A jolt ripped me from the clutches of sleep, and the soft embrace of Levi’s bed was instantly replaced by the cold, hard reality of… a palace? My wrists and ankles were bound with rough rope, chafing against my skin, and I was wearing in a robe that felt more like a shroud. A royal guard, clad in gleaming armor, prodded me forward, his touch forceful, guiding me deeper into a throne room.

Towering color-stained windows cast kaleidoscopic patterns across the vast space, illuminating rich, red carpets that stretched seemingly miles. The sheer scale of the room was breathtaking, easily capable of housing hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people. Was this… was I actually within the Royal Palace?

The next shove sent me sprawling, my face slamming against the stone floor. A sharp pain shot through my eyes, and tears instantly welled. I tried to lift my head, to see who or what commanded such treatment, but the guard’s hand remained clamped firmly on my neck, pressing me down into the floor. His voice, boomed across the room as he addressed the figure seated on the throne.

“Your Highness, the esteemed Grand Duke Gavinus has presented this offering as a token of his loyalty and service. ‘It’ is a Cyrusian slave, a spoil of war, captured during the recent conflict.”

The hell? What in the deepest circles of the inferno was happening? A war slave? Me? Offered like some… chattel to this king on his gaudy throne?

The figure on the throne remained silent for what felt like an eternity, an agonizing pause that stretched the already taut strings of my fear. Then, with a languid wave of his hand – a gesture I couldn't even see clearly – he issued a silent command. Instantly, the guard hauled me roughly to my feet, still forcing my gaze to the ground. We were marched out of the grand throne room, traversing endless labyrinth of corridors, each more opulent and unsettling than the last. Finally, the guard shoved me into a room. My blurry vision registered several figures – five women in livery– who stood waiting with an unnerving stillness. The space appeared to be a bathroom, of sorts. A large, bathtub dominated the center, surrounded by steaming buckets of water. But… there were no taps or showerheads, just buckets and tub.

What in the actual hell?

Before I could grasp the absurdity of it all, the maids moved, grabbing my arms, stripping the red robe from my body.

“What are you doing?” I roared, my voice echoing uselessly in the tiled room. The maids remained impassive. With a chilling lack of concern, they finished disrobing me, leaving me completely naked. Then, they shoved me into the bathtub. The water, while warm, did little to soothe my rising panic. Rough cloths scraped against my skin as the maids began to scrub me with unsettling vigor. Grime was leaching from my skin, swirling into the water and staining it a murky brown. It seemed, in this bizarre nightmare, I was truly a captured slave.

Their scrubbing continued, their rough hands moving over every inch of my body. Occasionally, their ministrations extended to my most private areas. I clenched my legs together in a futile attempt to maintain some semblance of decency in this utterly debasing situation. Five strange women, bathing me as if I were an object, completely naked and utterly bound. What fresh hell was this?

To be perfectly honest, a torrent of questions and protests churned within me. But the maids made it chillingly clear: my voice held no weight, my desires no consequence. Once their vigorous scrubbing was complete, strong hands gripped me firmly under my arms, lifting my waterlogged and still-bound body from the confines of the tub. Coarse cloths were used to blot and rub my skin until it was no longer dripping, and then they roughly toweled my hair. Finally, with a strange sort of care amidst the violation, they guided me to sit on a low stool in front of a large mirror. I was naked, save for a single, mercifully large towel draped across my lower half.

Now, their ministrations took on a different, more unsettling tone. They brushed my damp hair, their strokes surprisingly gentle, and then began to apply fragrant oils and heavy perfumes to my bare skin. A cold dread seeped into my bones. Why? What was the purpose of this elaborate grooming? The oldest of the maids broke the silence.

“When you are presented before His Majesty,” she instructed, her gaze fixed on my reflection in the mirror, “you are not to lift your head until he explicitly commands it. Furthermore, speaking in a loud tone, or – gods forbid – laughing audibly, is strictly forbidden.”

What fresh hell were these archaic rules?

“B-But… I don’t understand,” I stammered, my voice trembling slightly. “Please, just tell me… why are you doing all of this?”

The old maid’s already stern face hardened further. She flicked her finger against my cheek. My head snapped to the side, a wave of pain momentarily eclipsing my fear. That actually hurt.

Another maid, her voice laced with a tremor of panic, pointed to my bare shoulder. “Madam,” she whispered, “it… it has a scar. A rather prominent one. What are we to do?”

Of course, I had a scar. A nasty reminder of a bullet wound.

The head maid’s gaze lingered on my scarred shoulder. “Conceal it with powder,” she instructed. “The face is acceptable. Add a touch of blush to its cheeks.” Her eyes flickered over my features. “Part the hair down the middle.”

Immediately, the other maids sprang into action. One dabbed a pink blush onto my cheekbones with her fingertips, while another used a fluffy puff to apply a thick layer of pale powder over the jagged scar on my shoulder. A third maid combed through my hair. The head maid returned her attention to me.

“Remember this,” she emphasized, her voice low and firm. “You are not to utter a single word unless His Majesty addresses you directly. Furthermore, direct eye contact with His Majesty is strictly forbidden.”

Don’t speak. Don’t look. Just… obey. My stomach was churning with a fear I hadn’t felt in years.

The head maid’s next words landed like a physical blow, stealing the remaining air from my lungs. “The Grand Duke informed us that you are… untouched. Pray to every deity imaginable that this remains true.”

The forced bathing, the perfuming, the presentation… it wasn't just about servitude. It was about… this.

The head maid continued to issue instructions, her voice a droning hum in the background, but the words themselves failed to penetrate the fog of terror that had descended upon my mind. The horror of my situation had triggered a detached numbness. Through the swirling haze of dissociation, I vaguely registered them dressing me in a crimson robe once more, this time noting the gold embroidery that adorned its silken fabric – a grotesque embellishment on my impending degradation.

Once I was clothed, a silent procession began. The head maid walked rigidly beside me, while the initial four maids were now joined by five more. Each step we took felt like a lead weight dragging me closer to the precipice of some unimaginable horror. A sickening wave of nausea washed over me with every movement, I stumbled repeatedly. Each misstep was met with the head maid’s sharp pinch to my waist.

We halted before a pair of colossal doors, crafted from gleaming wood and adorned with gold carvings that seemed to writhe in the dim light. The maid produced a pair of shears from the depths of her pocket and severed the ropes binding my wrists and ankles. The sudden release, however, offered no sense of freedom, only a stark awareness of the terrifying fate that lay beyond those imposing portals.

“Please…” I choked out, hot tears streaming down my face. “Please… you have to help me… don’t let them…”

“Silence this pathetic whimpering,” she hissed, her grip on my arm tightening like a vise. “Present yourself and serve His Majesty. If you prove… satisfactory, he might even deem you worthy of a meager coin.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

With a final shove, the head maid thrust me across the threshold and into the oppressive darkness beyond. The heavy doors creaked shut behind me, the sound echoing like the closing of a tomb. I remained rooted to the spot, my head bowed. I couldn’t bring myself to lift my eyes. Each shallow breath I managed to draw felt like shards of glass tearing through my lungs.

The only sounds that pierced the silence were the rustle of documents and the tang of ink hanging heavy in the air. He was here. That monarch swine was in this room. A deep voice, cut through the stillness, commanding me to approach. My muscles were frozen with terror, but the instinct to obey, however loathsome, propelled me forward. Keeping my head bowed as instructed, I forced myself to walk a straight line, each step feeling like a desperate trudge through clinging quicksand.

As I shuffled closer, a sudden grip clamped around my hand, yanking it forward with unexpected force. Shit. Shit. This was it. Gods… no. All I could manage were ragged breaths that did little to fill the suffocating void in my chest. Then, I felt a strange, slick coolness spread across my thumb. My numb fingers registered the damp texture of paper. What? This wasn't… the violation I had braced myself for.

The monarch’s hand released mine, and he held up the piece of paper I had just touched. “Here,” he stated, his deep baritone surprisingly devoid of malice, even… calming? “You are no longer a slave. Two of my personal guards will escort you to a nearby village. From this moment forward, you are free to live your life as you see fit.”

What? I… I wasn’t a slave? This monarch, the swine I had imagined, had… freed me?

Hesitantly, I lifted my head, my blurry vision focusing on the figure seated before me. Deep blue eyes, slanted and piercing, met mine. Thick, dark eyebrows above a sculpted face with a long, straight nose that commanded attention. And that voice… that resonant baritone… The air left my lungs in a rush. The monarch… was Levi.

Tears continued to stream down my face, but the raw terror had receded, replaced by a confusing cocktail of emotions – disbelief, relief, a fragile tendril of hope, and a profound disorientation. Yet, Monarch offered no comforting words, no reassuring touch. His eyes held a strange knowing, as if he were witnessing a scene he had played out countless times before. With a subtle gesture towards a smaller door to the side, he spoke. “That room is for your use until the dawn.”

This Monarch… he didn’t recognize me. Not really. My Levi would have already offered me the softest tissues he could find. My Levi wouldn't just stare; he would be asking what was wrong, why I was crying, even if he couldn't grasp the tempest of emotions swirling within me.

“Levi…”

The monarch's eyes narrowed slightly, his thick eyebrows arching. “Interesting,” he mused. “How is it that you know my given name?”

“It’s me… Raphael. Please, do you truly not know me?”

The monarch Levi tilted his head slightly. “What I find far more intriguing than a captured Cyrusian addressing me by my given name,” he stated, his tone measured, “is that you speak the Ascarian tongue with such fluency, devoid of the tell-tale accent. Do tell, Cyrusian… who exactly are you?”

He knew my language, but not me.

A choked sob tore from my throat. No. This wasn't him. This detached being who analyzed my accent while I pleaded for recognition… this was just a cruel imitation, a stranger wearing the beloved contours of his face. I stumbled backward, loud cries escaping my lips. He simply observed me. To him, I was nothing more than an object that had briefly entered his orbit.

Another desperate step backward sent me stumbling against a vase. It crashed to the floor. Levi remained still, his expression unchanged. As the shards glittered on the stone, I could hear the footsteps of the Royal Guards outside the doors. A sharp command from Levi, instantly silenced them, ordering them to remain outside.

“Hm…” Monarch Levi continued. “What a remarkably… counterintuitive specimen you are. Your initial fear wasn't sparked by the breaking of my vase, a transgression one might expect to incur royal displeasure. No. Your terror was reserved for the guards, a concern for potential harm or removal. Tell me, Cyrusian,” he tilted his head, “what creature, brought before a monarch in all his power, directs its deepest fear not at the sovereign, but at his protectors?”

Why would I fear Levi for breaking a vase? The real Levi wouldn't bat an eye if I set the entire palace ablaze. In fact, he'd probably find it amusing, offering a dry comment about handling the logistics. But… there's a chilling similarity between this detached monarch and the Levi I know. That unnerving ability to dissect a person's emotions in seconds.

“I am Raphael,” I choked out, my voice thick with renewed tears. “And I know who you are… We are married, Levi… It will be a year next month…”

His head tilted slightly, his brow furrowed, as if I were a particularly perplexing puzzle. “Hm… What was the term for this behavior in human studies? A sudden onset of confabulation, perhaps, triggered by extreme stress? Or a more complex delusion?”

It felt as though my true Levi had vanished, leaving behind only this cold shell. A desperate resolve hardened within me. I took unsteady steps towards to him, placing my hands on his arm. The fabric of his robes was thick and stiff dwarfing my touch. “Levi…” I whispered, “Do you truly not know me?”

A subtle smirk played on the monarch’s lips as he glanced down at my hand. He was clearly fascinated by the audacity.

“Curious,” he mused. “Despite your circumstances, despite the power I wield, there isn't a flicker of fear in your eyes. Only… sadness. Grief, perhaps? Notice the symmetrical tears.”

I meant absolutely nothing to him.

No. Despite this cold, regal facade, I know my Levi. I know the intricate pathways of his mind, the hidden chambers of his heart, secrets he guards more fiercely than any kingdom, truths he's never uttered to another soul on this earth.

The change was instantaneous. The detached curiosity in his eyes flared into a storm of cold fury, his features hardening, the lines on his face etched deep with raw intensity. At last, the mask cracked.

His fingers shot out, gripping my jaw with a force that made my teeth ache. “Is that what you call it?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Neuro… divergent?”

“Yes,” I breathed, voice quivering but unwavering. “You… your grandfather, your mother… they’re neurodivergent too, Levi.”

He abruptly released my jaw. He pivoted and strode towards his desk. Reaching it, he snatched up a quill and began to furiously scratch notes onto a roll of parchment. Shit… This dream Levi… he truly didn't know. He had lived his entire life feeling different, with no name, no explanation for the way his mind worked. All his life, just a sense of being other. Gods… that was a different kind of torment altogether.

No… This Levi, didn't even have a Raphael. There was no one to hold his hand through the confusing maze of his own mind, no one to listen patiently as he wrestled with his differences, no one to share the mundane intimacies of life – the aversion to tea, the ongoing saga of the house's plumbing woes, the nightly battle for bedcovers. This Levi… he was infinitely more alone than my Levi ever was. He didn't even possess the language to articulate his otherness.

I walked slowly towards, drawn by a strange mix of pity and a desperate need to connect. He was still furiously scribbling, his quill dancing across the parchment, capturing my every word. Finally, he lifted his gaze, his dark blue eyes intense and searching. “How?” he demanded, his voice rough with a raw. “How do you know these things? How… how did you know?”

What could I possibly say? Hello, Your Majesty, I’m from three centuries in the future, and this is likely a figment of my subconscious mind. No, of course not. The truth of how I knew didn't matter in this moment. I reached out and gently took his hand, his fingers were cold.

“It doesn’t matter how I know, Levi,” I said softly. “What matters is that after all these years, you finally have a name for the way your mind works, for the feeling of being… different. You will find someone, in this life or another, who will not only love you with the fierce loyalty but will truly see you, Levi. Someone who will simply… let you be.”

“Is there… a cure?”

The question caught me completely off guard. I had been so focused on validation, that the concept of a "cure" hadn't even registered.

The answer, however, was immediate and absolute.

“No. There is no cure. No potion, no surgery, no drug. Because… it isn’t a sickness, something broken that needs to be fixed.”

There was no argument, no further probing, no demand for explanation. It was as if the years of unspoken difference had finally found a resonance, a quiet acceptance or perhaps a weary resignation settling over him.

“I… understand.”

I waited, a breath held captive in my chest, for the inevitable command, the decree that would dictate my next move. But the order never came. Instead, Monarch Levi turned his gaze towards the window, his attention fixed on the soft blush of color spreading across the horizon. The dawn had arrived. Just as he had said, two guards appeared. They escorted me not back to the dungeons, but towards a waiting carriage. They informed me, their voices low and respectful, that I was being taken to a secure village, a sanctuary for others who had been granted their freedom.