He had once been called handsome.
In another life, perhaps, in another place where sunlight had meant warmth instead of exposure, where mirrors had been made of polished silver instead of puddles on cold stone floors. Now the only thing that reflected his face was dirty water mixed with soap and blood, and even that distorted him into something smaller, thinner, less human.
The boy with blonde hair and red eyes knelt on the marble floor of the imperial castle, scrubbing.
His name was Xavier.
A metal collar circled his neck, dull iron etched with sigils that bit into his skin whenever he moved too far from the invisible boundary set for him. It marked him as property. Not servant. Not attendant. Property.
