Being fucked three inches deep into the bed by a man or a woman you hardly knew was always something to remember. The surprise of a new discovery, pleasant or not, spiced up the experience like a kick from a good batch of khizrar, turning whatever shortcomings one might stumble upon the second or third time nothing more than a faint smudge on a canvas about to be painted red. The excitement of being stripped down to the skin in front of a stranger, and then, at the ebb and flow of that heart-pounding anxiety, of diving head-first into an act so dangerously intimate, so senseless, offered a thrill not too different from stepping into a wrestling match to fight an unknown opponent blindfolded. It happened on Raviyani. Most men and women tried different partners on those nights, sometimes to discover oneself in the act of lovemaking, other times to discover new things about making love.

Except that it was neither Raviyani, nor what they were doing––in any way shape or form–– an act of making love, and shortcomings, where sex was concerned, was not, bless Ravi or whichever god responsible, among Kaal izr Naveen's many possessions. It was straightforward fucking, in every sense of the word, by a man who knew how to fuck, and how to elevate its meaning to new standards by the long pent up desire to fuck him and the desperate need to excel at the task.

And slamming into him now, a hand wound tight around his hair as it pinned him down into the sheets, the other pumping the swell between his legs to match, Kaal izr Naveen was a beast built with the power and precision of a Vilarian steed on the brink of breaking its rider. Forceful to the point of being brutal on occasions, the young captain lived up to expectations as someone who had done this many times, and most probably with many different partners. And he was using them all now, every expertise and carefully honed skill gathered through past experience, to make it a morning to remember––an offering driven and powered by a single determination to run a rival out of competition.

The rival being Baaku, of course. After all, it was Baaku that had been on Nazir's mind even before the door closed. It was still Baaku's mouth he had been thinking of as he plunged his cock down the young captain's throat, gripping and pulling hard on the orann's dark hair to facilitate the rhythm he'd been craving for. It was still Baaku, fucking him now from behind, earning himself all the grunts and groans from aching, near-collapsing lungs, through teeth clenched tight enough to tear the sheet they had trapped between. Kaal knew it, of course, knew it well enough to have progressed with frustrated barbarity that escalated at every thrust, every movement of his hand as he brought Nazir closer and closer to the summit, and then threw him off the edge with the monstrosity to match the growling beast caught between crushing him and devouring him whole.

And lying now, trapped under the body of a man twice his mass and weight, pumping air back into his lungs, Nazir grimaced at the thick scent of cedarwood oil they burned everywhere in the White Tower that clung to every inch of the captain. The fragrance reminded him of too many unpleasant memories, one of those happened in a room like this one, with another person that smelled this way. Fortunately, Kaal izr Naveen, however obedient and eager to please, was neither mild nor gentle when it came to sex, making the experience the complete opposite of the one whose memory he didn't welcome. There was a surprising amount of caged anger long-accumulated and desperate for a way out inside of him, and it drained Nazir almost completely of the ability to think and remember what it was he still had to do.

A good thing, perhaps. For quite a few reasons. He could use that kind of distraction right now, perhaps many times from now.

"Did I hurt you?" Kaal asked apologetically, pushing away a strand of hair from Nazir's face, still breathing hard from overexertion.

"You're the one who's bleeding." Nazir snorted and gestured at the marks on the captain's right shoulder, one still raw and seeping blood. It didn't taste the same––his blood and Baaku's. A disappointment, that, but one could call it unfair to be comparing the two.

A small silence, a shift of weight that signaled discomfort. The young captain appeared to be turning a question over in his mind before deciding to voice it. "You liked to bleed him when you did this, didn't you? With Baaku kha'a?"

Liked and didn't. Assuming I no longer sleep with him, or to make a point that I shouldn't? A crossing of lines that needed to be addressed immediately, for too many reasons.

Nazir rolled out from under the weight, threw on his robe and went to light himself another batch of khizrar. Leaning against the desk to face Kaal whose eyes never left him from the moment he'd entered the room, he took a long draw on the pipe and blew out a trail of smoke with exaggerated slowness. "Let me make something clear to you, Captain." The use of rank was deliberate, of course, and judging from the way Kaal izr Naveen stiffened, it did the job. "What I do with him or anyone is none of your business. You are here because I needed a good fuck and you have delivered. That is where it stays or there will be no more fucking, am I understood?"

It was understood, Nazir could see it like spilled ink on parchment––the hurt, the bitterness, the jealousy in those intense dark eyes, in the tightened muscles of his jawline, and the fist that clamped down on now dirtied sheets stained with evidence of what they'd done. Oranns, discarded by parents and forced to earn everything they own by groveling and bending to truebloods in a city that saw them as excess, could be expected to go to lengths to validate their existence. Nazir knew it, could read that craving from the young man without needing a single vision. He could draw that line in blood and still have this man tied up by the throat like a goat dragged around on Raviyani to be slaughtered.

But something did shift in the atmosphere after that, in the air that surrounded the captain, in the rigidity of his posture. "I see," said Kaal in a new tone he hadn't used, backed by an expression that reminded Nazir of a red hot rod of steel about to be hammered into a weapon. "You intend to use me purely for pleasure, then, Nazir kha'a? To put it bluntly."

Intelligence, gut, and a fighting spirit of a dog backed up against a wall, hidden so professionally behind a mask of compliance, Nazir thought. Good. This will be over and done with very quickly then. "Among other things," he said, "to put it bluntly."

A bitter, unpleasant smile. An understanding that slipped easily into place from a long habit of having been through the same situation one too many times. "I thought so."

Kaal rose from the bed, still naked from head to toe and couldn't care less for cover. He walked over to stand in front of Nazir, took the pipe from his hand and gave it a long pull. "With all due respect, Nazir kha'a," he said, blowing out the smoke with the familiarity of someone who'd been doing khiz all his life and three times a day, "you are aware that this pleasure is for me to give, that I don't have to stay?"

Ah.

"Of course not." Nazir took back the pipe, played with it in his hand. "You chose to step into this room, Captain. You may choose to leave at any time. I am not," he dragged in the khiz, breathed out the smoke that became a screen between them, "in shortage of places to find pleasure...and those other things."

A bluff, that. There weren't that many other choices in Citara for him to utilize, not one as facilitating as Kaal izr Naveen with his new position, and definitely not one so willing, so quick to kneel between his legs. But the art of negotiation, in anything and anywhere, required one to know exactly who needed what more and how to use it.

The captain took a step forward, trapping Nazir between the desk and the bulk of fully exposed, rock-hard muscles belonging to a man who'd trained himself past the point of necessity. "There aren't that many places for the kind of pleasure or those other things you seek, however, Nazir kha'a. If I may say so."

Nazir smiled at his own ignorance. How could he have forgotten? The man grew up in Citara, in the ivory halls and gleaming marbles of the White Tower, in court, to be precise. Someone like Kaal would know the game like the back of his hand, could be expected to recognize a bluff in an instant.

It just so happened, that as khumar and now kha'a, having been raised and trained by Za'in izr Husari himself, having lived with his visions all his life, and having survived the White Tower many times, Nazir also knew precisely what he was doing and knew his own worth better than anyone. More than that, he knew what the other man needed, and how badly he lacked it. "My door is not locked, Captain," he said. "You may leave at any time."

It wasn't going to happen, Nazir knew, knew it like the certainty of his visions, saw it validated and signed in blood by yet another step taken by Kaal to close the distance. A large hand rose to Nazir's face, to push back and tuck a slip of hair behind his ear.  "And to think that all this time, I took you for a good man."

Nazir shifted his weight, leaned back against the table, and tilted his head to the side, revealing the neckline now holding evidence of what they had just done. "I can pretend to care. Would that make me good?"

A crooked smile appeared as Kaal leaned over to examine the purposefully displayed bruises. "I never said I was disappointed." The free hand came up to tug on the tie of Nazir's robe, freeing it as he leaned over to suck and nip the marks on his neck. "Tell me what you need, Nazir kha'a, and I will see what I can do."

Kaal's callused hand brushed against his torso, moved along the left side of his waist, and came to a pause on his lower back. Nazir felt himself hardening again to the touch, at the  small pressure against his spine, before a violent push from behind rammed his body up against a wall of skin stretched tight over two-hundred pounds of corded muscles. Against his thigh, Kaal's erection pulsed and hardened on already sensitive skin. "I don't work for free, however, nor do I get to work without enough down payment, just so you know."

"Of course not," Nazir said, caving in to another wave of aches and needs left behind by another man's absence for the past two months. "I figured you wouldn't."

***

There was a reason Citara was sometimes called the White City of Ghosts. With its cavernous chambers cut deep into the chalk-white mountains and the entire population tucked away from the blistering heat, the sacred city of the White Desert painted an eerie picture of a massive burial ground during the day with or without its unidentified whispers. Even the White Tower, the tallest man-made structure at the city center built entirely out of gleaming white marbles, seemed like a grandeur left behind by its inhabitants for some cowardly reasons before sundown. At night, to say the city came to life was as much an understatement as saying the desert was full of sand.

Home to the high priests and priestesses of Ravi and the twelve ruling figures of the White Desert consisting of six devis and their chosen high oracles, the White Tower at sundown morphed into a spectacle fit for the gods that could be seen from every corner of the city. Up above, two hundred pigeon hole-like chambers lit up one by one on a backdrop of a sky streaked with blue, stealing attention from the sea of stars it appeared to be competing against. Down below, hundreds of terracotta oil lamps lined the rims of the enormous turquoise reservoir sitting at its base, flooding the polished white marble facade of the Tower with golden lights that bowed and dipped to the gentle breeze coming through the mountains. Thirty priests and priestesses chanted as they walked through the illuminating ritual, singing prayers to Ravi at the last light of the sun. On either side of the pool, thirty, man-sized discs of pure gold depicting the different phases of the moon reflected and amplified the sacred throat singing to make sure it could be heard by everyone within Citara.

The city itself dressed up like a courtesan wearing one too many mismatched jewels after the prayers, getting ready to catch the eyes of whoever had the deepest pocket. Merchandise tables of all shapes and sizes lined the narrow streets, squeezed so close together to demonstrate what happened in a dining tent when ten extra guests showed up without an invitation. Blinding shades of red, green, gold, silver, and blue screamed at each other in the form of everything that could be sold, from a used chamber pot to a saddle heavily decorated enough to maim both the rider and the horse unfortunate enough to be using it. Thousands of candles and oil lamps lit up every room on the mountain on either side of the narrow streets, filled the air with the smell of burnt oil that hovered over fifty other scents from grilled meat to perfumes to someone's piss left on the wall around the corner.

Year after year of coming here, and Nazir had never gotten used to the extravagance of the sacred city. The excess of it, the sheer audacity, the entitlement of burning so carelessly through resources the khagans treasured and bled––at times died––for to sustain life in the desert made him more irritable than eager to stroll its streets. Simplicity and solitude was nowhere to be found here, and personal space was a thing of luxury one must pay for if required. The small alleys reeked with greed and corruption at the same concentration its garbage produced. White Warriors, oracles, and bharavis held power and all the privileges here, while oranns and those who were born in Citara but belonged to neither group were trapped in the city, forced into working under low wages and deliberately kept there to facilitate the elites. Nazir wondered sometimes––every time, in fact––strolling down its market streets like tonight, if Citara wasn't the exact replica of Rasharwi done completely in white. The White Tower, for all its attempts to present itself as a place of worship, might have seen as much blood as the Black, if not more.

"You hate it, don't you," said Kaal, "being here, in the city? That's why you rarely come and never stay for long."

Nazir gave the captain a sidelong glance and saw the beginning of a smile. "You seem impressed."

"I am." Kaal dipped his head a little. "You're the only White Warrior I know who can see past its jewels."

He'd never seen its jewels, and he did hate the city, but that was a thought he'd always kept private. "I don't recall having mentioned it." Not to this man at least.

"You haven't," said Kaal. "You always make that face when you see oranns."

"What face?"

"The one that tells me you are disturbed, not disgusted. That's why I ..." He stopped himself, slipped in a more appropriate word just in time. "... approached you." Kaal turned to pick a fig off a fruit stall, tossed the orann seller a coin, and passed it to Nazir. "You like figs if I am not mistaken?"

How long has he been observing me? How closely? "You hate it too, the city?"

"I'm an orann, Nazir kha'a," said Kaal, looking away and feigning an interest in a red tapestry nearby, "locked in this city for life whether or not I like it. Hate is a privilege for those with options. Hate doesn't bring people like me out of the gutters, acceptance and perseverance do."

It made sense, he supposed. You couldn't hate the hand that gave you food and water if it was the only one. It stung him a little, perhaps a lot, as someone born with privilege. He might have taken offense but decided to let it slip. 'An intelligent person knows the difference between an insult and an honest statement,' his mother had said. 'A bigger person knows how to forgive the latter, a smaller one does not.'

"You do have options now," Nazir said. "You've earned your zikh. You can leave Citara, go anywhere you want."

Another smile, a bitter one, this time. "Where to, Nazir kha'a? I belong to no khagan. Who would take me in? As what? Besides," Kaal said, turning back to catch his eyes, "how would I serve you then, if I'm no longer here?"

I can find another, Nazir wanted to say, should have said, didn't. He did need Kaal for what he must accomplish, at the cost of sympathy, of integrity, of the young man's better future. The captain knew it, grinned to himself for being right, and let it go. Someone like Kaal would have been trained to take a hint from his superiors, to hear what was not spoken, to know his place in the world.

They reached the Red Serpent not long after. The newly established tavern lived up to its namesake with its giant crimson and gold snake framing the double brass door entrance that could be seen from a hundred paces away. On either side of the doors, two Citara-born warriors in grey stood guard, five more hung around the area to make sure no one slipped in without a reservation. A throng of purebloods and White Warriors conversed among each other with a drink in hand as they waited for a table. Nazir never saw the point of such a hassle and was about to tell Kaal not to bother when the captain walked up to talk to one of the two guards at the door, then beckoned him to enter.

Inside, the tavern was brightly lit with red lanterns matching the color of the serpent outside. Small chambers had been dug out of the wall to accommodate a dozen or so semi-private tables, surrounding the larger space at the center, above which another giant red serpent adorned the ceiling with more red lanterns hanging off its body to illuminate the main dining area. The crowd, Nazir noticed, seemed to have been screened by blood, and Kaal izr Naveen, as the only commonblood orann in sight, stood out like a Rashai wearing black in the middle of Citara.

"How did you get a table?" asked Nazir when they were seated at one of the tables in the wall.

The captain shrugged and looked away. "I told them who you are."

Nazir stared at him.

"I pulled some strings."

"Captain."

A sigh, followed by a hand to push back his hair. "I made a reservation days ago in your name when I knew you were coming."

That didn't sit well with him for more reasons than one. "Am I that much of a foregone conclusion, then?"

Whatever the young captain saw on his face silenced him for a moment. "I wouldn't dare," Kaal izr Naveen said, staring back at him with eyes that could inflict a wound, on himself or Nazir it was difficult to tell. "My position allows me to escort you around the city as a guest of the ma'adevi. I took advantage of the situation. I had no idea if you would come. I only wanted––"

"You've had what you wanted." Nazir cut him off mid-sentence, made sure the rest of it wasn't spoken, made sure the man knew it too. "Let's talk about what I need. Does she know why I'm here?"

Kaal stiffened, took a knifing breath, and held it, held something else back along with it too. "She knows you have a visitor from Sarasef of the Black Desert. That you would like permission to keep him as a hostage, to join forces with the Rishis."

Nazir resisted the urge to sigh in relief to see the change in subject being accommodated quickly. The man was professional enough, and for the very least knew his place well. "Does she know who he is?"

The captain shook his head. "That's the problem. Dehva'a Rangal doesn't know. None of the dehvans had seen him in their visions. That's why they wanted to see you in person."

If none of the six High Oracles including the ma'adevi's chosen one could see the prince coming, then he still had a choice whether to reveal Prince Lasura's identity to them. It would depend on many factors, including how many on the high council consisting of five devis and their dehvans were on his side.

"Who is her biggest competitor for the upcoming election?" A ma'adevi was elected––or re-elected––every five years by the citizens of Citara and the ruling kha'as of every khagan in the White Desert, where each kha'a's decision counted as many votes as the recorded number of people in his khagan. The next election was only ten months away, and no oracles had ever been given a vision on who the next ma'adevi would be. Of course, knowing who it might be and knowing the current ma'adevi's rival helped. As kha'a of one of the largest khagan in the west, his vote mattered. The ma'adevi knew this, so did the devis, and with the right information, he would know the right strings to pull.

It was what Kaal izr Naveen was there for. The captain was close enough to know the dirt on everyone's fingernails but had not the blood or status to benefit from such knowledge. It hadn't been all luck, of course, he had a hand in placing the man where he was by pitching him to the ma'adevi years ago to have someone on the inside, but he had pitched a lot of young men along with Kaal izr Naveen, and had never really thought an orann––one obsessed with him for that matter––would be the one to rise to the position.

"Indira devi had the second most votes last time." Kaal called an orann serving boy over to order food and drinks. Nazir waved him permission to bring whatever was convenient to the table. "She's chosen a new high oracle from the Tahar khagan and is already with child. If she bears a bharavi or an oracle three months from now––"

"Her blood will be proven pure and she'll win it." Choosing a high oracle from the Tahar––the largest khagan in the central region, would already gain her a big chunk of votes from his khagan and its allies. If the child were to be born a trueblood oracle or a bharavi––a proof of bloodline purity the current ma'adevi had not been able to show for––then there would be no competition between the two of them when election came. Ma'adevi, after all, was a position meant for a bharavi whose blood is believed to be the closest to Ravi herself, meaning she must be able to produce many oracles and bharavis. For this reason, every bharavi in the high council––also called devi––switch partners often and rarely married. They picked high oracles as bed partners according to who they believed would offer them the best chance of producing truebloods offsprings.

"If," Nazir reminded them both, "the child survives." A miscarriage would have been considered hightly convenient at times like this, and not above any of the power-obsessed devis.

Kaal fell silent for a short while, tilting the cup of wine that had just been served to them both back and forth, before deciding to voice it. "Unless, of course, if the ma'adevi were to conceive her own trueblood child before the election." The captain looked up at him. "Perhaps by an oracle whose bloodline is very strong."

It became clear to him now, what was about to be asked of him in return during this meeting tomorrow. "She believes I can sire her one."

Kaal smiled wryly. "Your mother gave birth to an oracle and a bharavi when your father is...was...a man of commonblood, Nazir kha'a. I'm surprised she hasn't proposed to you already."

"Oh she has." Nazir took a sip of his wine, trying not to recall the event, something he didn't always succeed. "She came to me when I was sixteen," he said. "She wasn't proposing, however."

Kaal izr Naveen stared at him, wide-eyed. His jaw dropped a little as the realization sank in.

"Don't worry." Nazir chuckled and took another sip of the wine. "My mother gave me yarra roots to chew on for the entire time I stayed here. There are no bastards of mine running around the city, not that I know of in any case."

'It's inevitable,' Mother had told him, 'and you may not be able to deny her.' That, he couldn't have, not that young anyway. The ma'adevi––Shreya devi at the time––was the first woman he'd slept with. A beautiful woman, like all bharavis were, but she was after his seeds, and he was young and curious. The experience wasn't something one might call ideal, if anyone at all could call their first time ideal. It wasn't even a choice.

"You could have made high oracle at sixteen." Kaal drew a long breath, still trying to come to terms with what could have happened. "You would have been dehva'a at this moment."

The captain's reaction didn't surprise him. High oracle to the ma'adevi, or dehva'a, was a position of immense power––the highest position a man could achieve in the woman-ruled White Desert second, only to the ma'adevi herself. "I could have," Nazir said, looking away toward the door, "but my place is with my khagan, my family. Someone has to be there to protect them, to fight the real war, not hole up here safe and protected. The world is burning outside as we speak, and here we are, sitting in a fancy tavern worrying about getting tables and positions when the enemy is at our doorstep spilling our blood." Conscience tapped on his shoulder, and Nazir clamped his mouth shut upon realizing that he'd raised his voice without knowing, and may have said too much than he had meant to. It could be considered treason, especially by someone who wanted––needed––to frame him as one. Citara had eyes and ears everywhere, and enemies that didn't look you in the eyes to declare themselves one. He would have to be careful what he said in the city and to whom.

"It's true then." Kaal placed the drink on the table, held it with both hands as if afraid it might fall or disappear. "You plan to fight the Salasar."

That much, however, had never been a secret to anyone. His father had made it clear what he'd intended to do the day his mother died. "I promised my father I will end the war in my lifetime," he said, "and if that takes bringing down Rasharwi and burning Sabha to the ground, then so be it."

'I want Muradi's head on a spike. I want his wives mutilated and burned,' had been his father's exact words. Words he was expected to fulfill.

A wish, now, of a dead man.

Nazir brushed away that thought quickly, took another sip of the wine, and found himself wanting. He needed something stronger. "Do they stock khiz?"

Across the table, Kaal kept his eyes on him as he called for a serving boy to bring them two sets of khizrar. He wondered what the young captain thought of him now, if he could still be trusted after hearing it, and decided that what he saw on that face was not a threat. It was more like self-pity, like someone being shown a task he could not accomplish.

"I won't pretend to understand it," Kaal said, turning the goblet in his hand absentmindedly. "I don't think anyone who lives here does. I doubt any of us will ever have half the conviction that you do." He looked up at Nazir, dark eyes revealing something uncomfortably personal. "I had a vision the first time we met. My first and only vision. In it, I was standing in the middle of the desert, a place I haven't been, and you were there, leading me somewhere. I think," he said, looking up from the wine, "that I would like to follow you whether or not I understand it. And if that means fighting the Salasar, then perhaps that is what I was born to do."

Silence closed its grip around them for a moment, squeezing the air from Nazir's lungs, from Kaal's, leaving them with nothing left to breathe. The moment solidified around them like a bubble of ice, and it cracked in a long line from top to bottom at the sound of a chair being dragged loudly against the marbled floor.

"That's a lovely story." A voice Nazir knew well enough to identify without having to look up broke whatever was left of that silence. "But do tell me," said Baaku izr Aza'ir, dropping onto the empty chair between them, "did you decide on that before or after you fucked him?"

***

A/N: It's an extremely long chapter for Wattpad (4.9K) that I could have split into two but I figured my readers at this point is used to it. Let me know if it bothers anyone. I can post them in two parts. :) As always, comments and votes help boost my ranking and helps other people discover this book.

Merry xmas, you guys! Hope you have a great holiday and a better year up ahead.