When I'm done getting dressed, I come over to the fireplace and cut the rope binding Hadrian's wrists together. He squints up at me.

"Get up," I say.

The corridors are barely recognizable. The floor is littered with junk, and most of the statues that used to decorate the passageways lie overturned. Some of them are lacking heads or hands, others are broken to pieces. There's a strong smell of piss and vomit that gets gradually mixed with the smells of roasted meat and freshly baked bread as we proceed towards the great hall. The sound of voices grows louder until we enter the hall, where the level of noise makes me wince.

Sunshine streams in through the smashed windows, illuminating the long tables struggling to accommodate all the food and the people present. Some are forced to sit on the floor, while others stumble between the tables, roaring songs. Multiple conversations, arguments and singing all mix together. I glance back at Hadrian who gapes around with understandable horror.

"Bruno," someone shouts. I look up and see Oliver waving at me from the high table.

I make my way to the dais amidst the rowdy crowd, sensing rather than seeing Hadrian follow close on my heels. The revelry around prevents us from drawing too much attention, but some people do recognize me, and many recognize Hadrian. I hear jokes and comments about his servant attire, and occasional hands reach out to touch him. After a lifetime of being threatened by death penalty for even looking at the members of the royal family, crossing this line must feel titillating to people, and Hadrian's flinching at every touch only adds to their excitement.

We ascend the dais. Meant for perhaps a dozen people, the high table is crammed with at least twenty, most of them the townsfolk that I know. People raise cups and shout greetings at me, but all eyes keep shifting to Hadrian. I walk around the table to Oliver who is sitting at the center—the place that had only recently belonged to the king.

"Make space, Rollo," Oliver says to the man sitting next to him, in whom I recognize the blacksmith from a nearby village. As he gets up, he towers a good head over me—not being exactly tiny myself, it gives me a pause. But Rollo only smiles good-heartedly and points at his place on the bench.

"Take a seat," he says in a booming voice. "If I eat some more, I'll fucking burst."

I nod and sit down.

Oliver pats me on the back, and then points at Hadrian who has stopped in front of the high table with an expression of miserable expectation on his face.

"So, how was it?" Oliver says to me. "I see you're returning him in one piece. He can actually walk—man, I expected a better performance from you!" He elbows me, grinning.

"I only..."

"Yeah, I know. Grumio told me you made him a servant for a night." His grin gets wider. "A good jest! Tell me, what services did he perform? I want all the juicy details."

"Right," someone else shouts, "tell us!"

The voices rise up, and my eyes travel to Hadrian, whose lonely figure seems like a little boat about to be swallowed by a storming sea. I look away and grab a loaf of bread. I wanted for so long to see the royal family ruined, to have the firstborn law abolished, to allow simple people like myself or Oliver live their lives the way they want. We have accomplished the first part of the plan—removing the old rulers, the last of whom is standing now in front of the table. One swing of a sword will end that part of history, leaving us to build a better, fairer society. We're exactly where we wanted to be.

Then why don't I feel the excitement like the others do?

"Oh, never mind, don't tell," says Oliver. "You've always been shy about such things. Hey, Rollo!" He gestures at the giant who is still standing behind us, eyeing Hadrian, as most of the people by the table do. "You said the only thing this party is lacking is whores—there, Bruno has brought you one!"

He continues to say something, but the words get drowned by the shouts and the laughter. Rollo's eyes light up and a smile begins to spread on his face.

"A Whore Prince...right," he mutters. "Come here, prince. Let's see what kind of whore you are."

Hadrian's eyes open wide as Rollo walks around the table, approaching him. He makes an instinctive step back—but the only way for him to retreat is through the crowd of hostile people, most of whom are watching him now. His eyes find mine and I look down at the bread in my hands, feeling sick.

Rollo stops in front of Hadrian, towering over him—the difference in size is almost comical. It looks even more obvious when Rollo reaches out, grabs Hadrian by the shoulder and pushes him to the table as easily as if he was a rag doll. People on the bench have barely enough time to make space for them, as Rollo takes hold of Hadrian's neck and forces him to bend, so that his chest is on the table and his feet are on the floor. A few plates and goblets roll around the table. Among the cheers and the laughter, Rollo begins to pull Hadrian's pants off, ignoring his struggling.

Hadrian looks up, his face distorted with the effort. Him being right across the table from me, our eyes inevitably meet again. There's pleading in his gaze, yet he doesn't say anything. Perhaps it's still beneath him to beg his ex-servant for help, or perhaps he doesn't believe I would provide help if asked for it.

Would I? For some reason, I remember Grumio saying that Hadrian is two years younger than us. That means that he's only nineteen years old. So young. Too young to die. Too young to be raped in front of a hall full of people laughing and cheering at his disgrace—as if there could be a right age for something like that. Yet they are my people, and he is my enemy. Taking a stand against them to protect him is unthinkable.

He had me flogged, I remind myself. Because of him I lost my eye.

It doesn't make me feel any better.

Rollo's right hand keeps Hadrian pinned to the table, while his left one is fumbling with his own belt, undoing it. Without wanting to, I notice the considerable bulge in his pants. I glance at Oliver, but he seems completely captivated by the spectacle—in fact, he's laughing so hard there's tears streaming down his face. I stare at him, dumbfounded. Has he always been this cruel? Have I?

Hadrian's eyes find mine again, and, soundlessly, his lips form one word.

'Help'.

I open my mouth, not sure yet what I'm about to say—whether I'm about to say anything—but before I have a chance to, the crowd begins to go quiet.

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