Unforgiving

3. save me

Ivory stood near the wall as his family fluttered about the ballroom.

He had a glass cradled in his fingers. He had turned nineteen not long ago, so he was definitely of age— For a long time now, he could have had a sip, but he never fancied the taste of alcohol in most of his lives. Some lives, of course, it was a vice for him, every body he had inhabited was different. His current one might be one of them.

There were lives where he had an appetite for a certain food, in others he despised them. He always loved cake, though, and had been eyeing the dessert table the entire hour the afterparty lasted. It would probably conclude soon, so if he wanted a cake, he would have to go now—

"Hello, Ivory."

A shiver went up his spine. He turned to see Aaron Cordelia walking toward him, only a few feet away. The tall, broad boy held a glass that mirrored Ivory's. Ivory mustered up the best and most respectful smile he could.

"I am excited to compete alongside you," the blonde elite said.

I bet you are. "...Likewise, My Shield."

Aaron smirked at Ivory's formality. But Ivory knew all too well; equal in age, equal in height, maybe even equal in strength, but sorely unequal in station. The Archduke (Aaron's father) held most of the empire's military power. He was the Sword of the Empire, where his firstborn son was the hopeful Shield, born to fill his father's shoes.

Even now, he wore the dark burgundy uniform, his three badges twinkling under the balls of light cast by the mages he would one day have full control over.

Sliding his gaze up and down the boy, Aaron continued, "I have missed our... chats. I am sure we will get to spend more time together in the coming weeks?"

I hope not. "You can be sure of it, My Shield."

Before Ivory could excuse himself, the crown princess sidled up next to Aaron, her beady eyes flashing with amusement. "Ivory! I cannot believe you were chosen! I hope you can handle the pressure, lovely."

"I will do my best, My Hope."

"He can handle it! See, he's become strong." Aaron gestured with his finger, guiding it through the air. He circled Ivory's belly, then all of his torso. "He's quite toned, under all of that superfluous fabric."

Ivory laughed at his joke light-heartedly, remaining unmoved on the outside. Within him, though, his heart beat angrily. He had worked hard to fashion his flowing, ruffled sleeves and neckline. Why was it his fault that war-obsessed pervert dressed himself as plain as possible?

Allia brought her hands to her mouth, blushing innocently, like a schoolgirl with a crush. "When did that happen, huh? I don't remember you looking so good in the academy— You look good enough to eat."

How repugnant. "Ah... Yes, I have taken up some lessons, nothing truly special..."

Ivory felt cornered. Leaving one Cordelia was one thing, but two? He could be stuck here for ages, too afraid to shut them down. He didn't think he could bear their two-sided, implication-ridden remarks.

"Once I win, I will make sure you will be able to train with me," Aaron said with a grin. "As much as you want."

Never.

"Who says you will win? I think I will fare the best."

Ivory held back a scoff as the two went back and forth. If anything, he was the most likely to win— But he would never say that to either of them upfront. Despite his centuries of experience, he still feared this family. They were capable of cruelties he had never known were possible. Two centuries of subjugation, expansion, and bloodshed. They knew how to keep their power.

Even if Ivory did win, would he be able to maintain it? He had never even dreamt of ever being chosen, not even once. Would the people accept him? Would the nobles acknowledge him? He remembered the commoner that had won; he was deeply respected, but his son was a failure.

Somebody save me from this torture.