“If we give advance notice, wouldn’t that make it impossible to observe the Grand High Priest’s daily lifestyle and habits?”
Titmos was extremely close to him, and every syllable of his words blew straight past the back of Rong Mian’s neck and into his ear canal. Rong Mian was already feeling somewhat dizzy, and having this done to him now brought that light-headed sensation right back. He tried to push him away, but his outer robe had slipped down, leaving him clad in only a thin undergarment. Titmos’s hand was cupped right around his waist, and the warmth radiating from his palm felt like a bolt of lightning, shooting straight up from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head.
His knuckles were slender and his bones well-proportioned, which was Rong Mian’s sensory impression. With five fingers pressed close together, he felt as though Titmos’s hand was a cage, though not large, it could securely hold his entire body in the palm of his hand, leaving him no way to escape.
“His Majesty has seen my style of conduct. Is there anything in particular that needs instruction?”
Rong Mian’s voice was slightly hoarse. The tombs beneath the cliff had been newly decorated recently, featuring colored murals freshly painted by artisans, various carved reliefs, and protruding giant portraits. Coupled with the immense energy required for mummification, Rong Mian had indeed expended a great deal of effort on this trip.
He had been tired in the past too, but today it was exceptionally pronounced, to the point where he had no desire to entangle himself any further with the man before him.
That lingering trace of suspicion continued to wrap around him from a distance, but with Titmos right here, he could not manage to unravel the doubts in his heart. Rong Mian shifted slightly to change his posture, but the other’s hand gently closed around him in what seemed like an uncalculated gesture yet left him entirely unable to muster any strength to resist.
“The Grand High Priest’s conduct is something this king has only caught a glimpse of the tip of the iceberg. To test more, further observation is required.” Titmos spoke with utmost elegance. His hand slid downward along the lower abdomen toward the left side, quickly stopping among the cloth buttons of the lightweight gauze robe. The neatly tied sash was completely under his control; it seemed as though with just a gentle pull, all the scenery within would be laid bare. Knowing his subconscious intent, Rong Mian immediately shoved him away with all his might. He had no desire to spark any kind of fire with him here; he was truly exhausted today and lacked even a shred of interest.
Rip!
As Rong Mian dodged outward, Titmos actually made no move to stop him, allowing him to break free from his embrace. However, those few retreating steps brought a crisp sound of tearing fabric. Rong Mian felt a sudden chill on his body, his steps turning unsteady as the long robe dragged him down. Just as he looked like he was about to fall, his body was caught by someone once again. This time, it was the smooth, slippery sensation of direct skin-to-skin contact, unmistakably real. Meeting Titmos’s teasing hazel eyes, Rong Mian had nowhere to hide. Mortified and furious, he said in a chilled voice, “Let go.”
“The testing is not yet complete; how can I let go?” Titmos’s voice was slightly hoarse and magnetic. Staring unblinkingly at Rong Mian, that flawless jade-like complexion filled his vision, and all the luxurious facilities around him could no longer catch his eye. The bruised, satin-smooth touch felt as fine as sheep’s milk, and the palm-sized tactile sensation completely unleashed the beast lurking deep within his heart.
With a single hand, he brushed aside the official headdress, letting Rong Mian’s long hair cascade down. Lowering his head, he captured those vibrant, fragrant lips, launching a frantic, plundering invasion. Even though only a few days had passed, Titmos was acting like a madman, wanting to tear the person before him to pieces. An indescribable feeling drove him to want to bind Rong Mian tightly and drag him off to his own domain, keeping anyone else from ever seeing such peerless, stunning beauty.
Rong Mian was on the verge of completely passing out; he did not even know how to breathe. Was this man out of his mind? In his panic, he freed one hand and pinched Titmos hard. Feeling the pain, the man’s dense kisses lightened slightly. Seizing the opportunity, Rong Mian pulled away, frantically gulping in the surrounding fresh air. This was murder, it was outright murder. Titmos had sucked those two jade-like peach lips until they were swollen high, contrasting against his fair complexion to make him look all the more charming and cherry-red. Seeing this, Titmos suddenly understood that Rong Mian was still a pure Grand High Priest.
For so long, aside from himself, probably no one else had ever had the chance to get this close to him. Seeing him holding his chest and coughing softly due to a desperate need for air, a surge of emotion stirred within him. He stepped forward, grabbed Rong Mian, and pressed him firmly against the thick, sculpted pillar inside the room. The architecture of the priesthood was built to temple standards, and the Grand High Priest’s chambers were exceptionally exquisite and elegant. Stone pillars lined the periphery of the room, carved with images of the goddess Isis; her outstretched sacred wings spanned across the stone, embracing all things and shielding the people she loved.
Rong Mian’s face was pressed directly against the face of Isis. The relief carvings were uneven and bumpy, pressing painfully against his cheeks. He let out a struggling word of protest: “Enough, this is too much.”
Titmos laughed wantonly, leaning in close to him. “It won’t be uncomfortable for long. The Grand High Priest only knows how to chant scriptures and pray on ordinary days; it seems some things still require this king to guide you a bit.”
With that, he turned Rong Mian’s face back and lowered his head once more. Rong Mian let out a couple of muffled whimpers as all his dissatisfaction was forcefully suppressed. The chill of the relief carving seeped into his body bit by bit, causing him to shiver involuntarily. With his legs pressed flush against the pillar, Titmos wedged himself between them, forcing them far apart. Noticing that Rong Mian was about to go limp again, he issued a reminder: “Breathe through your nose.”
How foolish he was; every time, Rong Mian would try to breathe through his mouth, which would inevitably lead to oxygen deprivation and restricted breathing over time.
Following Titmos’s instructions, Rong Mian slowly reined in his mounting breathlessness. Walking as if on clouds, Titmos’s lips were soft to just the right degree, and there was always a faint, serene fragrance of a cedar forest lingering around him. It spun through his dizzy brain, leaving behind a sliver of sober rationality that belonged solely to him amidst his bewildered state.
When Titmos pressed two fingers together and pushed his way inside, Rong Mian tilted the back of his neck, forced to submit as the other continued his winding exploration. This place seemed to have already become his exclusive secret territory. Titmos’s slender fingertips traced inward past that red mark, venting his desires to his heart’s content within the tight, narrow space. Titmos noticed a subtle change: whenever he thrust harder against the birthmark at the back of Rong Mian’s neck, that other little mouth would shed even more jade liquid, endless and unceasing, as if some strange connection existed between the two. To verify this, Titmos had experimented with various methods the previous night. Rong Mian’s neck was extremely fragile, and he had no defense whatsoever against the insertion of those fingers.
Just like now, Titmos stood poised and ready, watching that crimson little mouth pucker eagerly in the air. Suddenly, his gaze drifted to the table nearby, where a fruit platter brought in by a temple servant sat. The fresh fruit inspired a sudden thought within him. Pinching Rong Mian’s legs together, at the very moment the other lost all his strength, he scooped him up and pressed him facedown onto the wide table.
“Let the Grand High Priest see, what would you like to eat?” Titmos pushed the fruit platter right before Rong Mian’s eyes. Looking at the colorful array of fruits, Rong Mian felt his heart weeping blood. Why did this scoundrel have so many tricks up his sleeve? He had already been feeling listless, and now being toyed with like this left his body tingling with an endless, unreleased surge of passion.
“I’m not hungry.” As he spoke, a stray lock of hair drifted into Rong Mian’s mouth. Speaking while biting down on the strands made his voice fuzzy and indistinct. Seeing this, Titmos leisurely retrieved the fruit platter, casually picked up a kumquat, and weighed it in his palm, letting its fruity aroma fill the air. “Ever since last year, the palace gardens managed to cultivate just this single kumquat tree. Every year, its yield is only enough for the royal family’s enjoyment. Such precious fruit, is the Grand High Priest certain you don’t want any?”
Clenching his teeth, Rong Mian muttered angrily and low: “Since it’s so precious, it’s better left for Your Majesty to enjoy by yourself.”
Did he think he did not know what wicked scheme this man was plotting?
How would he ever get a kumquat out if it were stuffed into his mouth? No matter what, he could not let him have his way. Rong Mian twisted his body, but Titmos set the kumquat down and looked at the narrow-mouthed ceramic teapot sitting on the table, stamped with pink flower patterns and lush foliage, crafted with exquisite workmanship. “So you’re thirsty instead?”
After arguing with him for so long, Rong Mian must be parched.
With the lid lifted, a wave of refreshing, invigorating fruit tea drifted out. Catching the scent, Rong Mian was momentarily stunned by its freshness. That subtle reaction was captured completely by the man towering over him. With a smile playing on his lips, Titmos picked up the ceramic long-necked pot. “It seems this king guessed right.”
“Then let the Grand High Priest have a taste and see if this freshly brewed fruit tea suits your palate.”
Warm liquid streamed inward along his small mouth. Rong Mian gritted his teeth, let out a couple of muffled noises, and then clamped down hard, refusing to let out a single sound. How hateful. Titmos was clearly doing this on purpose to force him to make a sound. The curved, swan-neck spout slowly inched forward from his lips, slipping entirely inside, and the fruit tea poured out in full force. Rong Mian’s stomach was bloated with the liquid. “Enough.”
He was going to be completely ruined if he kept drinking like this. Yet his legs were wedged apart and forced open, as Titmos playfully wedged a round stool right in the middle, knelt on one knee, and suppressed him from above in an overpowering posture. When the spout was finally withdrawn, the fruit tea trickled out in a stuttering stream from Rong Mian’s lips, spilling its fragrance all over the stool. The corners of Rong Mian’s eyes were flushed red, and his long hair had been tousled into a mess through all the tossing and turning. Titmos looked with satisfaction at his about-to-cry expression. Rong Mian usually held himself more upright than anyone else, and he simply loved seeing this lofty Grand High Priest groveling beside him, left entirely at his mercy, both pitiful and adorable.
Mh-hn. Following a brief moment of trance, Rong Mian was pierced all the way through, and fragmented, sobbing cries slowly began to sound. Inside the grand priesthood, within the chamber of the most divine Grand High Priest, no one knew what kind of glory the goddess Isis had bestowed upon her beloved devotee.
After all the madness subsided, Titmos carefully scooped up Rong Mian and tucked the blanket snugly around him. Traces of tears still lingered at the corners of Rong Mian’s eyes and brows. As he reached up to wipe them away, his gaze fell upon Rong Mian’s lips, and Titmos froze before letting out a helpless, rueful laugh. Rong Mian truly had quite a temper; he was always so enduring. No matter how uncomfortable he felt, he refused to let himself indulge while awake. Even if it meant biting his lips until they bled, he insisted on holding onto that shred of proud self-esteem all by himself, though in the end, hadn’t he still been broken by him.
Titmos ran a finger back and forth over that bruised wound, realizing that he really must have bullied him too hard just now; the wound was actually that deep. Looking around, he wondered where Rong Mian kept his spare medical kit.
He stood up and searched around, only to hear footsteps outside the door, followed shortly by a knock: “Your Majesty.”
Frowning, Titmos walked over and opened the door.
It was Aemon.
“What is it?”
Aemon looked at him, holding a briefing report: “Reporting to the King, the Mitanni envoys will arrive in the royal city in two days.”
Taking the report and scanning it, Titmos said indifferently: “Since they’ve arrived, just make proper arrangements for them.”
“Just clear out a few side courtyards for them to stay in as accommodations for the foreign envoys.”
Seeming to sense Aemon’s confusion, he spoke up once more.
Aemon nodded in acknowledgment, then looked at him with an expression that seemed to say he wasn’t sure whether he should speak or not.
Titmos waved a hand: “Is there anything that cannot be spoken of in front of this king?”
Aemon and Sakara had followed him for so long and were his most trusted men. Seeing Aemon’s hesitant expression now, could there be another thorny matter?
“It’s the Second Prince. When your subject came over, I saw palace medical officers hurrying over, saying the Second Prince is feeling unwell.”
Titmos frowned. Wenger?
Come to think of it, he hadn’t checked on him much these past few days. Among his brothers, Wenger was the one he got along with best, and now he was practically the only living relative he had left. Titmos pondered for a moment, glanced back inside the room, and said: “You go on down first. Handle the matter of the envoys according to what I just said.”
Not daring to pry into whatever situation might be happening inside, Aemon could only manage an affirmative hum before immediately backing out.
“Wait.”
Aemon stopped in his tracks instantly.
“Go to the medical quarters and fetch another medical officer.”
Aemon raised an eyebrow. Just as I thought.
“Yes.”
Inside the Southern Palace.
Wenger was burning with fever, curling up listlessly beneath the blankets.
The medical officer sighed as he diagnosed him. Second Prince Wenger was running such a high fever; logically speaking, the palace was scorching hot lately, and with the Prince taking such good care of himself, he shouldn’t be falling ill. Yet the royal prince, who usually looked so pampered and delicate, was now lying on the bed like a withered flower. The medical officer worked every survival instinct in his body into gear, terrified that a single mistake on his part would come back to implicate him.