Chapter 172: The Portrait sitting

Aurelian’s fingers lingered at the nape of his neck, deliberately slow as he clicked the clasp shut.

The Amethyst Teardrop rested exactly over Julian’s pulse. It felt freezing, a piece of the North’s winter heart pinned against his skin by the man who had stolen it.

> [Mental Stability: 22% — Status: Total Subjugation]

Aurelian stepped back, his hands coming to rest on Julian’s shoulders. He looked at the reflection in the side mirror—the pale scholar in his undone laces, the dark bruises of exhaustion under his eyes, and the royal purple of the Duchess’s stone.

"There," Aurelian said, his eyes meeting Julian’s in the glass. "Now you look complete. The mourning scholar, wearing the jewels of the woman who died to give his lover a son. It’s a poetic image, don’t you think? You look like you belong to the dead."

Julian looked at his own reflection and didn’t recognize the man staring back. The amethyst seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart, a reminder that he was no longer a person—he was a canvas for the Emperor’s spite.

"Now," the Emperor clapped his hand, and the painters came in with their tools. Not one, not two, but four painters set up their equipment to capture four sides of Julian. "Shall we get your portrait painter?"

The Emperor did not even let Julian dress up for the portrait. He felt he was plenty dressed in his white shirt and a face that seemed to be gloomy.

It was the perfect state, he said, and so the artist began their work.

The next three hours in the portrait gallery were a slow, excruciating erosion of Julian’s remaining willpower.

He had to sit perfectly still, the heavy amethyst teardrop weighing on his chest like a collar, while the artist’s brush scratched against the canvas—a sound that, in the oppressive silence, began to mimic the scraping of a shovel against frozen earth.

Julian felt restless, but he kept his gaze down most of the time, unable to keep still completely when his mentality was fracturing with the pressure.

It was even worse because Aurelian did not leave.

He sat for a while, enjoying his tea with delight, and then, after a while, he began to pace the room like a restless predator, occasionally stopping to adjust the collar of Julian’s shirt or to tilt his head a fraction to the left, his cold fingers lingering on Julian’s jaw long after the adjustment was made.

He was tormenting the man with every touch, every adjustment, every smirk.

When the artist finally stepped back, bowing low to signal the end of the session, Julian felt a fleeting spark of relief.

He moved to stand, his limbs stiff and aching, but he didn’t even make it two steps toward the door before a firm, inescapable grip closed around his hand.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Aurelian asked, that mad light glinting in his eyes. "We still aren’t done yet."

Aurelian didn’t grab him like a prisoner. He laced their fingers together, his palm warm and dry against Julian’s cold, clammy skin.

"Where...where are you taking me, Your Majesty?" Julian mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"I just feel it would be a shame if others don’t see the masterpiece in you," he purred, and Julian’s eyes widened in horror.

The Emperor led him out of the room as if he were leading a lady down a moonlit hallway—a mock display of courtly affection that felt more violating than a shackle.

They walked through the gilded corridors, the Golden Guards trailing behind them like silent shadows.

Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic, trapped bird. He felt utterly stripped of his dignity, was humiliated in and out, and then, it got even worse when he could see the massive, arched entrance of the Great Audience Hall approaching.

It was usually empty if the Emperor was not present, but it seemed like the hall was full with the nobility who were waiting for their Emperor so they could discuss the affairs of the Empire.

And this was a place where Julian’s stripped dignity would be displayed for all to see.

He immediately stopped, dread filling him as he figured out what the Emperor was trying to do.

"Please," Julian gasped, the word breaking through the dam of his composure. "I can’t go there,"

"What are you doing?" Aurelian frowned as he refused to move his feet. "Walk,"

But Julian could not bring himself to move. His feet were already buried in the floor.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t go there.

Julian no longer cared what he had to do, as long as he did not cross those heavy doors once they opened.

He didn’t care about the guards or the maids who stopped to whisper in the corners. He looked at the Emperor, his legs giving way until he was nearly on his knees, his hand still trapped in Aurelian’s firm grip.

"Please, Your Majesty," he begged, the first hot tears spilling over his lashes and tracing tracks through the pale dust of his face. "Stop. It’s enough. Please... any more than this and I might..."

"Might what?" Aurelian asked. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded fascinated.

He looked down at Julian with a terrifyingly calm curiosity, his golden eyes tracking the path of a single tear as it hit the amethyst on Julian’s chest.

Julian bowed his head, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

He clutched at the fabric of his shirt with his free hand, his fingers twisting into the linen until it threatened to tear. He bit his lip so hard he tasted copper, trying to swallow the sound of his own desperation.

"Please," he whispered one last time, a broken prayer to a god who wasn’t listening.

Aurelian moved then. He didn’t pull Julian up. He reached down and pinched Julian’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing his head back.

He lifted Julian’s face toward the harsh, midday light, exposing the terrified expression, the swollen eyes, and the ’ugly’ tears that Julian couldn’t stop.

For a moment, the air in the hallway felt electric. Aurelian stared at him, his pupils dilated until the gold of his irises was nearly swallowed by black. It wasn’t just mockery anymore. It was a dark, intoxicating pleasure.

"You look exquisite like this, Master Astrea," Aurelian murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy heat. "So broken. So raw."

He leaned in closer, his thumb tracing the wet curve of Julian’s lower lip. A dark, twisted realization seemed to settle over the Emperor, a thought that made his grip on Julian’s chin tighten just a bit more.

"Perhaps," Aurelian mused, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made Julian’s skin crawl, "my brother loved these tears as well. I wonder... Did he find your tears as delicious as I do? Or was he too soft to appreciate the beauty of a man falling apart?"