Chapter 1
ERYON Introduction
It was dim. The floor was caked in mud and human waste, and the stench clung to the air like rot. Rats scattered across the ground, scrambling for whatever scraps they could find. But really, how else was a cell for the pathetic supposed to look?
Eryon’s tired green eyes dropped to the rusted shackles binding his wrists to his ankles. The metal bit into his pale skin, already marked with fading welts and bruises. He, like many others in that cramped, reeking room, was a slave.
Most slaves were bought and owned by families seeking bodies to do their bidding. But Eryon belonged to a different kind of master: a well-known entertainment enterprise, House Kalmyros. Their trade wasn’t subtle. They collected the finest of the discarded, polishing their pain into performance.
Unfortunately, Eryon’s striking appearance had made him a perfect candidate.
Dehumanizing? Yes. But that was simply the way of the world.
The cell door clicked, then creaked open. Eryon’s head lifted. There they were: a familiar pair of dark blue eyes, a crooked smile, and an unshaven face that always smelled of wine.
Damon.
He was the one who dealt with the slaves most often up close, personal.
“Lymachos, time to get yourself ready. The audience wants to play with you again.” Damon chuckled, yanking the chain connected to Eryon’s restraints.
Eryon groaned as his knees buckled. He barely had a moment to find his balance before Damon tugged again, forcing him forward.
Lymachos—that was the name they gave him when he had first been bought as a child. If he remembered correctly, he was no older than eight then: small, silent, suffering from amnesia. No name, no history.
Just Lymachos. It meant filth.
It was the first step in shredding away whatever innocence he had left.
Which is why he had to choose a name for himself—Eryon.
He first heard the word in a play he’d been allowed to watch when he was eleven. The character bore the same name: a man of strength, not in blade or battle, but in heart. He led with hope, not fear. He sang for peace rather than war, and something about that—his softness, his resolve—etched itself into the boy’s memory.
Eryon had chosen the name in silence, clutching it like a dream. A name for the man he wanted to become. A man who lived freely. A man who was loved.
But that day never seemed to come.
Damon’s rough hands caressed his hips, fingers pressing into the bruises hidden beneath torn fabric. Eryon stiffened as the man’s chest pressed against his back, his stubbled face nuzzling the crook of his neck. The contact made his skin crawl.
“Crowd’s bigger than usual out there,” Damon murmured against his ear, voice thick with amusement. “We could make some good money tonight…”
One of Damon’s hands slid downward, slow and practiced, before pausing with a grip that made Eryon’s stomach twist.
“You do good. Make ’em happy. Maybe we give you a little treat, huh? Sound good?”
Eryon remained still. Silent. That was his shield. Damon thrived off reaction, fed on it like a parasite. It was why Eryon taught himself to withhold every flicker of fear, every tremble of defiance. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Slut,” Damon hissed under his breath, his voice hardening as he shoved Eryon forward. “Gods, you stink. Let’s get you washed before you stink up the stage.”
They climbed the stairs to the dressing room—if it could be called that. It was lined with chipped mirrors and worn robes, the air thick with perfume and sweat. Other slaves waited silently, being powdered and painted, dressed in silks that never felt like clothes—only costumes.
Eryon stood still as a servant pulled at the ties of his garment and poured cold water over his shoulders. The water ran over his spine and down across the mark—his mark—hidden beneath the grime. No one noticed it. Or perhaps no one cared to.
Not yet.
He stared at his reflection in the fogged glass, at the boy who had once whispered the name Eryon to himself like a secret prayer.
It had been hope once. Now it was armor.
After Eryon freshened up, a few people pair together to get him ready for the performance. A costume was slipped on to match the other slaves.
It was made of silk so thin it could hardly be called clothing. It clung to his body like a second skin, dyed in soft golds and wine-reds that shimmered under the lantern light. A sheer drape wrapped loosely across his chest, slipping from one shoulder as if by design, leaving the pale line of his collarbone and the curve of his ribs exposed.
Below, the fabric dipped scandalously low across his hips, held together by delicate bronze clasps that jangled softly when he moved. The slit down one leg revealed more than it concealed, forcing him to step carefully—gracefully—like a dancer trained not to fall.
Thin golden chains looped around his arms and waist, not tight enough to restrain, but just enough to suggest ownership.
It wasn’t made for him. It was made for them—to look, to touch, to want.
Next came his face.
Cold fingers smeared powder over the bruises beneath his eyes, brushing color into his cheeks to make him look less ghost-like. A rosy tint was added to his lips, softening their cracked, dry shape. They didn’t care how tired he looked—only that he appeared untouched, beautiful, desirable.
They hid the damage without ever acknowledging it.
Someone stepped behind him to work on his hair. The once-wild mess of dark red and orange strands was tugged into place with oils and pins, smoothed but not tamed. A few curls were left to fall loosely across his forehead, framing his face in what the attendants called “sweet disarray.” It was meant to give the illusion of innocence, of soft boyish charm—something that would make him look younger, more fragile, more valuable.
Eryon stared ahead, unmoving, as hands pulled and powdered and shaped what he was supposed to be.
When they were finished, he didn’t recognize himself.
Not really.
He looked like a vision—something soft and golden and meant to be worshipped.
But beneath the paint and silk, he was still just Lymachos to them.
“Perfect…” Damon admired him through the mirror as he balanced against the arm of the chair. “Its show time now…” Eryon nodded in reluctance as he stood up and made his way to the small crowd of people in similar attire. Each and every one of the other “performers” were dazzled in jewlary and colors of the sorts. They looked near perfect.
Eryon looked away as the heavy red curtain began to sway open, signaling their cue to make their presence known. One by one, the performers filed out under the dim stage lights, the rustle of silk and soft clinking of chains swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
Then it was his turn.
The moment his foot touched the stage, his lips curled into a smile—a smile he had practiced a hundred times in the mirror. Just wide enough to be inviting, just shy enough to seem coy.
A performance within a performance.
The lights were hot, casting him in a golden glow as dozens of eyes drank him in. His body moved to the rhythm of the music, fluid and precise, each sway of his hips calculated to seduce, to entertain, to survive.
But beneath it all, he was acting.
He had to act like he didn’t hear the murmurs, the whistles, the laughter. Like he didn’t see the greedy hands reaching from the shadows. Like he enjoyed the weight of their stares crawling over his skin.
Because to flinch was to fail.
And to fail was to be punished.
