The wooden panelling of the walls rattles when the elf is slammed against them, Voltur's other hand keeping him pinned there by the throat. He notes with a little surprise how easy it is to lift the elf-lord off the ground. 

"That will pose no difficulty," he rumbles, tracing the elf's smooth jawbone with the edge of a calloused thumb. 

The breath stops in his throat, his eyes a fraction wider.

What? What is this?

In his stubborn elven pride he still manages to laugh, though it comes out sounding like a gasp. “I see the– the little bull has broken free of its cage.”

Dark stars begin to dance at the edge of his vision. 

He chuckles lowly. "You don't keep bulls in cages. Let us see what else I can teach you." 

Don't stop, keep going, always on the front foot don't give them time to think-

He presses forwards, pinning the elf with the bulk of his body, as his other hand makes a fist in Ophel's hair and he kisses him, roughly, bruising, fingers tightening about his throat.

He kisses back.

The roughness, the pace – he is giddy, his lips are feeble, his world spins and he can barely keep up. He cannot turn his head away.

And then he begins to lose himself to it. He closes his eyes, hearing himself whimper, feeling himself gasp and press against the man’s body – and new territory carves itself into his brain like a jagged knife. 

“Your betrothed,” he manages, in the brief seconds the Duke retracts for air.

"Is not here," he grinds out, tearing away the elf's tunic. The skin is soft and golden, warm and smooth like satin, and he watches his prey twitch as he roughly rubs one calloused thumb over a nipple. 

Could Eloise do this? He idly wonders. Could Eloise learn to gasp and sigh and be taken like this? It's hard to imagine, somehow.

The elf has spoken many refined words, but there is an altogether better use for his mouth. 

It's the easiest thing in the world to seize him by the shoulders and shove him down to his knees with unbearable force.

A prisoner to the heat of the moment, he takes it. 

Those eyes are so big and so blue when they look up at Voltur like this, glittering with diamond tears. His lips are bruised and parted, and he pants for breath, flushing a deep red. 

“Wait,” he finds himself, a flickering light in his consciousness. His hand grips the Duke’s thigh. “Wait. You– if you do this, you forfeit her. Please. You cannot.”

He stops, hands balled into fists. He stops, but he doesn't step back. 

"I do not believe she would care," he says, his voice hard. 

His chest heaves, his cock throbs. “You– you are promised to her, Voltur. What are you going to when you make your vow? Please.” 

He does not even know why he begs. The word tumbles from his lips so freely. 

“Are you going to keep this from her forever?”

He grunts and steps back. It's not like before, when the spell broke; he still gazes upon the elf, sees the tears sparkle in his too-blue eyes. 

Would the elf have him seek her permission? He doubts Eloise would have this farce of a marriage be any more of a burden on either of them than it needs to be. 

He says nothing, only glowers at Lord Ophel. 

But he lets him go.

The disappointment strikes him like a rough tide. He falls forward, catching himself on outstretched hands. 

It takes Ophel some moments to regain his senses. With trembling fingers, he retrieves his torn tunic and pulls it on, though its many buttons now litter the floor like stars. He stands, still dazed. 

“Your Grace.” The elf’s voice is pale. He makes a hurried exit.

He stares after him for some time. 

"Dr Deneith," he says crisply. "Thank you for coming."

“It is not a problem. We made an appointment,” he responds, stepping inside.

He brought a briefcase. It doesn’t have anything in it, he just thought it would make him seem more official.

Oh, gods, this Duke is the brooding silent type, and Eloise is not here. …What would his mother say?

“Um, you have a very nice house, Your Grace.”

"Do I? That is- thank you. The furniture is not mine, I am afraid. Would you like refreshment? A drink?"

“Um. Some lemonade would be welcome,” he answers, standing awkwardly in the hallway. “Thank you.”

Aren’t servants supposed to ask this kind of thing? He supposes the soldier-duke is still growing into his new role.

He taps his foot. “Shall we, ah, get to business?”

“I am here! I am here,” she pants heavily as she runs inside, her skirts hitched up. Stupid heeled shoes. “I ran– I ran all the way from home, I left a decoy– a decoy in my bed, they shall not notice my absence any time–“

Eloise then realises Ambrose’s presence and straightens, dropping her skirts. “Ambrose! I mean– Doctor Deneith.” She curtsies. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“…I thought you were expecting me, my Lady.”

What is going on?

She hesitates. “…Yes, well, you were never on time to our playdates as children, were you.”

Brushing past him, she treads up to Voltur. “Your office, perhaps?” She sniffs, furrowing her brow. “And what is that scent in the air?”

"It is nothing," he practically growls. The elf's scent gets everywhere. "Yes. My office. Indeed."

He probably has an office, doesn't he? 

He's been getting Talen to take care of accounts and things. 

"...Or perhaps it would be more congenial to speak in the Scarlet Room." It's the only room here he actually likes, and the only one outside his quarters that's even vaguely secure.

He looks at Eloise, strangely abashed all of a sudden. Surely she wouldn't care about what he did - but-

"So, Dr Deneith. Have you given our proposal any thought?"

The boy suspects something. Damn it. 

Why is he being so dismissive? Concealing her hurt, she follows.

He looks between the two of them, before nodding. “I have. What would the role entail, first of all?”

"You would be made Court Wizard to the Archduchy. I will grant you land in your own right and grounds for the construction of a wizard's tower. Your homage will be presence in court and military service in the campaign season in the summer - away from the front lines - and these terms for consultation on arcane matters at other times. It will also include a condition of total and absolute silence on any matters I deem secret. As far as additional compensation - name a price, Dr Deneith. Make it a good one."

The scholar boy blinks. “Military service? What would that look like?”

...This is a very common arrangement. Has the boy never left his enchanted castle?

"A great many things, depending on your capabilities. In the course of the civil war I knew wizards to raise stone walls in moments, lay magical wards and charms over camps, ford impassible rivers, scry on enemy movements, sometimes even move whole companies in an instant. Do not fear, you would not see much open battle. It is rarely worth the risk to your life."

With a great deal of effort he resists the temptation to launch into an explanation of the greater strategic and operational importance of wizardry compared with the mere tactical application of battlefield magic.