Styrmir Bremen had never known the sun.
Not truly. Not the way other children did.
His first memory was not of a mother's arms or a father's laugh. It was of stone—cold, damp, unyielding stone pressing against his tiny back while someone wrapped him in rough cloth and whispered, "He's stillborn. The ***** will pay well for silence." He had been minutes old, lungs burning with his first breaths, when the old Duke Bremen's men took him from the birthing chamber and carried him down, down, down into the belly of the Wadee estate. Cold gold had bought his death certificate before he ever drew a second breath. A bastard prince. A thing to be buried alive.
They called it mercy.
He called it the beginning of forever.
For ten years, the dungeon had been his entire world. He had been locked away forever, as far as he could remember, for some crime he didn't remember committing. A six-by-eight cell with iron bars that never warmed, a thin pallet that smelled of mildew and old fear, and a single barred slit high in the wall that let in a finger-width of moonlight when the sky was clear. No name at first. Just "the boy." Then, when he was old enough to scream, they gave him Styrmir because the old duke liked the sound of it—sharp, like a whip crack. They fed him once a day if they remembered. Beat him when the queen's bribes ran low. Told him the world above had forgotten he existed.
He had believed them.
Until the night the first bundle appeared.
It had been a Tuesday—though days blurred together down here. Styrmir had been curled on the pallet, knees drawn to his chest, trying to ignore the gnawing hunger that had become a constant companion. The wound on his ribs from last week's "lesson" still burned. He had been whispering to himself, the way he always did when the dark pressed too close.
"Just one more day. Just one more…"
Then something soft landed outside the bars with a quiet thud.
He froze.
A small cloth bundle. Tied with a strip of emerald silk that looked expensive enough to buy a whole village. Inside: bread. Still warm. Cheese. A water skin. And a note—no words, just a single black rose petal pressed flat.
Styrmir had stared at it for a long time, certain it was a trick. Poison. A new way to break him. But hunger won. He ate like an animal, tearing into the bread with teeth that hadn't tasted anything soft in months. The water tasted like heaven. When he finished he pressed the emerald ribbon to his cheek and cried without sound, the way he had learned to cry so the guards wouldn't hear.
That was the first night he dared to hope.
The second bundle came two nights later. More food. A small pot of salve that smelled of herbs and mercy. And a whisper through the bars—soft, hesitant, carrying an accent he didn't recognize.
"Are you allergic to anything, your… no. Never mind. Just… eat."
A man's voice. Young. Kind in a way no one had ever been kind to him.
Styrmir had pressed himself to the bars, heart hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. "Who are you?"
A pause. Then, quieter: "Someone who knows what it feels like to be locked away. My name is...Gerffron. I… I'll come back."
Gerffron.
The name became a prayer.
Night after night the bundles kept coming. Bread. Cheese. Clean linen. Once, a tiny vial of something that eased the constant ache in his legs. And always Gerffron's voice—low, steady, carrying stories of a world Styrmir had never seen. Of carriages and marketplaces and a place called India that sounded like magic. Gerffron never asked for anything. He just talked. Taught him simple stretches for cramped muscles. Told him jokes that made Styrmir laugh for the first time in years—a rusty, painful sound that hurt his throat but felt like life returning to dead limbs.
And somewhere between the second week and the third, something else began to grow.
Styrmir started waiting for the sound of footsteps. Started memorising the rhythm of Gerffron's breathing on the other side of the bars. Started noticing how the man's voice softened when he said "Styrmir" like it was something precious. When their fingers brushed while passing food—once, twice, then deliberately—the touch lingered. Warm skin against cold. A spark that travelled straight to Styrmir's chest and settled there like a small, dangerous fire.
He had never been touched gently before.
He had never wanted to be touched by anyone until now.
At night, when the dungeon grew so dark he couldn't see his own hands, Styrmir would close his eyes and imagine Gerffron's face from the brief glimpses the lantern light allowed. Mousy brown hair. Emerald eyes that held both pain and steel. Pale skin that looked like it had never known real sunlight either. A body that moved with quiet grace despite the fine clothes. And that voice—God, that voice—promising escape. Promising "I'm getting you out. I swear it."
For the first time in ten years, Styrmir let himself dream of a life outside the bars. Of standing beside someone instead of crouching in shadows. Of touching Gerffron without iron between them. Of maybe—maybe—being looked at like he was worth saving.
He had started to believe it was possible.
Until the night the whip came.
The guards had come without warning. Three of them. Gorgina leading, her burgundy hair loose like a banner of blood. She hadn't spoken at first. She had simply unlocked the cell door, stepped inside, and looked down at him with those golden-amber eyes that had always watched him like he was something filthy she was forced to tolerate.
"You've been talking to my husband," she said quietly. No rage. Just cold fact. "You made him hope. That was your mistake."
Styrmir had tried to stand. His legs—weak from years of chains—betrayed him. He fell to his knees.
Gorgina uncoiled the whip with a soft snap.
The first lash caught him across the shoulders. Fire. Pure fire. He bit his tongue so hard blood filled his mouth. The second tore across his back. The third. The fourth. She didn't scream. She didn't curse. She simply worked with the calm precision of someone pruning roses—each strike measured, deliberate, designed to break without killing.
Styrmir screamed anyway. He screamed until his voice gave out. He screamed Gerffron's name once, a broken sound that echoed off the stone and died. He screamed for the life he had almost believed in.
Between lashes he heard her speak, voice almost gentle.
"You were never meant to be anything but a secret, boy. My husband is… sentimental. He'll learn. And you—you'll learn what happens when you make a Wadee feel things."
The pain blurred everything. Time. Thought. The world narrowed to the crack of leather and the wet sound of his own blood hitting stone. At some point he stopped screaming. At some point his body simply gave up and the darkness swallowed him whole.
When he woke, the pain was still there—but different. Muted. Someone had cleaned his wounds and wrapped them in soft white linen. His hair had been brushed. His face felt… strange. Powdery. Rouge, he realized dimly. His wrists were bound in delicate gold cuffs that looked like jewelry but held fast. A thin silk robe—white, embroidered with silver roses—covered his ruined back like a shroud. He smelled of roses and something sweeter. Perfume.
He was being dressed like a gift.
Two maids worked in silence, tying ribbons, adjusting the collar around his throat. One of them—Selfi, he recognized her voice from years of hearing her outside the cell. While she worked professionally, the other two maids couldn't help but whisper amongst them; "Her Grace says he'll fetch a fine price at the opening auction. The first lot. Something exotic."
Styrmir tried to speak. His throat was raw. All that came out was a cracked whisper. "Ger....ron…"
Selfi's hands paused for half a second. Then she continued tying the ribbon at his neck and almost deliberately she tightened it, whispering harshly to him. "Listen here, pipsqueak, that name is Her Grace's husband's name. Someone like you isn't qualified enough to even weigh that name on your tongue. Understand?" Styrmir choked and nodded weakly.
The regret hit him harder than any whip.
But he couldn't figure out the regret was for what—the fact that Gerffron is married and that too to Gorgina, or the fact that his long yearned freedom was snatched away from his mouth before he could even taste it.
He had waited ten years in the dark. Ten years of believing no one would ever come. Then Gerffron had appeared—warm hands, soft voice, emerald eyes full of fire—and Styrmir had let himself believe. He had reached back. He had touched those fingers through the bars and felt something alive for the first time. He had dreamed of standing beside him at the winter ball, of maybe pressing his mouth to that pale wrist and saying thank you with more than words.
And now he was being sold.
Dressed like a doll. Perfumed. Collared. Ready for a slave market like some exotic curiosity.
The regret tasted like blood and roses.
I should have told him to run the first night. I should have stayed silent. I should have died quietly so he wouldn't have to carry this.
Tears slipped down his rouged cheeks. He didn't bother hiding them. What was the point? The maids finished their work and stepped back. Styrmir caught his reflection in the small mirror they held up—pale, beautiful, broken. A boy who looked like he belonged in a noble's bed, not a dungeon. The silk clung to his bandaged back, hiding the worst of the damage. From the outside, he looked perfect. From the inside, he was already dead.
The guards came then. Two of them. They lifted him like he weighed nothing. His legs wouldn't hold him anyway. They carried him through corridors he hadn't seen since he was eight. Moonlight spilt through high windows. Roses everywhere. The scent made him want to scream.
At the courtyard, a carriage waited, black and gilded, horses stamping impatiently. Inside, they laid him on a cushioned bench like fragile cargo. One of the guards tossed a blanket over him—silk again, embroidered with the Wadee crest.
As the carriage door closed, Styrmir turned his head toward the villa one last time.
Somewhere in those walls, Gerffron was probably standing on a balcony, staring at the same moon, clutching two pebbles and wondering why the boy he had tried to save had disappeared.
Styrmir closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the dark. "I'm so sorry I couldn't wait a little longer."
The carriage wheels began to turn. The villa faded behind them. The road stretched toward the Crown Prince's estate, toward auctions and chains and a life that would make the dungeon seem kind.
Styrmir Bremen—the boy who had waited ten years—closed his eyes and let the regret settle over him like a second skin.
He had tasted hope.
And hope, like everything else in his life, had only ever been another way to break him.