THE CARNIVAL CELEBRATIONS continued well into the night. Great torches and lamps dotted the paved streets of Calipsos, illuminating the smooth cobblestones of the capital.
But there in the shadows, where the light couldn't touch were the Blue Cloaks, hurriedly grunting into the bodies of whores before resuming their patrols. All that mattered to the blue-caped Officers was just a few minutes under the dark alcoves.
Passing the alleys, one could hear the shivery grunts of the men as they pinned the women in different positions against the bricken walls.
High above this unruly fest, many miles up in the sky, a group of brown-skinned Shagans floated in the clouds with their winged horses. The full moon blessed the Mithosians in a silver shine, making their bronze skin glow.
These hefty men watched astride their magical horses the festive city of Calipsos. The entire capital was awash in a golden halo of the city's torches so that even the farming fields in the distance glowed orange.
This brilliance of the Summerlands was so different from what the brown-skinned warriors saw when they turned to the North.
The Ice Realms lay dark as the Netherworld, without the single flicker of a torch to signal life; but in those frigid mountains dwelled the Otherworlders, sound asleep in their nightly home.
To the Icelanders, Night was Day.
The Shagan warriors pulled their eyes away from the irony below them. They nudged their horses, and the beautiful winged creatures took flight, grunting as they stretched out large wings.
The fantastic beasts swooped down, rushing with descending speed towards the blue expanse of the Carrean sea, transformed a shimmery silver by the moon.
The horses glided across the cold waters, their hooves brushing the surface and creating waves as they carried the Shagan warriors back to their home: the exotic Isles of Mithos.
A short distance away from the rowdy pub where Marsil sat drinking with his friends was the small clave of brownstone buildings that housed the SOLDIER'S FORT.
These private habitations were given to the highest-ranking Officials of Syveria; Infantry Generals, Cavalry Commanders, The King's War Council, Navy Admirals and a few Captains.
The atmosphere of the Fort was a bit calmer than the boisterous ruckus of the Capital. At the head of the Fort stood a grand, storeyed Manor with a dozen rooms and twice as many windows.
In the master bedchamber of this beauty stood the Lord Commander of the Blue Cloaks, Ser Latchlon of House Pierran.
The plush bedroom in which he stood was lit to brightness by the soft, yellow lights of well-placed candles, their brilliance lighting on the Lord Commander's garb.
Even Latchlon, the humorless Knight had on a costume.
It was a skimpy red highlander skirt that reached just below his strapping thighs. His feet were covered in strapped battle-sandals that ran up his calves but no shirt covered his expanse of golden-brown skin.
The Lord Commander was dressed as Vandal the Titan.
"Are you going to make me wait the entire night?" Latchlon's gruff voice sounded into the serene chamber.
He turned to face the dressing room, the candlelight playing with his tan skin. Another voice rumbled out from behind the curtains, this one lighter.
"I'm coming, just a minute more," the syrupy voice echoed, sounding a little muffled.
Latchlon stood in the centre of the wide bedroom, expensive decor everywhere. The chamber was his assigned quarters at the Fort, and as Lord Commander of the Syverian army, he was granted the grandest building in the Fort.
A mansion called the Peace Manor.
His muscles glistened in the orange candlelight, toned bulk on full display. Latchlon was tall but he was also big which made him intimidating. It was clear in his chiselled body and excellent bone structure that he had also acquired the golden looks that ran in the Pierran royal bloodline.
The Commander was getting impatient by the second, and stood with a slight frown on his face. He was pacing the room like a caged tiger when a soft male voice flowed to him, like music to his ears.
He abruptly stopped pacing and turned. There before him, in front of the dressing room was his Squire, Seth Petyr.
Latchlon looked over the light-skinned man.
Due to his mixed parentage, Seth's skin was the lightest brown, like honey.
As the Commander looked on, his frown immediately faded and his blue eyes lit in love.
"You look beautiful," he said, his eyes going over his valet's form again.
Seth had on a full skirt that swarmed down to his ankles in pleats. His face was dusted in light powder and his brown eyes glinted in the chamber.
He had smooth skin, an acquiline nose, and a heart-shaped face, and if not that Latchlon knew him to be a lad, Seth could've passed for a woman.
Looking at his lovely Squire, the Lord Commander was glad he had waited to see his costume. With his dark, smudged boots, it was obvious Seth was dressed as one of the female horse-masters that tended the royal stables.
A Cowgirl.
"You look beautiful," Latchlon said again, unable to pull his eyes away from the lad's effeminate beauty.
"You've said that before," Seth muttered, flushing under Latchlon's intense gaze.
The Lord Commander almost couldn't breathe as he looked upon the young man. All his life, he had been told by his father: the Infamous pedophile, Vaster the Third, that his love of men was a sickness.
He had been courted to the Grace Temple so many times the Friars had grown tired of him. Even the Graces had concluded to let him be. But with Seth Petyr, he was free. Free to be himself. Free in his Pride.
Seth was his Pride.
The Squire noted Latchlon had a distant look in his eyes and figured he was lost in his thoughts—something he did frequently.
Seth walked to his berserker-dressed Knight.
"Take my hand," he said.
Latchlon was confused but quietly obeyed. Gripping the Commander's hands in his, he twined their fingers together and gently lifted them to his lips, placing a soft kiss on their joined hands.
"You are free," he said. "Your father isn't here to shame your nature or force you into obedience."
In that moment and at Seth's words, Latchlon had never loved anything more. He could kill for Arlon his brother but Seth, he could die for. Suddenly, he removed hands from Seth's.
Before the valet had time to process this abrupt change, Latchlon's hands fell to his waist, gripping him and dragging his soft body into his.
"Yes, I am free but I'm glad my freedom came with you," Latchlon growled, staring deeply into the young Squire's eyes.
That was all it took.
One second, the Commander was voicing the most beautiful words to his Squire, the next, they were kissing madly. A feverish liplock ensued and Seth trailed his hand down, slipping it under Latchlon's kilt.
His palm met with risen wonder and his hazel eyes lit deviously.
"Ready already, Commander?" Seth played with a smile.
A loud growl sounded in the bedchamber right before the Lord Commander grabbed Seth's hand, pulling it away from his massive head and out from under his skirt. He was already so hard every moment stretched him.
Grabbing hold of Seth, he lifted the young man with great strength onto his shoulders and deftly strode for the large bed beyond. Seth giggled on him but Latchlon was now in his primal state; a red-blooded male burning with desire.
His Squire was still giggling when he lowered him to the bed. Seth's back met with the plush merchant-style sheets. He was still grinning seductively when Latchlon's large hands fell in him. The young man was roughly turned over so he faced the scarlet sheets.
The Commander's large body enveloped him from above; a scorching, welcome heat. Seth was already primed for their passion. Soon enough, he felt Latchlon reach down and roughly pull at his pleated skirts. The material gave way at Latchlon's strength, ripping from hem to hoist.
He felt a wet palm slide over his ass then with a deep groan, Latchlon thrust in, all the way in. He filled Seth so overwhelmingly the man stretched on the bed.
Latchlon grabbed both his hands, holding him down as he pounded from above.
Seth groaned and jerked upwards. Latchlon gripped harder and slammed deeper. The stately chamber was soon filled with the grunts and whispered love-words of two heaving males tumbling the sheets.
The Lord Commander of the Blue Cloaks and his epicene young Squire were spasming and groaning on the bed when a certain silver-haired woman walked the hallway just behind the room's door.
Hearing the panting and groaning made by the men, she stopped by the door, inclining her ear to it. After a moment she lifted away and in the mild light of the Manor's hallway, her face was lit in a smile.
This silver-haired woman was none other than the Lord Commander's Chamberlain and Seth's mother.
Mam Petyr continued smiling as she started back across the hallway. She had brought up both men from a young age and was the only one who fully accepted their desires.
Reaching another door, she rapped lightly on it with her knuckles. Then she pushed and walked in.
"Mam Petyr!" a cheery voice called as soon as she made her entrance.
Light patter landed on the wooden floors and soon she was hugged by the young miss of the house.
Lady Caelywn; Ward of the Lord Commander.