"Scrub every inch of your skin until the scent and traces of my brother are nowhere to be seen or smelled, or I shall do it myself."

​The threat hung in the humid air, heavier than the steam. Aurelian didn’t move; he stayed there, watching with an expectant, icy patience that made Julian’s skin crawl.

The implication was clear—if Julian didn’t erase Alaric’s touch from his own body, the Emperor would use his own hands to erase the memory.

And that did not sound like a good thing.

Julian was sensible enough not to be stubborn in times like this. He had to do this. Washing himself until he was red all over did not mean he did not like the Duke any less, and it did not mean that nothing had happened between them. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

There was still the memory in his heart, and the warmth he had felt from intertwining bodies with the Duke, not even the steam from this bath could replace it.

​With trembling fingers, Julian reached for the sponge and the shampoo bottle from the edge of the marble corner, slowly pressing the liquid soap into the sponge.

And then, he began to rub the sponge at his collarbone, the rough texture of the sea-sponge stinging as he scrubbed at the marks. He scrubbed until the skin turned a raw, angry red, his eyes fixed on the water to avoid Aurelian’s golden, dissecting stare.

​Every stroke of the hard sponge felt like a betrayal. He was washing away the only physical proof he had left that Alaric had held him, that someone in this world looked at him and saw a man worth protecting.

Of course, he did not buy the fact that the Duke loved him because he was just a shadow of a dead duchess. He knew the affection had stemmed from somewhere, but it was not entirely the Duchess.

He whimpered but bit his bleeding lip to contain it, his heart feeling heavy and crushed.

He hated the Emperor.

More so now than ever.

​Aurelian watched the process with the detached fascination of a boy pulling wings off a fly.

Only when Julian’s skin was flushed, and the redness caused by the sponge obscured the marks, did the Emperor finally turn away.

​He walked out of the pool like he was walking a red carpet show, water sluiced off his back, his wet skin gleaming like polished gold under the torchlight.

He didn’t spare Julian another glance as the servants appeared from the shadows, draping a plush, heavy robe over his shoulders and placing his flip-flops over his feet.

​"Seven days, Julian Von Astrea," Aurelian called out over his shoulder, his voice echoing off the damp stone as he walked toward the exit. "By the time the moon rises high above the night sky on the Masquerade ball, we shall see if there is anything left of you that my brother can ’recognize’."

​The heavy doors groaned shut, leaving Julian alone in the center of the steaming pool.

​He stood there for a long time, his arms wrapped around his shivering frame. The heat of the pool did nothing to thaw the ice in his marrow.

He looked at his reflection on the rippling water surface—the blue eye, the purple eye, the pale, raw skin that was now glowing red.

He felt less like a man and more like a hollow vessel for other people’s obsessions. The Emperor’s sickly obsession.

​He reached up, his fingers touching his bottom lip. The Emperor hadn’t broken his body, but he was meticulously picking at the stitches of Julian’s mind, thread by thread.

​Six days, Julian thought, a single, hot tear tracing down his cheek till it fell on the pool with a silent ’plip’. Six days until the Masquerade. Can I even remember who I am by then?

If the Emperor humiliates and torments him like this for the remaining six days to come, will he even be able to stay alive till the Masquerade ball?

He looked at the red flickering warning window of his mental stability. The Emperor was picking at his mentality one by one and slowly breaking his mind.

It was such an awful experience that he didn’t know if the waking madness was better.

No, they were both worse. There was no one better between the mad Emperor and the waking madness.

The walk back to the Jade Wing was hollow. Julian moved like a ghost through the drafty, stone corridors, the thin cotton robe chafing against the raw, scrubbed skin of his chest. He felt less like a man and more like a piece of evidence being returned to a locker, his head bowed as the silent steps of the maids leading him back to his room lingered eerily.

Once he stepped across the threshold and was once again in the space of his ’confinement’, the heavy oak doors swung shut with a violent force that rattled the frame.

Thud.

The bolt slid into place with a deafening clack. Julian didn’t look at the room or the cold remains of his dinner. He stumbled toward the bed, his limbs feeling like they were chained to heavy weights, and he collapsed onto the silk covers.

He curled into a ball, his breath hitching in the silent dark as the trauma of the night finally overrode the composure he had been trying hard to keep intact. And then he cried. He cried until his throat was raw, his tears soaking into the pillow until, finally, exhaustion dragged him into a heavy, mercifully blank sleep.

But mercy in the Palace was a fleeting thing.

And it certainly did not reside in sleep.

When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the light linen of the balcony, Julian’s eyes snapped open, and the world hit him with a crushing, physical weight on his heart.

The Waking Madness did not give him a moment of rest, even now.

Julian clenched his chest, heaving and panting, but the air didn’t pass through. He rolled off the bed, his knees hitting the cold floor with a dull thud, and he curled into himself, his back hunched and trembling.

I can’t breathe.