Mirel. Look how much it leaks for me. You can’t deny it any longer. You were made for violence. You were made for me.”
Hands and hips worked in sync as Kylix thrust rapidly. When he finally reached his peak, it felt like a warm, glowing relief the way it rushed through Mirel's core. He moaned and sighed, overtaken by pleasure, body trembling in Kylix's hold. He never wanted to leave those strong hands.
“You feel it. His element calling yours. He was raised to make dying look beautiful. So were you.”
Mirel’s heart stuttered. Frost and heat fought on the pane. Water beaded where they met and ran down in thin tracks. The world slowly returned.
Outside the booth, young Luminary soldiers crossed the corridor. Their laughter reached the door and flattened there. In the sand, Daven turned toward the Imperial box and bowed with a grace that had nothing soft in it.
Kylix shifted Mirel, his back to the frosted window. His embrace felt foreign and so good. Warm and cold, like they were made for each other. “Breathe, baby,” he whispered. “And let’s go home.”
Kylix stepped out first. His cloak settled against his back. Mirel obeyed. The smoke still clung to his skin. His mouth tasted like copper and fruit. Chanting rose through the stone in a long echo.
“Daven!”
It felt as if the planet itself was saying the name.
At the end of the hall the lounge stood open again. Daven crossed the far side with attendants at his shoulders, white uniform streaked with sand. Up close he looked younger than he had in the arena. The curve of his mouth held the contentment of a knife newly cleaned.
Even without wind he carried the room. Attention followed him as if the air still bent for him. Between his knees sat the Luminary guard Kylix had sent.
Kylix watched him with a face Mirel couldn’t read. “Our cousin enjoys his moment,” he said. “And you and I go home.”
They stepped back into light and mirrors.
Moargan laughed and almost spilled his drink.
Cyprian steadied his hand without looking down.
Helianth bent closer to Archer and spoke a line that sent colour into Archer’s ears.
None of it touched Mirel. He felt the pressure of Kylix’s palm at the small of his back.
To the room it looked polite. To his skin it felt like ownership.
Guards opened the path to the lift. The last echo of the crowd rolled up the shaft as the doors closed.
The car dropped smooth through the estate’s throat. Mirel exhaled, shutting his eyes against the gold. The quiet thickened, warm and taut.
By the time the doors opened again, the echoes of the arena were gone, replaced by the soft hiss of vents and the cold promise of morning. Kylix’s hand tightened once at Mirel’s hip, a brief reminder of possession before the doors opened to the pale light ahead.