Prologue
There’d been a single loose thread on the garment he’d prepared, so small you had to be searching for it to notice.
On the morning five days after learning this fact, the tailor was found hanging from a tree in his backyard. He’d spent those five days ensuring his successor was ready to take over. He left not a spot on the grass beneath his feet. Arguably a flawless approach to suicide.
No one had specifically ordered this, yet even the most minor Echevalria servant shared this same mindset. Carrying out their duties with the utmost craft, and taking their own lives the moment they realized their skills were deteriorating. As if the concept of perfection was a curse upon them.
“One error leads to the next. Such is the nature of man.”
These were the words of the elderly servant charged with dressing the young master. Watching the wrinkled hands close the buttons on his shirt, the boy listened in silence. His features were as even and beautiful as any statue, yet his visage was devoid of expression.
“The loose thread was likely not his sole motivation. He was sixty-two. One can assume he sensed the focus necessary to perform his role deteriorating. Thus, he chose to retire early. Before the unsightly imperfections could sully your eyes, Master,” the servant explained. “Your father is well aware. He allows nothing to enter this manor that is anything but perfect. All to ensure you grow up to be a flawless mage.”
The boy nodded.
Even at his tender age, he knew the nature of his house. Roses with the faintest of dimples in their petals were swiftly removed from their vases. Spot a single scale astray on any ornamental fish, and the next time he passed that aquarium, that fish would be gone. Humans were no exception. This place had run on those rules since before he was born.
“Polish yourself to perfection, Master Leoncio. Every life here exists only for that purpose.”
Hardly the first time he had heard this plea. Two months later, this man—who’d served him longer than anyone else—drank poison in the same spot as the tailor. According to the note found in his chambers, the reason: His back no longer allowed him to stand up straight.
These memories crossed Leoncio’s mind as flames scorched the right side of his face.
“…Ha-ha…”
He attempted a smile, but his cheeks objected. He could feel the asymmetry, and that struck him as hilarious, his twisted smirk growing all the more pronounced.
He knew then—he was no longer perfect. These burns made him unfit for that manor. Like the dimpled roses, the scaleless fish, the clumsy tailor, and the bent-backed valet. He had become a blot, defiling that perfection with his flaws.
“Heal that up, Leoncio. I’ll wait.”
The man responsible was speaking, wand held in a hand burned by his own fires, standing before the one he’d foolishly stepped in to protect. Eyes glaring his way, unwavering.
Nothing about him was perfect. Not his features, his fashion, his manner of speech—all lacking in polish. All aspects of the man were rough-hewn, devoid of grace. One glance, and you knew he was a stray dog. From the moment of his birth, this man had no place in the Echevalria manor.
So why could he not tear his eyes away?
“…No need,” Leoncio said through that rictus grin. His visage likely bore no trace of his former features. He didn’t care. That veneer of perfection had already peeled away, burned off along with any reason to cling to it.
Now he was free. Free to face what lay within.
“Did you fall asleep, Leo?”
An amused female voice. This dragged Leoncio from his nap on the couch in their base. He opened his eyes.
“…Merely reflecting. On the day I received these burns.”
“Ah! That explains your arousal,” Khiirgi purred, her eyes sliding down his length. He’d been born with a massive trouser snake, and it now stood at full salute, as if straining to reach the ceiling. The elf stroked the tip with one finger, whispering, “You are too devoted for your own good. Taking a rod this large would pose no real challenge to any mage. Surrounding yourself with five or six lovers dedicated to delighting it… That would be more productive than throbbing in isolation for a man who will not yield.”
Paying no heed to her admonitions, Leoncio swatted her away. Khiirgi fanned her stinging hand, sighing.
“It is a sweet nectar—embracing another while your mind is on the one who got away…”
“You are a paragon of bad taste, Khiirgi,” came a quiet voice from the corner: the Barman, Gino Beltrami, polishing glasses behind the counter. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Time we left. We don’t want to leave Percy hanging.”
He put down the glass and stepped out from behind the counter. Leoncio snorted and rose from the couch.
“Our presence will make no difference. Percy will win. I have ordered him to do so.”
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