Tyllian could hardly believe his eyes.
The young duke’s face, usually a mask of aristocratic composure, was twisted into something akin to a sneer.
It was less a genuine smile, a display of mirth, and more a contortion of disdain, a flash of derision that Tyllian had almost never witnessed.
The Young Duke simply didn’t smile outside of carefully orchestrated social gatherings, those grand balls and formal receptions where every expression was a calculated move in a complex game of power and influence.
Weren’t expressions, for him, mere tools to be displayed only when strategically necessary?
To see such raw, unguarded contempt was unsettling, a crack in the carefully constructed facade that hinted at something deeper and more volatile beneath.
“He’s quite dejected. And besides, there’s nothing he can do now, is there?” the duke murmured, his voice as smooth and silken as ever, yet carrying an undeniable undertone of smug satisfaction.
The words hung in the air, a thinly veiled triumph.
Ash couldn’t possibly threaten the young duke’s position, not after the recent events, not after the very public display of his reckless nature.
Even though Tyllian must have understood the underlying, unspoken meaning of Owen’s words—the finality, the dismissive judgment—the young duke offered no further explanation.
Tyllian was speechless, a rare occurrence for the usually composed knight.
His mind raced, grappling with the implications of Owen’s casual cruelty.
He had known Ash for years, understood his volatile spirit better than most.
Ash wouldn’t give up.
That much Tyllian knew with absolute certainty.
He was stubborn, astonishingly adept at shaking people to their core, disrupting carefully laid plans, and constantly getting into trouble.
It was a chaotic energy that both fascinated and frustrated Tyllian.
“One month. You won’t need any rest during that time,” the young duke stated, his gaze piercing, a silent command in his eyes.
It was a clear directive, a mandate to perform his role as a supervisor diligently, to watch over Ash with unyielding vigilance.
The unspoken implication was that Ash’s restlessness would require constant attention, that his spirit, however broken, would still attempt to rebel.
Tyllian understood the assignment perfectly: not just to guard, but to contain.
The young duke met Tyllian’s gaze for a long moment, a challenging, knowing look.
Tyllian, a paragon of discipline and duty, lowered his head, a gesture of deference.
The duke’s eyes, even from that brief, direct encounter, felt as if they were piercing right through him, seeing not just the knight, but the man beneath, the one conflicted by loyalties and unspoken feelings.
He exited the study, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed the finality of Owen’s pronouncements.
As he walked the familiar corridors, returning to his assigned room, Tyllian reflected.
His steps were measured, his posture rigid, yet his mind was a whirlwind of internal turmoil.
Yes. Ash wouldn’t give up. His prolonged silence, the lack of his usual defiant outbursts, was certainly odd.
It was a stark contrast to the Ash Tyllian knew, the boy who chafed at any restriction, who filled every quiet moment with some new scheme or complaint.
This unusual quietude, rather than comforting, was deeply unsettling.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
Why hadn’t he anticipated this unsettling calm?
He hadn’t wanted to think.
He had allowed himself to be preoccupied with other matters, to immerse himself in the mundane routines of his duty, to avoid confronting the swirling eddy of personal feelings that had risen to the surface.
The events of that brief night with Ash, a fleeting interlude of vulnerability and unexpected intimacy, had completely unsettled his mind, throwing his carefully constructed emotional defenses into disarray.
It was a night that had fractured his unwavering resolve, leaving him exposed to emotions he had long believed himself immune to.
Did he even have the right to supervise him, to monitor his every breath, to be the one who kept him confined?
The question gnawed at him, a festering doubt.
His duties were clear, his loyalty absolute, yet his personal feelings for Ash, once suppressed, now threatened to overwhelm his professional detachment.
In truth, this was the deeper, more profound question Tyllian wanted to ask the young duke: ‘What did you mean when you said I had relieved his mind?’
The words had lingered, an enigmatic puzzle.
Was Tyllian truly that valuable to Ash, that significant to his emotional state?
Of course, he would be. In a purely logical sense, Ash probably saw him as a means of escape, a potentially pliable figure, or simply a long-standing guard who understood him.
There was value in that, a practical utility.
But his thoughts inevitably circled back to one place, to the raw, unwelcome emotions that now plagued him.
Tyllian couldn’t help it.
He had become foolish, a knight trained in absolute loyalty now finding his resolve compromised by something as inconvenient as personal attachment.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when this drastic change had begun, when the ironclad control he held over his emotions had fractured, when his heart had begun to stray from the path of duty.
This was a feeling he needed to sever, to excise from his very being like a malignant growth.
It was dangerous, a threat to his honor and his purpose.
Tyllian thought, his resolve hardening.
During the two days he had been away from his rightful place, from the immediate vicinity of Ash’s confinement, he had dedicated all his time to regaining control of himself.
He had rigorously practiced his sword forms, immersed himself in the castle’s administrative duties, and meditated for hours, forcing his mind back into the disciplined channels of duty.
So, he now believed he could manage himself.
He had purged the unwelcome feelings, or at least buried them deep enough to function.
In a month, Ash would marry, a prearranged union that would solidify Owen’s position and forever alter Ash’s fate.
Tyllian, as foretold by the castle whispers, would likely become the commander of the ducal guard.
Protecting Ash, in his new role as a married noble, would continue to be his duty, albeit a different kind of duty.
That was enough.
It had to be.
Tyllian had convinced himself of that, clinging to the cold logic of duty and the predetermined future.
Until he witnessed that scene.
The sight, whatever it was, shattered his fragile composure, unraveling the careful self-control he had so painstakingly rebuilt.
***
The third opportunity for Ash to try something, to escape his suffocating confinement, arrived after a week.
During that time, Ash had been practically driven mad with impatience, his mind a whirlwind of frantic planning and frustrated pacing.
Could that have been the last chance?, he wondered, his heart thudding against his ribs.
Will nothing come of it now, even if I satisfy Master?
Isn’t that too unfair?
Then he should have told me then! He should have warned me if that was the final test!
The oppressive silence of his room, the endless stretch of hours with no outlet for his boundless energy, had driven him to the brink.
His desperation grew with each passing minute.
What saved a distressed Ash from truly losing his mind was a frail, fluttering lark.
It wasn’t the majestic falcon or swift messenger raven he might have expected, but a small, seemingly insignificant bird that fluttered weakly, almost comically, towards his window.
The brightly feathered creature, instead of gliding gracefully through the air as usual, dropped onto the terrace like it had been poisoned, landing with an unceremonious thud.
Ash gasped, startled by the unexpected arrival, and rushed out, his heart leaping with a strange mix of hope and alarm.
“Master!” he cried out, his voice a desperate whisper.
He cradled the bird in his hands, its small body trembling.
Ash paced frantically, unsure what to do, his mind leaping to dramatic conclusions.
Had Master finally succumbed to sleep deprivation, pushing himself to the point of collapse?
Or was it malnutrition, wasting away from neglecting his own needs?
The thought, however absurd, filled him with a genuine panic.
Ash scurried between his bed and the dining table, a whirlwind of frantic worry.
Then, a sudden, brilliant idea struck him.
He carefully laid the trembling bird on the bed, as if it were a fragile patient.
He brought over the half-eaten mushroom soup from his last meal, scooped a spoonful, and brought it to the bird’s tiny beak, his movements surprisingly gentle.
“Try to eat some, Master. Even this,” he urged, his voice filled with genuine concern.
“I knew this would happen someday! I knew you’d die from your own magic, the magic you’re so confident in! You always push yourself too hard. Don’t die, Master. Please, open your beak!”
His plea was heartfelt, a blend of exasperation and unexpected affection.
A faint, strained sound emanated from the bird.
[Ash…]
The bird trembled violently, lifting one wing weakly, a feather fluttering to the sheets.
“Yes?”
Ash leaned closer, his brow furrowed with concern.
[Someone, the magic barrier… I fell asleep, and crashed into it…] the bird managed to croak, its voice weak and disjointed.
“Master? I don’t understand what you’re saying!”
Ash exclaimed, his frustration bubbling.
“And you’re still a bird! You need to turn back into a person!”
[…Ah?]
The single syllable was accompanied by a flutter of light and a sudden, soft thud.
The bird transformed into a human, the familiar, albeit disheveled, form of his Master sprawled on the bed.
His Master looked ten times more exhausted than usual, a profound weariness etched onto his face.
The area under his eyes was completely sunken, a dark, lifeless hue.
He couldn’t even lift his eyelids fully, his gaze barely slits.
All the resentment Ash had felt towards him—the frustration over his prolonged confinement, the exasperation at his cryptic hints, the suspicion that he was being toyed with—all of it evaporated in an instant.
Right, Ash thought, a wave of pity washing over him.
How can a Master who can’t even take care of himself possibly take care of me?
He’s a pitiful man. A sudden, protective urge swelled within him.
I have to take good care of him.
Who else would look after his Master, who was, to Ash’s mind, a pervert, entirely lacked social skills, and was old and decrepit, if not Ash himself?
It was a strange mix of genuine care and pragmatic self-interest.
And if Master died, there would be no one to let Ash out…
The thought struck him with chilling clarity.
Ash grew desperate, his voice rising in urgency.
“You can’t die like this! I’ll take back my suspicion that you were toying with me using your promise as an excuse. I truly, absolutely, unequivocally withdraw that accusation! Don’t die! You promised to go out with me, to help me escape this dreadful place. You have to live to see me reclaim the castle from that scoundrel Owen. You must witness my glorious return! When I become Duke, I was even going to find you a proper lover who suits your bizarre taste! A kind, docile, understanding soul who wouldn’t judge your… unique preferences. You have to experience my filial piety, Master! My true devotion!”
“Ash. I don’t need a lover…”, his Master mumbled, his voice hoarse, still barely audible.
“Master! You’re awake!”
Ash exclaimed, ignoring the protest entirely, his eyes lighting up.
“Ah, but my energy… I think I’d feel better if a good disciple gave me a good succor…” his Master trailed off, a hint of a familiar smirk playing on his lips, despite his extreme fatigue.
The implication, though vague, was clear.
Ash felt foolish for having worried, for allowing genuine concern to cloud his judgment, but without a word of protest, he began to undress his Master.
It was an almost automatic response, a practiced movement.
And without hesitation, as if performing a ritual, he flung the shoes his Master was wearing across the room.
Whoosh, whoosh.
The leather shoes sailed through the air with surprising force.
Roll, roll… thud!
The pair of shoes bounced off the wall and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop in a far, neglected corner of the room.
His Master slowly blinked his eyes, watching the discarded footwear with a slow, almost bewildered expression.
“Ash, why did you throw those?” he asked, his voice still weak, but a flicker of his usual, peculiar curiosity returning.
***
“Wasn’t there some bad magic on it that stomps on good disciples?”
Ash retorted, a hint of his usual sass returning. He was regaining his equilibrium, his panic receding.
“There’s no such magic,” his Master replied, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Then you’re the problem, Master! You’re causing all the trouble!”
Ash declared, pointing an accusing finger.
“Let me tell you, don’t mess with me until I fail. You keep trying to evade your promise, and one day, you’ll pay the price. A hefty one!”
“How frightening,” his Master murmured, his tone completely devoid of actual fear, a playful glint in his tired eyes.
Ash scoffed, a disdainful puff of air. It was typical Master behavior, infuriatingly nonchalant.
Anyway, for him to speak like this, to tease and provoke, it meant he still intended to keep his promise to Ash, didn’t it?
It meant he wasn’t about to die on him and abandon him to his fate.
If so, there was nothing to be afraid of.
“It’s a relief you finally understand, Master. That you finally grasp the fundamental truths of existence,” Ash declared, his voice full of mock solemnity.
“Humans have desires, you know? Deep, fundamental needs! They’re essential for living, for sanity! Eating, sleeping, and having sex – isn’t that what makes a person truly live? To experience the fullness of life, one must indulge these basic human necessities!”
He spoke with an air of profound wisdom, despite his young age.
Ash subtly settled himself on top of his Master, a deliberate, calculated move.
His plan was clear: to naturally lead them to a normal, pleasurable intimate encounter.
His Master, as Ash had long observed, seemed to be such a profound pervert that he apparently couldn’t get excited without causing pain to his partner.
If that were truly the case, his chances of getting a lover in the future were practically nonexistent.
Wouldn’t it be a disciple’s sacred duty to show his Master that a normal intimate encounter could also be incredibly pleasurable?
That there was joy and satisfaction to be found without resorting to pain?
Of course, a part of him also simply didn’t want to suck on that weapon again until his throat swelled raw and painful.
It had been quite enough, thank you very much.
“Ash. One can live without doing all three, you know,” his Master stated, his voice a low, knowing hum.
“Even if we concede the first two—eating and sleeping—the last, intimacy, has absolutely nothing to do with survival. It’s a luxury, not a necessity.”
“Then why are you here, Master?”
Ash challenged, his eyes narrowing.
“You certainly didn’t come to help me escape, did you? Don’t pretend otherwise! You came here purely to satisfy your peculiar tastes, to indulge in your strange desires. I understood everything from the moment you appeared.”
But there was no guarantee that others would understand his Master’s bizarre preferences. Indeed, his Master truly needed a good, normal, wholesome experience to broaden his horizons.
Sitting on his Master’s thighs, Ash smiled down at him, a wide, innocent, almost angelic smile.
There was no expression better than a smile to disarm someone, to lull them into a false sense of security, to make them drop their guard entirely.
While his Master merely blinked, his eyelids still heavy with exhaustion, Ash ripped off his top with a practiced flourish, tossing it aside without a care.
His Master stared blankly at the bare, white skin revealed before his eyes, his gaze unfocused, almost bewildered.
“Indeed. I’m so used to wasting time because of you, Ash, that I hadn’t thought deeply about it,” his Master mused, a faint, dry amusement in his voice.
“When did I ever waste your time? Well, sometimes I did, but there are other, better ways to phrase that!”
Ash retorted, feeling a sharp pang of guilt, a blush rising on his cheeks.
He, Ash, who often skipped classes, who frequently vanished from sight when his Master was supposed to be teaching him, felt a sudden, familiar prick of conscience.
But how was he supposed to know if his Master would show up or not, and wait for him endlessly?
His Master’s attendance record for classes was notoriously low, almost nonexistent.
Of course, since the classroom was Ash’s own room, he could just stay quietly inside, and if his Master didn’t come, he’d just think, ‘Oh, he’s not coming today,’ and proceed to do something else entirely.
Something far more interesting than tedious lessons.
But wasn’t there a better way to use his time, a more productive way to anticipate his Master’s unpredictable schedule?
Like, after making the perfectly rational judgment, ‘He didn’t come last week, so he probably won’t come today either,’ he’d seize the opportunity to go out and play, to revel in his temporary freedom.
It was a perfectly logical conclusion, in Ash’s mind.
“Why do you talk as if you only came for me? It’s supposed to be mutually beneficial, isn’t it?”
Ash murmured, trying to steer the conversation back to his original intent, to emphasize the supposed reciprocity of their unusual arrangement.
“Again, Ash. Let me reiterate,” his Master replied, his voice firm, “there’s nothing good for me if you leave this room. Your escape would be a considerable inconvenience.”
“Oh, don’t be so lonely,” Ash chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood.
“I’ll be right back, I promise. I have a plan, you know. A brilliant one! That bastard Owen, he underestimated me… he’s about to regret it!”
Ash buried his nose in his Master’s neck, inhaling deeply.
He inhaled a breath of pheromones, the rich, vibrant scent of summer blossoms filling his lungs, then abruptly ground his teeth in fury, the pleasant sensation momentarily overshadowed by his simmering rage.
His Master seemed to have no intention of holding back his pheromones in front of Ash anymore.
The scent, like a vibrant, sun-drenched summer garden, hit Ash’s nostrils, a potent, almost intoxicating fragrance.
It was a relief, in a strange way.
An Alpha who didn’t release pheromones during intimacy looked like they had some sort of sexual dysfunction, and Ash was determined to correct his Master’s every perceived flaw.
Ash had, once again, guided his Master one step closer to being a normal, functioning person today. A true achievement!
His Master then said, sounding genuinely surprised, “You actually have a plan? A coherent one, I mean?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
Ash exclaimed, genuinely offended.
His desire for intimacy had completely vanished, replaced by a surge of indignant pride.
“Why do you dislike Owen Mills so much?” his Master asked, his voice soft, contemplative, as if he had genuinely pondered this question for a long time.
Why do I dislike that guy?
Ash’s mind reeled.
Is that even a question?
It was as obvious as the sun in the sky!
“Do I look like I’d like him?”
Ash retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“But there was a time when you two got along, wasn’t there?” his Master mused, a flicker of memory in his eyes.Ash was overcome with emotion, a wave of bitter recollection washing over him.
“Exactly!” he yelled, the word a raw cry of frustration and betrayal.
The memory of that time, brief as it was, still stung.
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