‘Runaway flesh-concubine… striking, lazy amethyst eyes…’ The words seared themselves into Rethan’s mind, a branding iron pressed against raw nerves. His gaze snapped from the crude sketch on the parchment to Zavir’s face, tracing the perfect, unsettling curve of ‘his’ lips, the sharp line of ‘his’ jaw. Then, inevitably, to the eyes. Those impossible, dark violet eyes, now regarding him with that familiar, maddening apathy. They were identical. Not just the color, but the languid tilt at the corners, the subtle, almost bored assessment that seemed to pierce through his own turmoil. The blood-magic still hummed, a low, predatory growl beneath his skin. It had subsided enough for his vision to clear, the black veins retreating, but the tremor in his hands remained. He crumpled the poster, the brittle paper tearing slightly. “Your eyes,” he rasped, the question a demand, an accusation, a desperate plea for denial. “Where did you get them?” Zavir blinked, slow and deliberate, as if Rethan had asked something utterly mundane, like the time of day. “They’re just eyes,” ‘he’ said, ‘his’ voice flat, devoid of inflection. “My mother had them. Her mother before that. Common enough in the Tanglefen District, where the swamp mist never really clears. All that dampness, something about the minerals in the soil, turns them purple. Or so the old women used to say.” ‘He’ shrugged, a slight, almost imperceptible movement of ‘his’ shoulders. “Never paid it much mind.” Rethan stared, his throat tightening. The Tanglefen District. A malarial, forgotten stretch of land on the outermost fringes of the Barony, notorious for its inbred peasantry and strange afflictions. It was plausible. Terrifyingly, infuriatingly plausible. The sheer, unadulterated boredom in Zavir’s tone, the lack of any defensive tremor, any flicker of fear, was a masterclass in calculated indifference. ‘He’ wasn’t lying; ‘he’ simply didn’t care enough to try to convince him, which made the story even more convincing. His anger, which had burned so hot, began to curdle into something colder, something akin to humiliation. How could he have suspected? How could he have let his mind, his body, betray him with such a ludicrous notion? His attraction to this lazy cadet was already a festering wound; now, it was a chasm of self-loathing. He had allowed his own twisted desires to conjure fantasies of forbidden secrets, when the truth was far simpler, and far more emasculating: he was inexplicably drawn to a man who possessed nothing more than a pair of unusually colored, peasant eyes. “Get out,” Rethan bit out, his voice low, guttural. He threw the crumpled bounty poster into the corner, as if to obliterate the offensive image. “Get out and find something useful to do. Or don’t. I don’t care.” Zavir merely nodded, the picture of nonchalant obedience. ‘He’ pulled on a fresh, dry tunic, the tight binding of ‘his’ chest still a subtle, unnoticed bulwark beneath the fabric. Without another word, ‘he’ walked out of the room, leaving Rethan alone with the chilling echoes of his own spiraling confusion. *** Rain lashed against the leaded windows of the Armory, a ceaseless drumbeat that barely masked the clang of steel and the shouts of cadets. Zavir, tasked with cleaning the dull, mud-caked blades of ‘his’ squad, moved with the barest minimum of effort. Each swipe of the cloth was precise, yet languid, born of ‘his’ commitment to doing absolutely nothing more than required. ‘He’ ignored the frustrated grunts of the other cadets, the impatient snap of whips from the overseers, the constant, low hum of misery that permeated Gravefall Bastion. All ‘he’ registered was the rhythmic scrape of metal on leather, and the slow, steady drip of water from a cracked pipe above ‘his’ head. “You!” a sharp voice cut through the drone. Draxis, his face a mask of furious exasperation, slammed a dented breastplate onto the workbench beside Zavir. The force rattled Zavir’s almost-clean blade. “How are you still alive? How are you not missing a limb? You don’t train, you barely fight, you’re slower than a corpse-worm, and yet you walk out of the pits unscratched, while men twice your size get dragged out on stretchers! What’s your secret, slacker?” Zavir slowly turned ‘his’ head, ‘his’ amethyst eyes holding no particular emotion. “Not my problem,” ‘he’ mumbled, resuming ‘his’ scouring. “Luck, maybe.” “Luck?” Draxis scoffed, leaning in, his voice dropping to a furious whisper. “I’ve seen you. You’re not lucky. You’re… something else. You barely move, but when you do, it’s just enough. It’s infuriating! Are you holding back? Are you some kind of noble brat playing at being a commoner?” Zavir paused. “Nobles don’t survive here,” ‘he’ said, the words flat. “They get eaten. Or worse.” A distant, muffled howl echoed through the stone corridors, a sound unlike any creature Zavir had encountered in the training pits. It was deeper, more guttural, laced with a chilling intelligence. Draxis froze, his pupils flaring. “What was that?” “Doesn’t concern me,” Zavir replied, already turning back to the blade. ‘He’ hated unnecessary attention, and a sudden, anomalous howl was certainly that. But the Bastion itself seemed to disagree. A new sound joined the rain: the heavy clatter of armored boots, the strained shouts of guards. The muted clamor grew, closer now, accompanied by a sickening squelch. A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the armory’s far corner, moving with a predatory grace. It was far too large for a man, too low-slung and brutish for any beast known to the Bastion’s monster guides. It was a hound, but not one of flesh and blood alone. Its hide was a patchwork of scarred, grey skin, rippling over unnatural muscle. Jagged bone spurs protruded from its spine, and its jowls, wet with a viscous drool, stretched to reveal teeth like obsidian shards. One of its front legs was grotesquely swollen, ending in a clawed, malformed hand that clutched a shattered spear. Its eyes glowed with an unsettling, intelligent malevolence. A Flesh-Hound. Draxis gasped, stumbling back, his hand fumbling for the short sword at his hip. The monstrous creature, twice the size of a warhorse, let out a low, rumbling growl, its gaze fixed on the panicking cadet. It lunged, not with a charge, but a terrifyingly precise pounce, aiming to pin Draxis against the racks of weaponry. Zavir didn’t even look up from the steel. As the Flesh-Hound’s mutated paw slammed down, missing Draxis by an inch, ‘he’ casually reached out two fingers. Not with effort, not with a grunt of exertion, but with the weary familiarity of swatting a fly. ‘His’ index and middle fingers found the precise point where the beast’s thick neck met its skull, a seemingly impossible feat of targeting amidst the creature’s thrashing bulk. There was a sharp, almost delicate *crack*. A sound like dry bone snapping. The Flesh-Hound froze mid-lunge, its glowing eyes suddenly dulling, its massive body going slack. It collapsed in an unceremonious heap, a mountain of grotesque, silent flesh. A faint, sweetish odor of decay and something metallic wafted from its mangled form. Draxis, still pressed against the weapon rack, stared from the inert beast to Zavir, his mouth agape. Zavir simply continued stroking oil along ‘his’ blade, the rhythm unbroken, the apathy absolute. ‘He’ wiped away a smudge of the beast’s dark, sticky blood from ‘his’ fingers on the hem of ‘his’ tunic, ‘his’ expression one of mild annoyance at the interruption. Before Draxis could stammer a single question, a new voice boomed through the armory, echoing from the central courtyard. “Cadets! Attention! By decree of Margrave Zeryx, all personnel are to assemble in the main courtyard! Immediate and mandatory full-body blood-magic screening! Strip to the waist! Failure to comply will be met with immediate execution!” A full-body blood-magic screening. Strip to the waist. Zavir’s hands, for the first time, stilled on the polished blade. The cold rain outside seemed to intensify its drumming, a relentless prelude to discovery.

Flesh and Hounds