For all his faults and deficiencies too many to number (though Father had tried), one failing stood tall among the rest. Erect, as it were.

Now, he wasn’t unique. Men of all kinds gave in to their earthly desires; in this, at least, Osmund was ordinary. He remained all too aware that truly ordinary men did their leering at plunging necklines and revealing bustiers, not at tall strangers with broad chests and perfectly-ruffled hair.

Not to mention such a clean, manly jawline.

He swallowed.

To put it bluntly: the former prince of Valcrest…was a notorious stick-rider!

Back in the kingdom, he’d tried hard to be good, and to keep his predilections to himself. Really, he’d tried. But he was lousy in the face of temptation. Even the average town harlot would shake her head to see how fast Osmund dropped to his knees for a nobleman’s sneering son with a strong sword arm and some too-tight britches.

He gawked, the one-of-a-kind mare all but forgotten. But really, what could one expect? Osmund was after all a man, not a stallion.

The stranger stared back. Then the moment broke. He moved, and in just a single motion he was here, seizing the black horse’s reins as she was preparing to rear back again. Osmund startled. “Are you alright?” asked the other in a rush. It was a phrase the Tolmishman had learned well in this new tongue.

Yes, Osmund might’ve said in response, or, I’m alright. Despite his appalling accent, either of those he could’ve managed in any other circumstance.

“Um,” was what came out, his cheeks heating to an embarrassing flush.

He was shaken out of his reverie by murmurs to his left and right. The tradesmen were greeting the newcomer, he realized, with lowered heads and respectful tones. He assessed the man again, this time with a less lusty eye. The stranger was tall, but not much taller than Osmund—he just carried himself notably well. He had dark skin and darker hair, and was dressed in a long buttoned shirt that hung nearly to his knees, the kind usually hidden beneath layers of fine dress in the Meskato style.

Even wearing nightclothes, his hair wild and stance wide like he’d just run here (as he clearly had), there was no doubt in Osmund’s mind that this was no ordinary man, but someone dignified and important, someone leagues above himself in every regard. He was also unquestionably the owner of this equally-stunning horse.

Osmund came back to the facts in a rush of terror. What was he doing?! He brought his arms away from the lovely equine creature in a panic and flung himself to his knees, and not in a fun sexy way. His dangling hair brushed the ground.

(An annoyed snort from the mare indicated she disliked no longer being the center of attention.)

“I-I-I’m sorry, um,” Osmund began in Meskato, before he immediately ran out of words. The rest flew out in a torrent of Tolmish. “I’m sorry for touching your priceless horse, sir! If you need to whip or punish me, I understand, but please spare my life! I’ll do anything you ask!”

For a heart-stopping moment, only the far-off sounds of the market answered his plea. There was nowhere to look down here but at the man’s feet. If he was this province’s governor (Osmund remembered only a little from his lessons of how the Meskato Empire operated), it didn’t look like he sat all day behind a desk. His bare feet were hard and calloused. That perhaps wasn’t surprising, given the strength of his powerful build.

Stay back, lecherous thoughts, Osmund pleaded! He needed all his strength to endure his punishment!

The man finally spoke.

“You…are from Valcrest?” he said slowly, and even if he’d been an ugly old hag with bad breath and no teeth and a gangrenous nose, Osmund could have kissed him.

From that perfectly-shaped mouth had come Tolmish!

“You speak my language?!” Osmund could feel the incredulous stares boring into his back from the merchants behind him, but he was too elated to remember himself or the ways in which he was surely about to be abused for his impudence. “It’s been so long! Oh, thank heavens you can understand me!”

The man cleared his throat. “Stand,” he bade.

Osmund rushed to obey. He would have done anything this handsome man wanted of him, happily. Whip his own back? He’d do it. Clean the latrines with his bare hands? He would. What a joke that he’d been born a prince! He was meant for this, for commands.

“Thank you,” the man said once Osmund was back on his feet. He sounded…well, there was no other word for it but awkward.

Osmund floundered, the comforting submission he’d felt a moment ago dissolving. He’d been ready for nearly anything, but not that. “…Thank you?” he repeated back in a question, unsure.

The stranger studied him. “My horse,” he began, his Tolmish only a little unnatural. “You made her calm. Not an easy thing.”

“O-oh—it was nothing.”

“Far from nothing. We’re both fortunate you were here.”

Distractedly, Osmund followed his gaze. The young apprentice stared back at him, wide-eyed with amazement. He hadn’t moved a muscle from his seat in the dirt; it was as if he’d forgotten he had legs. “What’s your name?” the stranger asked, deep brown eyes intensely focused.

Again, if these were any other circumstances, the he might have had the presence of mind not to immediately spout out his actual real name. Which was unfortunately what he did. “Osmund,” he said faintly. “N-nice to meet you.” But then, who would ever suspect a dirty laborer of being the former prince of Valcrest?

The man nodded. He didn’t introduce himself in turn. “Come,” he said, taking his horse by the reins, and once again Osmund nearly tripped over himself to obey—then stopped. Was the stranger speaking to him, or his mare? Both the beautiful man and the beautiful horse were going through the gate past the beautiful wall, onto the grounds around that grand house. Surely he wasn’t meant to follow?

He shot a pleading look back to the merchants behind him, seeking guidance in their faces. “What are you doing?” one of them urged him in Meskato. “The şehzade gave you a ████. Go!” And so he went.

The little apprentice boy had been watching him with open wonder still. It wasn’t every day you got your life saved by a dirty vagabond, Osmund supposed.

The broad, two-story building was even more impressive up close. Hewn from tanned stone and lined with rows of pointed arches, the façade had two main doorways, both fabulously decorated, and still more remarkable than the house itself was the complex of buildings surrounding it.

Topped variously with domes or proud spires, some linked arms with the main house, while others stood alone. He identified the kitchen by the lines of little brick chimneys; a tall, geometric structure in the distance could only be a bathhouse.

Despite its grandeur, this place reminded Osmund nothing of the castle in which he’d grown up. For one thing, though they were within those ornate walls, he saw commoners—not just servants, but ordinary civilians of all trades and cultures, orcs and humans and other peoples besides—everywhere. What’s more, they greeted the beautiful important man…the shehzadeh?...without ceremony. It must’ve been only natural to see him going about among their number.

An immaculately-dressed groom appeared to accept the black mare’s reins. The horse snorted again unhappily, with a sidelong glance at Osmund as if to say, gee, thanks a lot, bub, and grudgingly trudged off in what must’ve been the direction of the stables. Osmund nearly followed on instinct.

“Here,” the lovely stranger said, instead leading him down an open-air corridor sheltered by a succession of columns. Windows and wide doorways offered tantalizing glimpses of the interior space. Osmund could barely keep pace with all that his eyes were seeing; he’d been to plenty of fine houses in Valcrest, but only one since arriving in the Empire. And that was an occasion he deeply preferred not to remember.

They emerged into an open courtyard. Here, the bustle of petitioners and civil and domestic servants was replaced by the steady hum of fountains and conversation. Tall trees with throngs of pointed leaves stood in intervals along the arcades, providing shade and privacy for those walking and taking their lunch. Bushels of colorful flowers and exotic plants bloomed, and a few young cypresses—aspiring giants—stood vigil near a manmade pond in the atrium’s center. That such a wide green space existed in the middle of a bustling city like Şebyan, without the aid of illusory magic…!

But all of that was secondary. The man was smiling at him. Really smiling. At him!

“It is beautiful,” the other acknowledged, as they stood admiring this sanctuary. Though the curve of his mouth was a very small thing, the effect on his face—and on Osmund—was staggering. “I’ve become accustomed. It’s good to see it through new eyes.”

There was only one possible explanation: for the first time, Osmund was on the floor of his dirt hovel having a nice dream. A beautiful house, a beautiful garden, a beautiful horse and—oh—this man! How could a wretch like himself be so greedy? And yet his appetite was bottomless. He dared hope this dream might get even nicer.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurted. The man blinked. Oh no. “This place is beautiful,” Osmund amended madly, horrified by the not-entirely-ruled-out possibility that this wasn’t a delusion. He could feel the heat radiating off his cheeks as he gestured broadly to the greenery beside them. “Y-you have such an impressive garden! The healers must be well-stocked with so many useful medicinal plants, a-and the horses, I’m sure they’re very healthy!”

The other furrowed an eyebrow, barely noticeable. “‘Medicinal’?”

Osmund wasn’t sure if he wasn’t familiar with the Tolmish word, or if the plants in question had been arranged strictly for decorative purposes. He decided to change the subject. “Whatever you want of me, you can have it!” he declared. “Th-thank you for not beating me on the street!”

For the first time, his host looked not just confused, but troubled. “You misunderstand. I only wish to repay you. You see, Anaya is…not an ordinary horse.” This he said with a strange note in his voice that had nothing to do with the Tolmish language, and Osmund wondered at it. “Many have failed to tame her. Myself, she tolerates. None calm her so easily as you did. You have a gift.”

Osmund knew he was good with horses. It was possibly his one talent in this world: riding them, caring for them, soothing them, even helping with deliveries—it all came almost more naturally than breathing. He had a precious memory of a time back before Valen Haldebard had known his son was a failure and an idiot and a flagrant homosexual, where instead of berating him, the king had praised his young progeny’s equestrian aptitude. No doubt he was expecting an heir who would hunt and sport and ride bannered steeds into battle. Osmund clung to the memory, and the fantasy it represented, all the same.

So yes, he was good with horses. But the horse in question wasn’t the kind a Tolmishman would dare to own, even a prince. The horses on this continent were different. They’d evolved alongside the Meskato: the most skilled and fearless horse riders in all of history.

It was time to tell the truth.

“I’m nobody special,” he admitted, at the same time that the stranger asked, “Do you wish to join my household?”

Osmund shut his mouth. The handsome, important man held his gaze.

“Think about it,” the other said, and then, difficultly, as if he wasn’t sure of a polite way to continue: “The baths here are open to you.”

That’s right, Osmund remembered. I probably smell like an unemptied chamberpot. The most handsome man he’d ever seen had all but begged him to bathe. But Osmund smiled anyway. For one brief moment, he was grateful that he hadn’t woken up in his soft bed in the castle.