Sunlight suddenly spilled through the small square window Ms. Beck had opened.
Elian inhaled the fresh air, his eyes quickly scanning the whole room.
A thin bed with a worn blanket.
A small side table.
A stool.
That was all.
And it was way better than the dungeon and the stables.
"Undress," Ms. Beck instructed, lowering herself in front of the bed to pull a small bag out.
"Excuse me?" Elian frowned, stepping back.
Ms. Beck straightened, holding Elian's gaze.
"For twenty-six years, I have watched His Grace step into his bath with no garment..."
Elian's jaw tightened slightly. He didn't know why that image irritated him… but it did.
"Rest assured, his body is far more appealing than yours. Now, undress. I haven't got all day," she said sternly.
Elian gritted his teeth.
He really could not win against this woman.
Slowly, he unzipped his pants, letting them fall to the floor around his ankles.
Then he pulled his torn shirt off his body.
"Terrible," Ms. Beck breathed, scanning Elian's body with disdain.
"Step aside," she said, taking his shirt from his hand that he was using to cover his manhood.
Elian crossed his hands between his legs as he stepped out from the pool of his pants.
"You reek," Ms. Beck muttered as she used her foot to push the pants away.
"There's a washroom right there. Use it judiciously. I shall dispose of these garments and return with something presentable," she told him and picked up the clothes, leaving the room.
The door thudded softly, leaving Elian alone in the small servant room.
Elian sighed and uncovered himself.
He glanced around him, and for the first time in months, he was truly alone and safe?
Well, not totally free, but still... free.
He moved, searching for the washroom.
Adjacent to the bed, he found a slim wooden door.
He furrowed his brows, wondering how anybody with a bigger body size could fit through the door.
He heard footsteps out in the hallway and quickly moved toward the door.
He pushed it.
It didn't budge.
"Damned door, ugh!" He shoved his shoulder against the door, pushing it open.
"Fucking old wood," he murmured, waving his hand in front of him to clear the dust from the door.
Elian stepped into the washroom, the door creaking softly behind him.
The air hit him first.
Damp.
Heavy.
It clung to his skin and filled his lungs, thick with the scent of wet stone and neglect. A small window sat high on the wall, barely large enough to let in light, let alone fresh air. What little breeze slipped through did nothing to chase away the stale moisture that settled into every corner of the room.
He exhaled slowly.
Of course.
This was where a servant cleaned themselves.
His gaze moved across the space.
Simple. Bare. Cold.
A wooden stool sat near the wall, and beside it rested a wide basin, its surface slightly worn from years of use. A bucket of water had been placed next to it, filled nearly to the brim.
Cold water.
He didn't need to touch it to know.
A bar of rough soap lay at the edge of the basin, uneven and pale, with a worn cloth draped beside it—thin, frayed at the edges, and used far too many times before.
A towel hung loosely on a wooden peg.
That was all.
No mirror.
No comfort.
No warmth.
Just enough to be clean.
Elian let out a quiet breath, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides.
Better than the dungeon.
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
Each movement reminded him of the bruises beneath his skin, the cuts that had yet to close, the ache that had settled deep into his bones.
He lowered himself onto the stool with a soft exhale, his jaw tightening as the motion pulled at his wounds.
For a moment, he just sat there.
Breathing.
Then—
He reached for the bucket.
The water shifted with a quiet slosh as he dipped the cloth into it, his fingers numbing instantly from the cold.
He didn't hesitate.
He lifted the soaked cloth and dragged it across his skin.
A sharp hiss left his lips.
Cold.
Too cold.
It bit into him, shocking his system, stealing the breath from his chest.
For a fleeting second, an image flashed—gloved hands, steady and merciless, pressing him down.
Elian's grip tightened on the cloth.
"Tch…" he exhaled sharply, scrubbing harder, as if he could rid himself of the thought.
He didn't stop.
He pressed harder.
Scrubbing.
Dirt.
Blood.
Filth.
All of it had to go.
His hand reached for the soap next, his grip tightening slightly as he rubbed it against the cloth before dragging it across his skin.
It burned.
Not heat—
But a sharp, stinging bite as it met open cuts and bruised flesh.
Elian's shoulders tensed, his teeth grinding together.
Still—
He continued.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Silent.
The damp air wrapped around him as the faint sound of water echoed in the small room, each movement measured, controlled.
He would not flinch.
He would not break.
Not even here.
Not even like this.
Not in a place meant to strip him down to nothing.
He lowered his head slightly, curls falling over his face as water dripped from his skin onto the stone floor.
Let them think this was punishment.
Let them think this was humiliation.
He would endure it.
Just like everything else.
And when the time came—he would remember.
Shivering, Elian stood and made his way to the worn towel. He pulled it from the peg and wrapped it around his waist.
It did absolutely nothing to chase his cold.
"Out with you, young lad," Ms. Beck's voice called from the room.
He gulped, biting his trembling lip and clutching his towel with his frost-bitten fingers.
He made his way to the door and used his leg to push it wider. Once he stepped in, he sighed softly as the little warmth of the room reduced his chill.
Ms. Beck stood beside the door with a pair of folded clothes in her hands.
"Hurry, His Grace awaits," Ms. Beck urged.
She dropped the clothes onto the bed, folding her arms.
Elian exhaled. He knew he had no right to privacy with Ms. Beck.
And he really did need to get dressed before he dried out like stockfish.
Without wasting any more of their time, he pulled his towel off his waist and picked up the clothes.
He fixed the pants first.
Dark, rough, oversized pants.
But he wasn't complaining.
He pulled them up to his waist and latched the hook to fit.
Then—
He picked up the shirt, the linen immediately grazing his hands.
It was off-white, loose, and slightly rough to the touch. The collar hung open, tied loosely with a thin cord, the fabric worn from repeated use but clean enough to pass.
He bit his lip as the shirt grazed his bruises, but he wore it anyway.
The fabric brushed against the marks left behind—
His jaw tightened.
He didn't need to look to know who had put them there.
"Good..." Ms. Beck murmured, her eyes briefly flicking to Elian's free-falling hair.
"Let's go," she said, leading toward the door.