Though only a month had passed, Mischa felt as if his former life were nothing more than a familiar dream, coming to him night after night as he curled himself up and found nothing but fitful rest. The war had decimated Loma, his small village on the outskirts of Ilimos' capital city. When he attempted to think about the day the foreign army had come and ravaged his cozy town, he was accosted by the sound of clanking metal, heavy boots stomping into the dirt, and the screams of innocent men and women as they were dragged like animals from their homes, tossed onto the ground and given a choice.<i>A choice</i>. Mischa didn't see it as much of a choice, and he had spit onto the ground at his conqueror's feet in a childish fit of defiance. Perhaps that would have been the end of Mischa right there, as the vein in his enemy's forehead had throbbed with fury at the young Ilimosan's insubordinate attitude, but something--or rather<i>someone--</i>had saved Mischa.<br/><br/>Another man had stepped up, placing a hand clad in leather on the irate soldier's shoulder. "Do not be so hasty," he suggested, his eyes twinkling as he not-so-subtly appraised Mischa as if he were a particularly healthy looking steer. "Look at him. Look at his face. He would be good for the House."<br/><br/>"This one?" the other scoffed, scrunching up his nose. "He is petulant. Why would anyone want him?"<br/><br/>The second man rolled his eyes, lifting up the sharp rapier he clutched in his opposite hand and using it to point toward Mischa's ransacked house. "He's a builder. Physical, skilled with his hands. A tinkerer with the face of prized slave. You think he would attract no one's interest? Imbecile. I recommend you offer him the choice a second time." He turned to Mischa now, crouching down low to meet the hotheaded man's gaze where he sat. His eyes were a sickly shade of olive green that clashed with the chestnut brown tone of his skin. Mischa's skin was fair in comparison; these invaders were from the hot, unforgiving desert. A distant land and foreign territory when compared to the sweet oceans and temperate climate Mischa was used to. "I suggest you cease your childish antics immediately, boy. You're being given a great opportunity. If you choose correctly and behave well, I have a sneaking suspicion your new master will treasure you, pretty thing like you."<br/><br/>Mischa said nothing at first. He only stared. His deep brown eyes narrowed into a glare of hatred at the man. Though he wanted nothing more than plunge that rapier right into his throat, a small voice inside whispered to him, telling him that though he wasn't being given much of a "choice," one option did sound significantly superior than the other. Mischa had no desire to be a slave. Who would willingly chose such a position, anyway? There was no escaping that horrid life. But serving a house, this House, whatever the hell it was the soldiers were talking about, perhaps that would allow him more flexibility. More chances to screw over the vicious monsters who had destroyed his home.<br/><br/>"Fine. I'll serve the damn House," Mischa hissed, snarling when the first soldier tugged him up by his elbow and began binding his hands together.<br/><br/>"You've chosen correctly," the green-eyed man said smugly, sauntering off to handle Ulros, the baker, who lie sprawled on the ground in a puddle of his own crimson blood.<br/><br/>Though he had pledged to serve the House of the Obsidian Sun, Mischa's first month had been unsatisfactory on both sides. His new master, a beautiful yet beastly man by the name of Viktor Tallos, had taken a liking to Mischa, just as the green-eyed man had predicted. Mischa would have preferred if Viktor had ignored him completely, or sent him off to serve one of the other Houses, but that didn't seem to be an option for Mischa. When, in a fit of rage, Mischa had attempted to laid a hard blow to Viktor, the imposing man had taken it without issue, knocking Mischa down on the floor and scolding him like a child. Mischa was no fighter. He was muscled and strong from his work in carpentry and building, with a long torso and powerful arms, but he was no match for a seasoned warrior such as Viktor. Mischa learned quickly that overpowering his master by force wasn't possible for him. He would have to figure out another way to either bend Viktor to his will or escape entirely.<br/><br/>It was late when Viktor slithered his way into the modest bungalow the House had provided him. Mischa had been unable to sleep; the sickly sweet smell of smoke had been snaking its way into his little "bedroom" all night long, clogging up Mischa's lungs and leaving him feeling lightheaded. These men were primal in their ways, carnal, dancing around raging bonfires in celebration of the ruination they had forced onto people such as Mischa and his countrymen. He thrashed, tossed and turned, wrapped in nothing but a linen sheet, his skin damp from the heat. Mischa was not used to the overbearing sun and intense, dry heats in these desert lands. It felt as if he had been drenched in sweat since the moment he had crossed the ocean from Ilimos and touched his sandals to the sand.<br/><br/><b><i>"Look at me."<br/>
</i></b><br/>Mischa ignored the command, turning his face into the feather-stuffed pillow. It was a small amount of defiance, but the only one he had to offer. The man came closer, taking hold of Mischa's face and pulling violently at his jaw. He spoke to Mischa as if they were merely acquaintances, perhaps one of his clients' looking to talk business. But there was no "business" they needed to conduct with one another as far as Mischa was concerned. Viktor dragged his rough thumb against the soft, pink skin of Mischa's lip, pale blue in the darkness of the bungalow.<br/><br/>"I enjoy nothing about you, or this dusty, horrid hellscape," Mischa hissed, his bare chest heaving as the dark man squeezed his jaw.<br/><br/>Viktor's words were firm, leaving little room for Mischa to argue. Fingers wrapped around his throat and left Mischa struggling for precious air. The young man's hands snapped up to Viktor's wrist, clawing at the warm skin. Without much air, all Mischa could do was cough as Viktor lectured him and pressed his face against the fairer skinned young man.<br/><br/>"Serve?" Mischa choked, an amused grin spreading across his lips despite the ache in his windpipe. "I am... free. I serve... no... man." He hardly cared about the reality of his situation; he had agreed to be here in order to avoid becoming a simple slave. Despite this, since his abduction he had been unable to come to terms with his new life state. Via violent upheaval, Mischa was no longer the talented crafter, the son of successful Ilimos merchants. He was a servant. But that word tasted like soot and ash on his tongue, and he spat at it as he had spat at the soldier's feet that fateful day.<br/><br/>"Do what you want," he groaned, staring a bright, fiery fury into the man's eyes, just as Viktor had wanted. "You will<i>not</i>break me."