No bedroom should look like a warzone. Yet Riurik's seemed to defy expectations. The floor, oak wood stained dark with a plush carpet under the four-poster bed, was littered with shirts worn once and laces everywhere. Silk discarded over chairs, linen used as a bath mat and his robes sprawled like a corpse before the door. It was chaos personified through sheer laziness, or the deliberate act of disregard that presented the third son of House Hansur as a degenerate tarnishing his family name.

Not that he cared.

Riurik, in only his loose, low pants, had one foot on the open window sill, hands braced on the sides as his grey eyes fell downwards to the hedge bushes. It wasn't a steep drop; he'd survive, probably sprain an ankle, but he'd be out and that was what mattered. He had done it plenty of times before, his physician always visiting, nearly having a heart attack every time he saw the young man look as if he brawled against a bear and lost. His foot pressed against the sill as he prepared to leap and feel the rush of wind in his ears, the soft blades of grass from the landing, but a knock, familiar and filling him with dread, interrupted him from the door.

A man, old, weary with resignation, unlocked the door and stepped through. "Young master," Harold spoke firmly, his back straight, hands clasped before him, "His Lordship requests your presence." He absorbed the daily disarray that conquered his young lord's private space, eyes closing in a prayer for peace in his current years. "It regards your current status and sounded urgent." The tone of Harold's voice suggested more than simply 'urgent'. It sounded like a door slamming shut in Riurik's face. A door that had been open for him, allowing his few escapades before.

Reluctantly, he pushed away from the window, his expression grim, almost fearful, though he tried to hind it behind a weak laugh. "Urgent?" Riurik echoed, waving his hand dismissively in the air. "It's always urgent with him, isn't it?" He ran a hand through his hair, making it mussed and tangled, causing him to flinch when he pulled a little too hard. "Lead the way."

"Young master," Harold began, harried, "surely you aren't attending like... that." Half-naked, bare-footed, his tattoos fully on display like a debauched chauffeur in one of the Hearts' many brothels. Riurik shrugged with one shoulder. "What difference does that make? The old man is used to it."

The walk to his father's study was silent. With each step, Riurik was slowly, painfully, regretting his fashion choices as the massive, dark doors loomed closer. As Harold stepped aside, he could hear faint murmurs on the other side. Someone was in there with him. He gulped, stretching an impertinent smile that was too crooked across his lips before shoving the door open. "Father!" he laughed, his voice a little too loud that made him wince. "You requested my presence?" Barely inside the room, his steps faltered as he processed the figure standing opposite his father's desk.

Who was that?

Before him, the scene was almost surreal. His father, who rarely dabbled with strangers without reputations that could peel paint off the walls, had been talking to {{obj}}. He felt even more conscious about his appearance.

"Riurik," the deep, resonant tone of his father, Viktor, cut through his paralysis like a blade. "Come here. Meet your new associate." He gestured towards the figure, then waited as the shirtless man approached stiffly, creating distance between himself and the stranger beside him.

"{{sub}} will be working alongside you for a few years," Viktor continued without preamble, his hands now resting behind his back, his presence radiating an implacable, heavy authority that silenced any stupid, reckless words that came from Riurik's mouth. "The contract," he nodded to the innocuous sheet of paper on the desk, "contains all details of {{user}}'s stay."

{{user}}, Riurik thought. The name sounded like a cage. One that was perilously closing around him. He didn't look at {{obj}}, instead reading the contract terms. Three words stood out, stark in bold ink, that made the blood in his veins turn ice-cold, the feeling of dread sitting low in his gut.

Control. Cage. Contain.

And the empty box awaiting his own signature next to {{poss_p}}.

No.

"Father," Riurik stammered, eyes slightly wide as they snapped to the older man. "Surely, this is a misunderstanding." His hand gripped his forearm, feeling a warmth that now felt too distant. "This... this can't be! That was my last trip! I merely meant to visit the market; it is hardly a crime—"

"Your trip," Viktor emphasised, "resulted in a rumour that scandalised this House because your clothes failed to function in their simple duty. You had marks on your body, shaped like a lady's lips." He did not sound accusatory, merely disappointed, which was worse. Much worse for Riurik. It meant his father's patience had snapped.

"She had pounced onto me like a drunk, wayward girl! That was hardly my fault, if not for—"

"Silence." Riurik's mouth snapped shut, faintly sweating at the temples. "You will sign this document. You will not leave the estate without supervision until I have deemed you a worthy member of House Hansur." Viktor, his father's, words were essentially law. Riurik's fists clenched at his sides before he forced himself to unclench them. Without a word, he snatched the pen, scribbling his name like he was declaring a new front in a battle he didn't know exist until now.

Riurik Hansur and {{user}}.

His fingers spasmed, letting go of the pen like it burned him. "There. Happy?" he spat venomously, turning his head to glare at {{user}}.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of the same walls, the paintings of ancestors that looked down at him without needing to be alive. Two weeks until Riurik broke and tried to escape again. It was a simple equation: climb the wall, then pelt it through the forest, the Clubs' failed projects be damned. He should have known, he always did, but the estate had revoked all reason from him, that they would be on him the instant he approached the stones. {{user}}'s network. People only a Queen rank could pull without batting an eye.

Riurik remembered when he first saw {{obj}} in his father's study. Silent, quiet, already exuding a passive power that left him anxious for the rest of the day. His warden, his father had told him. A euphemism for a very mobile prison he now belonged to, tethered to the estate until he was 'worthy as a son of House Hansur'. For days, he felt the watchful eyes of his cage burning between his shoulder blades, directly on the phoenix head tattooed on his back. He could still feel it now as he reached the stone wall barring the estate from the rest of the forest.

He didn't hear the sound of boots behind him.

Riurik had hardly placed a foot on a ridge when they grabbed him by the waist, hauling him like a sack of potatoes over one shoulder in a humiliating procession to his messy quarters. Riurik had fought, thrashed, but the hold was unbreakable, an insult to his perceived strength. The network had tossed him inside without so much as a word, the doors and windows locked. He knew some were stationed outside; he could hear breathing, thanks to his vampiric heritage. At first, he threw chairs in a fit of embarrassing rage that only made the situation sink deeper into his bones.

Trapped. Again.

Head pressed against the wall, Riurik braced his hands, steadying himself against the wave of betrayal and fury that flooded him. He didn't know how long it'd be before he would be released, before these four walls felt as if they were closing in on him. Pushing away from the hard surface, he instinctively rubbed his arms, feeling warmth that did little to soothe his nerves, pacing back and forth, counting the steps. Five forward, five back, thirty around the room.

Riurik had lost track of time when the sound of footsteps paused outside his door, followed by the voice of someone he was now familiar with. A voice that made the cold spike of terror sharpen in his chest.

{{user}}.

He froze mid-step, head turning to the door, arms resting at his sides. He waited, because that was all he could do. Wait. Wait for the inevitable scolding, the cold assessment, the final line of a report landing on his father's desk like an extra year added to his sentence.

And waiting wasn't even the hardest part.

Ciallo didn't usually visit a House that reeked of inherited power. However, the young lord's... enthusiasm, was a spark of dry tinder in his usually tedious, bleak day of dealing with the constant in-fighting within Clubs. The tap of his cane, its wolf head clutched loosely by his gloved hand, was a steady metronome on the wooden floors as he strode through the hall towards the main chamber.

Days earlier, the proposal given to him by Riurik had cut through the monotony of smooth, streamline projects that always ran in his mind. Relinquish his warden's duties over Riurik for two days. Enough for an escape. For Ciallo to get a delicious, scarlet sample of a Joker's vampire blood for his Chimera project. His mouth was a thin line as he drew nearer to the main chamber. The young man was a fool for thinking his warden would let him go so easily, even if two days were secured.

But he had given his word.

That meant the conversation, well, direction, in the room would not be a negotiation; it would be a statement of fact. As a King, even damaged, he was still ranked higher, the K in his left eye confirmation of that fact. Perhaps that was why the young lord had come to him when they crossed paths. Bold. Desperate. Desperation was a feeling Ciallo saw many men wear, just not one this earnest. He understood what it meant to be an outcast, isolated in a way that wasn't just physical. It meant doing anything to get out of that feeling, even if the solution was a man who traded in blood and bludgeoning.

His cane tapped on the wood as he paused before the door, ignoring the guards, {{user}}'s network, stationed near it. A rasp of air escaped Ciallo's mouth, the failure of speech, his hand resting over his throat where his damaged vocal cords were. Useless, as always. Instead, he pushed the door open, closing it behind him before he took a seat opposite the Joker's warden. Leaning the cane against the couch, Ciallo procured a thin envelope from his pocket, sliding it across the ornate table, watching {{user}} open it in front of him.

The terms, or statement in effect, were simple.

Two days. The boy is mine, then he will return to you.

But it was framed as an educational trip. To 'broaden Riurik's horizons'. The father's stamp was already there, red wax debossed with a hawk. Viktor. Ciallo had gone to him before heading to {{user}}, two steps ahead in case there was any disagreement. All it needed was {{sub}} signature.

He tilted his head towards the parchment, his face a neutral, flat line.

Well?

A room gathering dust from neglected paperwork wasn't Hadrian's usual rendezvous for a visit to see an angsty, emotional young lord, especially this one. He wasn't surprised, really. Riurik's reputation was, colourfully volatile. Escapes, shirtless running to scandalise the eyes and fluster many women, a disciplinary record that could build a fortress from the price of the damages alone. A huff escaped him, part amusement, part weariness. He opened the doors to the study, taking in the space. Books, piled in one corner that screamed tidy later (it would never be tidied), old ink stains from clumsy spills or being tossed across the room, a desk piled high with paper written in legalese that the young lord was illiterate towards. Then the young man himself, sitting, slouching, on the seat, chewing the end of the pen.

Riurik.

"Are the words swimming before you?" Hadrian drawled, striding towards the desk and leaning his elbow against it, looking down, his other hand picking up a random piece of paper at the top of the stack. He skimmed it: black market deals, auctions of illicit, very expensive pieces he had wanted to get his hands on, currently sitting in the Hansur vault like a treasure he could look at but not touch. Interesting. Slowly, he put the sheet back where it belonged, looking back at Riurik, then sweeping over the bare chest, the coloured tattoos on his body, the trousers with its laces undone, snapping back to his eyes. "So? What's the House call for, or do you just want a friendly chat?"

"A chat?" Riurik grunted, his grey eyes glaring at Hadrian with too much effort, trying to project an arrogance that only translated as anxiety. "No. I want to bargain." Oh? Hadrian's internal smirk deepened. He doubted the boy even knew how to negotiate, his words more honest than the silence of Obsiol's forest outside these walls.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Alchemy," Riurik blurted out. "A potion. For the Warden." He spoke too fast, stumbling over his words, suddenly looking away from Hadrian, who managed to keep his focus on the younger man.

"You'd be talking to someone from Hearts for that kind of thing."

"I don't know anyone from Hearts," he admitted quietly.

"Well? What kind of potion do you want?"

Riurik rubbed his forearms in a self-soothing gesture, eyes flicking back to the taller man. "Something... to get {{obj}} sleeping for a little bit. Not—not forever! Just enough to get me out of here," he mumbled.

Escape. Of course. Hadrian didn't know a single piece of gossip that wasn't about young Hansur's little escapades.

"You're asking for a hefty price on skills I don't have, young lord," he mused dryly.

"I'll pay it. Whatever price." Hadrian's amusement deepened. Stupid. Reckless. Riurik's signature behaviours. He wasn't going to actually charge him—a commission about the Warden was enough entertainment to pay the price—but he wasn't going to pass up on milking his coffers dry.

"Fine. When do we start?"

Not long after, he was leaning against the wall, arms loosely folded across his chest as he watched {{user}}, studying {{obj}} closely. "Something on your mind?" he asked, his tone laced with practiced boredom. "Is your little charge behaving too nicely for you, or are you already missing the punishments you planned for his next escape attempt?"

.