The palace gardens stretch out in the afternoon heat, and crown prince Aldric watches from the shade. His green eyes track a girl who kneels near the rose bed, pulling weeds from the soil. She wears a plain grey dress, rough-spun and sweat-stained at the back. Her hair is tied back with a strip of linen. She is young, maybe nineteen, and her arms work in a steady rhythm as she digs into the dirt.
Aldric pushes off the pillar he leans against. His shirt hangs half-open, collar undone, cuffs rolled to his forearms. He walks down the stone steps with the loose stride of someone who owns every surface his boots touch. The scuffed leather makes no sound on the grass.
He catches her near the garden wall, where the hedge grows thick and the path curves out of sight from the main courtyard. His hand closes around her wrist. She gasps and drops the trowel. It lands in the dirt with a soft thud.
"Hurry," he grunts. He pulls her through a narrow gap in the hedge into a storage room that smells of dry clay pots and cut grass. The door is half-rotted, barely on its hinges. He pushes her against the wall. Her back hits the stone, and a small cloud of dust lifts from the mortar.
"Your Highness—" she starts.
His mouth covers hers. His hand gathers the fabric of her skirt and hauls it up to her waist. She wears nothing underneath except a thin shift, and he tears that aside with one pull. The sound of ripping cloth is loud in the small space. Her fingers grip his shoulders.
"Oh!" she moans against his lips. Her head falls back. The wall is rough against her shoulder blades.
Aldric fumbles with the laces of his trousers. He is hard already, his cock straining against the fabric. He frees himself and lifts her left leg, hooking it around his hip. He lines up and thrusts forward in one hard stroke.
She cries out. Her nails dig into his shoulders through the linen shirt. He groans, a low, guttural sound that comes from deep in his chest. "Ugh, yes." He pulls back and thrusts again, harder. His hips snap forward with a wet slap of skin against skin.
"Ah—ah—" she pants. Her hands slide up to his neck. Her fingers tangle in the disheveled waves of his dark gold-brown hair.
He fucks her against the wall with deep, driving strokes. Each thrust pushes her higher up the stone. The dust settles on her bare thighs. His breathing grows ragged, heavy. Sweat collects at his hairline and rolls down the side of his neck into the open collar of his shirt.
"Fuck," he mutters. He grips her hip with one hand, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks. His other hand braces against the wall above her head. "You're tight."
She whimpers. Her eyes are squeezed shut. Her mouth opens and closes, and little sounds spill out with each thrust, high, breathy noises that bounce off the clay pots stacked around them. "Ah, ah, please—"
He picks up speed. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of her fill the area. His jaw clenches. The muscles in his broad shoulders bunch and flex under his shirt. He drives into her with a rhythm that has no patience in it, no tenderness. He takes what he wants.
"Ugh, yes—" he grunts. His forehead drops to her shoulder. His breath comes in hot bursts against her neck. His hips piston forward, faster, harder. The old pots rattle on their shelves from the force of it.
She bites her lip. A strangled moan climbs out of her throat. Her leg tightens around his hip. Her whole body stiffens, and then she shudders, her cunt clenching around him in spasms. "Ah—ah—ah!"
He follows seconds later. Three more brutal thrusts, and he buries himself deep. His back arches. A groan tears out of him, raw, animal. His cock twitches inside her as he spills, pulse after pulse, filling her with his cum. He holds himself there, hips pressed flush against her, riding the last waves of it.
His breathing slows. He pulls out. Cum drips from her onto the dirt floor. He steps back, tucks himself back into his trousers, and laces up with steady hands. She slides down the wall. Her skirt falls back into place, but the torn shift hangs useless beneath it. She presses her thighs together. A flush spreads across her cheeks and chest.
Aldric looks at her. His green eyes are clear, watchful, already moving past the moment. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver coin. He sets it on the shelf beside a cracked pot.
"Get yourself to the kitchens," he says. "Tell the head cook I sent you. He'll find you easier work."
Then he turns and walks out through the gap in the hedge. His boots crunch on the gravel path. He does not look back.
By the time the girl stumbles out of the storage room and back into the garden, a servant in the queen's livery is already waiting. The woman is middle-aged, plain-faced, and carries no expression. She holds a small clay cup filled with a dark liquid that smells of bitter herbs.
"Drink," the servant says.
The girl takes the cup. She knows what it is. All the palace girls know. Moonleaf tea. The queen's potion. It makes the womb reject any seed that takes root. The girl tips the cup back and swallows. The taste is vile, thick, bitter, like chewing on tree bark soaked in vinegar. Her stomach turns. She hands the cup back and presses a hand over her mouth until the nausea passes.
The servant takes the empty cup, turns, and walks toward the queen's solar without a word.
Queen Isolde sits at her writing desk. The room is orderly, every surface clean, every object placed with intention. The iron combs in her auburn braid catch the candlelight. She touches one comb at her temple, her pale grey eyes fixed on the clay cup the servant has just returned.
"Did she drink it?" Isolde asks.
"All of it, Your Majesty."
"Good." Isolde folds her hands on the desk. Her fingers lace together, still and precise. But her jaw is tight. The comb turns between her fingers, a small, controlled motion that she only does when calculating.
She has given the tea to dozens of girls over the past six years. She knows the dosage. She knows the timing. She knows it works most of the time. But most is not all. There have been whispers in the apothecary's quarters that some bodies reject the herb, that the moonleaf fails when a woman is too fertile or too strong-willed. One girl two years ago bled for three days after drinking it and then stopped bleeding entirely. That girl was sent away to a distant holding before anyone could ask questions. Isolde made sure of it.
She stands. Her gown is midnight blue, high-collared, fitted at the sleeves. She moves with deliberate grace toward the door. There is a meeting to attend.
The East Tower Study is warm with a low fire. King Matthias sits at the head of the table, his thick hands wrapped around a goblet of watered wine. His white-edged beard catches the firelight. The crown sits on a stand behind him, not on his head, he only wears it for ceremony. His velvet doublet is forest green today, practical, fur-trimmed at the collar. He coughs once into his fist and clears his throat.
Four advisors fill the chairs along one side of the table. They are older men, experienced in court matters, dressed in the muted colors of their station. Across from them sits Duke Beltran, the king's half-brother. His posture is straight, his hands clasped behind his chair. His slate grey eyes move from face to face, reading the room. His double-breasted coat is deep burgundy. The signet ring on his left hand catches the light when he shifts.
Queen Isolde enters and takes her seat beside the king. She does not greet the room. She simply sits, folds her hands, and waits.
"We are here to discuss the prince," King Matthias says. His voice is deep, gravelly. "The matter of his... appetites." He says the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
"He bedded another servant girl today," Isolde says. Her tone is flat. "In a garden storage room. She has been given the tea."
One advisor clears his throat. "Your Majesty, if I may, the moonleaf tea has been effective thus far. No pregnancies have been confirmed."
"Thus far," Isolde repeats. Her fingers touch the comb at her temple. "The herb is not foolproof. It fails. I have seen it fail." She looks at the advisor with eyes that offer no warmth. "One bastard with a claim to the throne, and we face a succession crisis that tears this kingdom apart. I have seen what contested succession does. I will not watch it happen here."
The room goes quiet. The fire pops. Matthias sets down his goblet.
"The boy will not stop," Matthias says. He does not sound angry. He sounds tired. "I have commanded him. His mother has reasoned with him. He nods, agrees, and does exactly as he pleases the next day." His thick fingers rub the arm of his chair. "We cannot lock him in his chambers. He is the crown prince."
"We could increase the guard around his quarters," another advisor suggests. "Limit his access to the household staff."
"And he will ride into the city and find women there instead," Beltran says. His voice is measured, calm. He uncrosses his legs and leans forward. "The problem is not access. The problem is appetite. You cannot guard against appetite with more guards."
Matthias looks at his half-brother. "Then what do you suggest, Beltran?"
Beltran's hands come from behind the chair and fold on the table. His grey eyes hold the king's gaze. "A male concubine," he says.
The words land in the room like a stone dropped into still water.
"What?" Matthias's brow furrows.
"A male concubine," Beltran repeats. His voice does not waver. "Give the prince a man to fuck. He can take him to bed every night, morning, and afternoon if he pleases. No pregnancy. No bastard. No succession crisis. The problem solves itself."
"Mind your language," Matthias snaps. His hand comes down on the table. "You speak in front of the queen."
Beltran's lip curls. It is a small, cheeky expression that touches the corners of his mouth and dies there. He glances at Isolde. She does not look offended. She looks like she is calculating.
In the kingdom of Sorenth, the practice is not unusual. Men lie with men openly in the courts and the cities. Nobles keep male concubines alongside female ones. It is not whispered about or hidden. It is simply part of how the world works, a known arrangement, a practical one, acknowledged in law and custom. Some lords prefer women, some prefer men, some prefer both. The crown prince, however, has only ever pursued women. Every conquest, every affair, every late-night tryst in his chambers has been with a female. The court knows this. The queen knows this better than anyone.
"A male concubine will not work," Isolde says. Her voice is low, certain. "Aldric is straight. He has never shown interest in a man. He will not bed one simply because we place one in his path."
Beltran leans back in his chair. His fingers tap the signet ring against the wood. "You underestimate what the right person can do. Desire is not always so fixed as you think. I have seen straight men curve when the right temptation is put in front of them." He pauses. "I will find someone. Someone who can make the prince want him, even if the prince has never wanted a man before."
"How?" Isolde asks. Her fingers have stopped touching the comb. Both hands are flat on the table now.
"First, we disguise him as a courtier," Beltran says. "A servant assigned to the prince's household. The prince does not need to know what we are doing. He simply meets the boy, and we let nature take its course."
The advisors murmur among themselves. One of them, a thin man with a grey beard speaks up. "It is not a poor plan, Your Majesty. If the duke can find the right person, the risk of pregnancy disappears entirely. No moonleaf tea. No bastards. No crisis."
"And if the prince rejects him?" Matthias asks. "If he figures out what we are doing?"
"Then we are no worse off than we are now," Beltran says. "He goes back to bedding servant girls, and you keep giving them tea and hoping it works. But at least we will have tried something other than prayer and herbs."
The room falls silent again. Matthias looks at his wife. Isolde's face gives nothing away. Her grey eyes are fixed on Beltran, studying him. Then she looks at the king.
"One month," she says. "Give him one month. If this does not work, I reopen marriage negotiations with the Harren girl."
Matthias exhales. The breath is heavy, carrying the weight of a man who would rather not be making this decision. He looks around the table. The advisors nod, one by one. Beltran's expression remains composed, but there is something in his eyes, a spark of purpose or maybe something else.
"Fine," Matthias says. "Find someone. But this stays between the people in this room. If word reaches Aldric, the entire plan is worthless."
"Of course, Your Majesty," Beltran says. He stands. His posture is perfectly straight, militarily so. "I will leave for the village tomorrow morning."
The village sits half a day's ride from the palace walls. It is a small cluster of stone and timber houses along a dirt road, bordered by farmland and a stream that runs muddy brown in the spring. Beltran arrives with two advisors on horseback, dressed in traveling cloaks that hide their rank. They leave the silver-handled walking stick with the horses. Beltran carries himself the same way without it.
They walk the main road. They visit the tavern. They watch the young men who carry sacks of grain, who mend fences, who lead carts through the market square. Beltran studies each one with his slate grey eyes, and each time, he shakes his head.
Too broad. Too short. Too rough in the face. Too obvious.
By midday, they have walked the village twice. The advisors are hungry and discouraged. One of them suggests they try the next village, a half-day further east.
Beltran is about to agree when his gaze catches something past the far end of the road.
A boy stands outside a low stone house. He is turned half-away, his side and back visible. Long black hair falls straight past his hips, dark as ink, catching the light in a smooth sheet. His frame is narrow, slim shoulders, a thin waist, clothes that hang loose but cannot fully hide the shape of his body underneath. His trousers sit on his hips, and when he shifts his weight to one leg, the fabric pulls tight across a round, full backside that curves out from his slender frame.
Beltran stops walking.
If he had not looked carefully, if he had only glanced, he would have thought the figure was a girl. The hair, the narrow build, the curve of the ass through the worn trousers. Everything about the silhouette reads female from a distance.
"Who is that?" Beltran asks. His voice is quiet, directed at the advisor nearest to him.
The advisor squints. "I cannot tell. A girl, perhaps?"
Beltran's mouth tightens. "That is no girl. Look at the shoulders."
The advisor looks again. The shoulders are slim, yes, but they sit differently than a woman's. The neck is leaner. The way the boy stands, one foot propped against the wall, arms hanging loose, carries a casual ease that belongs to a young man.
Beltran walks toward the house. His boots are steady on the dirt path. The boy does not notice him until he is close. Then the boy turns, and Beltran sees his face.
High cheekbones. A full mouth that sits in a natural line of seriousness. Lashes so long they cast faint shadows on his fair cheeks when he looks down. Dark eyes, black, deep, watchful. He is beautiful in a way that is not quite masculine, not quite feminine, but something that sits between the two and borrows from both.
"Where are your parents?" Beltran asks.
The boy looks at him. His expression does not change. He lifts one hand and points toward the open door of the house behind him.
Beltran nods to the advisors. They follow the boy inside.
The house is small. A single room serves as kitchen and living space. A fire burns low in the hearth. A woman sits at the table, mending a shirt by the light from the window. A man stands by the hearth, stirring something in a pot. Two children, a boy and a girl, both around ten years old, clearly twins with the same round faces and dark hair, sit on a mat near the fire, playing a game with stones.
The boy with the long hair follows the duke and advisors in and stands near the door. He presses his lips together. His hands hang at his sides.
Beltran does not wait. He turns to the boy. "How old are you?"
The boy meets his eyes. "Eighteen."
Beltran nods. He turns to the parents. The woman has set down her mending. The man holds the wooden spoon still, watching. Both of them are thin, worn, dressed in clothes that have been mended more than once.
"I am Duke Beltran Lethbridge, brother to the king," he says. He does not raise his voice. He does not need to. "I am here on behalf of the crown. We are looking for a young man to serve as a courtier in the prince's household. Your son has caught our attention."
The woman's hands come together. The man sets down the spoon.
"A courtier?" the man asks. His voice is careful, wary.
"A personal attendant to the crown prince," Beltran says. "He would serve in the palace, assist with the prince's daily needs, and live in the royal quarters." He pauses. "The position pays well. Very well. More than this household sees in five years, paid each month."
He does not mention the word concubine. He does not mention what the real purpose is. He tells them exactly what he needs them to hear, that their son is being offered a position of service in the palace, and that the pay will change their lives.
The woman's eyes go to her son. The man's jaw works. The twins have stopped their game and stare up at the strangers in their house.
The boy, Ren, stands by the door. His lips are pressed together hard. His dark eyes move from the duke to his parents and back. He does not want this. He can feel the wrongness of it, the pieces that do not fit. Courtiers are not recruited from village houses. They are not found standing outside their homes by dukes who happen to pass by.
But he looks at his father's hands, cracked, calloused, the nails broken from work that pays barely enough to feed the family. He looks at his mother's mending, the same shirt, re-stitched three times, the fabric so thin it will tear again within a month. He looks at the twins. His sister's dress is too short. His brother's shoes have holes.
"Yes," Ren says. The word comes out before he has fully decided to say it. "I will do it."
His mother's eyes fill. His father's hand grips the edge of the table.
"Good," Beltran says. "Collect whatever is precious to you. We leave shortly. You will not be able to see your family for a long time."
The words settle in the room. The fire crackles. One of the twins, the girl, reaches for her brother's hand.
Ren stands still. His fingers curl at his sides. He looks around the small room, the hearth, the worn table, the mat where the twins play, the shelf where his mother keeps her one good cup. He looks at his family.
"I do not have anything to take," he says. His voice is quiet. "The only precious things to me are here."
His mother makes a sound. It is small, broken. She stands and crosses the room and pulls him into her arms. His father watches. His jaw is tight. He does not speak.
The twins stand. The girl wraps her arms around Ren's waist. The boy presses his face into Ren's back. Ren puts one hand on his sister's head and one on his brother's shoulder. He holds them. His eyes are open, looking past them at the wall, and his throat works as he swallows.
Beltran waits by the door. He watches. His face shows nothing.
After a moment, Ren steps back. He looks at the duke. "I am ready."
The palace receives him like a raw stone dropped into a jewel box. Servants take him to a bathing chamber deep in the east wing. The tub is copper, large enough for two, and the water is warm and smells of lavender and something sharper underneath, lye, maybe, or astringent herbs meant to clean every inch of skin.
Ren strips. His clothes are taken away and burned. He does not ask what happens to them. He steps into the water and scrubs. The soap is hard and white, different from the soft brown blocks his mother used. He washes his hair, it takes a long time, the dark length of it floating in the water like ink. He rinses, stands, and dries himself with a towel that is softer than anything he has ever touched.
New clothes wait on a bench. A plain tunic in cream linen, clean and whole. Trousers in soft slate grey, fitted but not tight. A simple belt of brown leather. Soft shoes that fit his feet. He dresses. The fabric sits against his skin differently than his old clothes, lighter, smoother, as if it is learning the shape of him.
A steward meets him in the corridor. The man is middle-aged, precise in his movements, and speaks in short sentences. He walks Ren through the prince's routine as they move through the halls.
"The prince wakes at mid-morning. He breaks his fast alone. He rides before noon if the weather holds. He takes lunch in his chambers. He does not like to be disturbed before then. He takes dinner in the hall or in his rooms, depending on his mood. He drinks red wine, not white. He prefers his meat rare. He does not like sweet things. He does not like cold rooms. The fireplace in his chambers is never allowed to die."
The steward lists preferences, habits, and schedules the way a soldier lists commands. Ren listens. He memorizes. His face stays still.
"You will serve him his lunch today," the steward says. They stop outside a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. Two guards stand on either side. "Lunch is prepared. Take the tray. Knock. Wait."
Ren nods. He collects the tray from a side table, covered dishes, a goblet of wine, bread, a small bowl of oil. The tray is heavy. He balances it against his chest and walks to the door.
He knocks. The sound is small. No answer comes from inside.
He looks at the guards. They look back. One of them, a thick-necked man with a short beard, smiles. It is not a kind smile. It is the kind of smile someone wears when they know something you do not.
"Go in," the guard says.
Ren frowns. "I knocked. There was no answer."
"Go in," the guard repeats. His smile widens.
The other guard reaches past Ren and pushes the door open. It swings inward on oiled hinges. The room beyond is dim, heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and spilled wine. Heavy brocade curtains block the windows. The fireplace crackles with low flames. Half-finished wine glasses sit on every surface. A massive canopied bed draped in crimson silk dominates the far wall, its sheets rumpled.
The room is empty.
Ren steps inside. He holds the tray and looks around. The long velvet chair by the window had a shirt thrown over it. The shirt was made of fine linen, with the collar open and hanging loose, as if someone had taken it off quickly. A riding crop rested on the arm of another chair. The candles had burned halfway down, and melted wax had gathered on the brass holders like small frozen streams.
He takes another step toward the table near the center of the room. His soft shoes make no sound on the stone floor. He sets the tray down, adjusting the dishes so they do not slide.
Then he hears water. A soft splash, from behind a curtain at the far end of the chamber.
The curtain pulls aside, and Aldric walks out.
He is naked.
Water runs down his body in slow lines. His skin is golden, not tanned from labor but warm-toned, as if the color lives in him. His hair is darker when wet, the chestnut waves pushed back from his face, dripping onto his shoulders. His body is muscular in the way of someone who rides daily and trains with a sword, broad shoulders that taper to a lean waist, a chest with definition that shows without flexing, the flat plane of his stomach leading down in a line of dark hair that trails from his navel.
Water collects in the hollow of his throat. It runs along the line of his collarbone. It drips from his jaw, which is strong and square, shadowed with the faintest stubble. His green eyes find Ren immediately. They are sharp, clear, and they miss nothing.
Ren's gaze moves downward. It is not a choice. His eyes drop on their own, pulled by something he does not control. They follow the line of dark hair from the prince's stomach down past his navel, past the ridge of his hip bones, down to where the water drips from the V of muscle at his groin.
Aldric's cock hangs between his thighs. It is soft, flaccid, resting against his leg. It is large, thick even in its resting state, the head visible beneath the foreskin, the shaft heavy and veined. It sways slightly when he moves. Below it, his balls hang full and round in a loose sac.
Ren has seen penises before. At the lake, boys and men swam without clothes. He has glimpsed them in passing, average sizes, unremarkable shapes. But this is not average. This is something else. Even soft, it looks heavy, thick, intimidating. The kind of thing that makes a person's mouth go dry and their stomach pull tight with something that sits between fear and fascination.
Aldric sees where Ren is looking. He laughs. The sound is warm, easy, the kind of laugh that comes from someone who has been looked at before and enjoys it.
"Close your mouth girl ," Aldric says. His voice is amused. "A fly might get in."
Heat rushes up Ren's neck. It floods his cheeks. His ears burn. He snaps his mouth shut, he had not even realized it was open. His fingers grip the edge of the table behind him. His eyes drop to the floor, then snap back up, then drop again. He cannot seem to control where they go.
He turns. His hands find the tray and he adjusts it again needlessly, just to have something to do with his fingers. He sets the goblet straight. He lines up the bread. Then he turns toward the door.
He walks fast. His soft shoes make no sound on the stone. He reaches the door, grips the iron handle, and pulls it open.
Before he steps through, he stops. He turns his head. His face is still flushed red. His black eyes meet the prince's green ones.
"I am a guy," Ren says. His voice is tight. "Not a girl."
Then he steps through the door and pulls it shut behind him. His footsteps fade quickly down the corridor.
Inside the chamber, Aldric stands where the water left him. His head tilts slightly to one side. His expression is still for a moment, caught between surprise and something else. The laugh had faded. His brow lifts. His green eyes stay on the closed door.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth pulls upward. It is not a full smile. It is a tug, small, private, the kind that happens when something unexpected lands in a day that is usually full of the expected.
He looks down at himself. Still wet. Still naked. Still standing in a room that smells of smoke and old wine.
"Huh," he says.
He turns and walks to the closet and puts some clothes on.
He then sits down and eats the lunch.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
