CHAPTER 10

There was an art to battle, Celia believed. It was a bloody art, and at the end, all that mattered was who stood and who fell, but it was still an art. She angled her shield, and the incoming staff slid off it, its wielder’s stance staying firm despite. An art of action and reaction, of prediction, and of awareness, it was. An art of minimum momentum. She shifted off her back foot, bringing her practice sword down in a sweep, only to have her opponent’s staff knock it away as easily as she had before. They eyed each other, stances firm, both scanning for weaknesses.

Gella, in the art of battle, embodied that minimalism. Her magic enhanced her speed, and she had clearly practiced to let that compensate for her merely decent swordplay. She had only seen a handful of spells the mage could cast in combat, but even those were devastatingly effective, and used with careful precision.

Lathrion was – by contrast – a master of the broad stroke. He fought with unrelenting force, backed further by the seemingly endless well of skills he’d developed with every weapon he had, be it rapier, spear, whip, or battleax. Damian, though…

She eyed her current opponent again, sizing him up. Damian would be the lord of the duet. He struck hard and fast when he chose to, and retreated smoothly, leaving openings with deliberate ease only to shift and counter every attempt to exploit them. It was a frankly incredible display of skill, and left Celia in awe every time she fought the silver-haired warrior. Never mind the warrior himself. Toned and fit, his pale skin gleamed with sweat in the morning sun, a work of art on its own… Celia stifled that train of thought, though not for the normal reasons. There was a spar to be won.

His current weapon was a simple wooden rod, made of strong heartwood to match the weight of the spear he was used to. He spun it lightly, almost unconcerned, in an obvious taunt. Celia didn’t bite. She stayed calm, stepping sideways as she waited for an opening, a real one, not one he was giving her. She took another step, then lunged in the opposite direction, her wooden sword turned flat to the ground on instinct. Damian’s eyebrows rose at the killing blow, and he hesitated for just a moment, pole faltering in its spin and slamming against her shield.

Damian recovered quickly, turning to let her strike meet empty air. She had learned not to commit all of her momentum by now, so she spun, then dashed away from his strike range as he tried to knock her legs out from under her.

Her opponent followed, and she grunted as his shoulder slammed into her chest, and tumbled into the sand. Trying to recover, she rolled to her feet, only to have the end of the pole pointed at her throat. “My kill,” he crowed, and she slumped.

“Daray’s beard, man!" She panted, grinning. “How many does that make?” Damian offered her his hand, and she pulled herself back to her feet. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Less and less, though…

“Four to my seventeen,” he said, clapping Celia’s back. “That’s more than most of the Heralds can take, so count yourself proud!” Chimes echoed along the manor grounds, and Damian turned toward the rest of the practice grounds. “All right, you lot! Let’s hit the Grotto, and I expect to see you all back here after lunch!” The assembled Heralds responded with a tired cheer, heading into the barracks with spirits high despite the hours they’d just spent working their bodies hard.

Celia watched Damian go with them, reflecting on the past few days. Lathrion had indeed been an indicator of the skill she could expect to find, and Celia had met very few weaponmasters who could fight like he, Damian, and the Heralds did. Warriors of that level rarely crossed paths with mercenaries, being hired by some noble or other on a more permanent basis instead.

They had proven to be remarkably good company off the practice grounds too. Gella’s fascination with mind control didn’t extend to her brother and his force, though a few of them admitted that the mage had taken them under control for therapeutic reasons, and strictly on a temporary basis.

While Gella’s ideas on the sanctity of the mind ended with her Treasures, her relaxed idea of sexuality did not. Of the ten Heralds there were four men, five women, and one androgynous elf that had simply laughed at the question. And by her third day visiting their barracks, she had seen every last one of them naked at least once.

Sighing, mentally preparing herself for what she’d find, Celia followed the Heralds in, through the door she’d ignored, and into the Grotto itself. Steam billowed towards her, and the rocks that made up the walls were damp. Hot springs were always welcome to a traveling mercenary, but to have so many of them here was… well, fairly normal for Gella, she had to admit.

There was a bar, too, and a stage. The place looked like a tavern you’d find anywhere, as long as you ignored the stone walls, vast pools of water, and naked patrons. Damian had explained that the stage was Tabby’s idea. Apparently, the cat-girl enjoyed putting on shows for the Heralds. Given that it was Tabby, Celia had little difficulty imagining just what kind of shows they were.

There were attendants, which was admittedly somewhat unusual for a tavern. Men and women that handed out towels, and offered massages while the Heralds bathed. They were hired from Wand’s Reach, for their special skills, as Damian had jokingly put it. Given that each attendant walked around in short robes, Celia didn’t have too much trouble imagining what those skills were.

She slipped out of her clothes, and sank into a pool with a long groan of pleasure. It had been strange at first to strip in front of so many people, but modesty simply didn’t seem to be a concern for the Heralds, and it was easy to accept that after training with them. They looked at her naked body not out of lust, but out of appreciation, eyes trailing over muscles instead of her chest, and treating the scars as the symbols of stories they were.

“Mind if I join you, Celia?” Damian asked. Celia cracked an eye open and glanced at him before nodding. She was the only one he asked, and despite all of his efforts to integrate her into the group, she appreciated that he didn’t push on this.

Damian shed his armor with the ease of long practice, placing into a no-space ring he wore much like his sister’s. Perhaps the attitude towards scars the Heralds had came from him – after all, his body was practically covered in them. Mundane red lines, strange spell-marks, burns, and even fangs and claws. “What’s the worst thing you ever had to face off against?” Celia asked, nodding towards his marred flesh.

Damian ran his fingers through his short silver hair. He looked thoughtful as he slipped out of his underclothes, then vanished them as well. “A minotaur. Twice my height of pure rage, and a greataxe the size of a horse cart.” He turned his arm toward Celia, raising it to show off the scar. Celia winced at the smell. “Right… right,” he laughed. “Show off after I’m cleaned up.”

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After their soak, they threw on some simple but well-tailored clothes and headed up to the manor for breakfast. Celia had a whole wardrobe tailored for her, but that was in her room, not by the barracks. As they walked, Tabby’s suggestion of talking to Damian resurfaced. She had been putting it off as she settled into her new life, but she had to confront it eventually. Grimacing, she stopped Damian with a touch to his arm.

“Something on your mind, Celia?”

“Can we… talk? I mean, about your sister. And her whole…” She held up the braceleted arm. “Thing?”

Damian nodded, grinning. “Let me go steal some breakfast from Tabby first. For you too?” When she nodded, he headed off, returning a few moments later with what looked like bacon sandwiches wrapped in a napkin. “We can talk up on the balcony. You want privacy, right?”

She nodded gratefully, and let him lead her to the same balcony she had sought refuge in on that first day. The view over the mountains remained just as spectacular. She could remember the same fear and panic, still visualize the reasons, still feel that spike of terror, but… It was amazing how much could change in the space of just a week. The first day, she would never have imagined she would be calmly eating breakfast in the same place she’d sought refuge from sex in stone.

Damian pulled a simple table and a pair of folding chairs from no-space. Not for the first time, Celia felt a pang of jealousy for that ability. Having essentially a private storehouse of whatever you needed – one that keeps food and other perishables fresh, no less – was far too useful. Briefly she thought of asking Gella if she could have one, but had been told the materials would take months to gather through her contacts.

“So,” Damian began, swallowing a good sized bite of his sandwich, “what did you want to know?”

Celia took a bite of her own, allowing herself a moment just to savor the taste. Tabby’s cooking was so divine it was hard to believe Lauren was the Touched one sometimes. “Is all of this as good as it seems?” She asked after a moment of consideration. “It just seems so… so…” She struggled for the word. “So unbelievable.”

Damian looked out towards the mountains, contemplating that. Finally, he nodded. “If you mean Cair Dwemor, then yes, I can say that wholeheartedly. There’s few places better than home. Gella and her Treasure collection, on the other hand…” He shrugged. “She cares for each of them. That much I can assure you. And she would fight and bleed for those she cares for. You could do a whole hell of a lot worse for an owner than my Spark.”

Owner. People didn’t have owners. Things did. And when people were things, they were… they were slaves. That was horrible, a horrible thing to be, a pox on the world. Damian glanced sidelong at her, and she shook her head. “She doesn't own me,” she said firmly. “I’m not a slave.”

Damian looked at her with his slate gray eyes, so similar to his sister’s, yet so much warmer. After a long pause, he shrugged again. “You have a point.” He pulled a pair of flasks of clear water out of nowhere, offering one to her. “You want the god's honest truth about what you all are to her?” He took a sip of water. “Somewhere between a lover, a pet, and a friend. At least, that's what I see from the outside.”

Well, she couldn’t say he was wrong. Hells, Gella had even referred to taming Celia like she was a pet. She let the comfortable silence linger, not sure what to say. You couldn’t rightly call a pet a slave, and they were undeniably owned. Thinking of pets brought her mind back around to Tabby, and she felt a little bad about that being her first association. It fit well, though. The cat-girl seemed so perfectly content as a pet. All of them did, and it wasn’t hard to see why.

“Was she always like that?” Celia asked, switching tracks to avoid the strange and confusing emotions the idea of herself collared and tamed brought. “Gella, I mean?”

Damian shook his head with a smile. “Gods, no!" He exclaimed. “When we first got here fifteen years ago, she was a right terror. She had just graduated, genius mage, top of her class, and Daray help me, she acted like it.”

“You aren’t Remeran?”

“No. We grew up much further to the north. The waygate’s other end is actually in our home city, Amourot.”

Celia had never heard of the city in specific, but something about the north was… Her eyes widened. “Damian, isn’t the Lord Sorcerer supposed to be from up around there, too?” The vague, looming threat that Remere seemed so worried about suddenly felt a lot less vague and a lot more looming.

Damian frowned. “Lord Sorcerer? I don’t know who that is.”

Celia swallowed, and tried to ignore the prickling unease building in her stomach. “That’s what people in New Gyr were calling him. Theories are he’s a vampire lord, or a dragon, or something. Something strong.”

That only earned her another deeply confused look. “If there were any vampire lords or dragons that powerful, we would have heard of them.”

Celia sighed in frustration. “Your homeland. Does it share the northern border with Remere?”

Damian ran his fingers through his hair, looking amused. “I didn’t expect a geography test today, Celia.” He chuckled, then stopped at the serious look on Celia’s face. “Right. Let me think.” He went quiet for a moment. “Yes, I think Adampor and Remere share that border.”

“Right!” Celia grimaced. “So, someone from Adampor is attacking Remere. That’s the Lord Sorcerer.”

Damian’s eyes lit up. “Oh! You mean the First Counselor Stretta?”

“I… guess so?”

“That’s a hell of a nickname you Remerans picked for him.” He relaxed back into his chair. “He’s a powerful enough mage, and rumored to deal in older arts, so I suppose I see where it comes from. No Adampora alive doesn’t know about him. More than that, he is our liege.”

Celia took a bite of her sandwich, then froze. Had she heard that right? Icy dread filled her, and she fought to keep a neutral expression. Gella, the woman that she owed the next year of her life to. The woman that could and would steal her will away with a click of her fingers. She owed fealty to an enemy nation. A small but satisfied part of herself crowed, I fucking knew this was all too good to be true!

Damian looked over at her with a curious expression. She desperately hoped it wasn’t… “Celia, are you okay?” He sounded concerned, not suspicious, but Celia still felt a stab of fear.

What could she do? She could feign ignorance, or try to deflect the question, but both required more skills at deception than she was confident she had. She was a warrior, and faced her problems head on. “Damian, you and Gella work for an enemy of Remere.” There. It was out in the open now.

He gave her a calculating look, then shut his eyes for a moment. It only took her a second to recognize that he was communicating. “You don’t need to get Gella involved!" She objected, but it was too late. The mage was already on the balcony, having arrived there with a warp of space.

She was dressed in a light blue shirt and trousers today, and Celia couldn’t help but notice she had her rapier belted on. That in of itself wasn’t out of the ordinary. Gella often wore her rapier just as Celia wore her blade. But it did nothing to soothe her tension.

“Tactful as always, oh brother of mine,” Gella chided with a fond smile. Damian smiled back sheepishly, then they both looked at Celia. “So the cat is out of the bag, so to speak.” She nodded at Celia. “It’s true. Stretta, the one you call the Lord Sorcerer, is our liege lord.” She sat down at the table and looked right into Celia’s eyes.

The warrior felt something different behind them. They were still oddly comforting despite their aloofness, and she could see fondness mixed with that cold, but there was an edge to them now. She’s sizing up what kind of threat I’ll be. “I’m sure you have all manner of ideas about what I’m up to swirling around in your mind? Let’s hear them.”

She grimaced. That’s what she had asked for. No more secrets. Did that change because of this? She was beginning to grow quite fond of the mage – for all her quirks the silver haired woman was proving to be competent and friendly. In her admittedly brief time at the manor, Gella had been as good as her word about not using mental control on her, and she really did seem to adore each of her Treasures.

But there was no reason why Gella couldn’t be kind and personable to those close to her while helping a foreign invader attack Remere. “With that waygate, you could bring in an entire battalion of soldiers, and the crown would never see it coming.”

Gella nodded sagely. “If the First Counselor wanted to, he could have a legion here in half a day. Why do you think he hasn't done that, then?”

That brought a pause to Celia. Being asked to think like a foreign wizard and a commander of an army? She had done some tactical planning before, but nothing larger than a company. “Well,” she began, trying to focus on the question. Maybe the situation wasn’t what it appeared? “The crown has magic, too. Maybe they would notice it?” Gella didn’t confirm or deny, but gestured for Celia to continue. “The waygate could have limitations, too.” Again, Gella gestured. “It could be too early for him to tip his hand. I remember some of the other mercenaries saying the fighting up north had reached a stalemate?”

Gella nodded, and Celia frowned. “But he will eventually send his army here, won’t he?”

“I don’t pretend to know the First Counselor’s plans in detail, Celia. His generals and strategists don’t often overlap with my domains.” She gestured to the rapier at her hip. “He has been most generous in funding my stay out here, and what he does with the fruits of my research is up to him.”

In a flash, it all made sense to Celia. A way to defeat an enemy without harming them. Blades that could render your opponent docile, and spells to compel obedience. And those spells didn’t even have to be directly cast. “He wants to enslave all of Remere?!” The idea of an entire nation brought to its knees not through warfare, but through magical enslavement, brought a wave of revulsion to Celia. Could she trust Gella after this? This was awful, terrible, magnitudes worse than… than…

Old terrors seeped out. Fire and smoke, men laughing, weight on her neck and harsh wind on her face. That black fire, those horrible memories, they burned, and twisted, and swelled, and…

“Celia,” Gella’s voice cut through her thoughts. The warrior’s eyes flicked up to meet hers by reflex, which were looking at her with quiet intensity. “Focus on me,” the mage continued. “In.” She slowly inhaled and held her breath. Celia hesitantly copied her, unsure what was going on. Was she going to break her contract so soon? “And out.” Gella let the breath out slowly, and Celia followed suit, still confused.

The mage guided Celia through several more breaths, and slowly, that black fire faded. She was still uncertain – the breaths had done nothing to change her thoughts – but she was able to look at things clearly. It felt just like what she had done at the mirror – not a trance, at least, not one Gella had put her into. Gella had pulled her out.

“Thank you,” Celia whispered.

Gella nodded, smiling softly. “You’re welcome. I trust you’re feeling better?” Celia nodded mutely. “As for the First Counselor enslaving all of Remere? I doubt that very much. Such a thing is not in his interests. He has no intent to rule the world,” she chuckled. Hearing that set Celia a bit more at ease, but the mage continued with a somber expression, and that definitely didn’t help matters. “He does have designs for Remere. And he does plan to eventually make moves further south.” Celia grimaced, knowing what that would mean. Battle. Death. “But rest assured, Celia. I will let nothing harm you. Not you, nor my Treasures, nor my family. I’ll swear that before every divinity that would hear me, if you wish.”

Celia didn’t need her to do that. The words were spoken coldly, but it was clear she meant it, and Celia had no doubt she could make it a reality. It didn’t make things better, not entirely, but… things were fine. For now. But it just served as a stark reminder of how little she really knew about the mage that intended to tame her. She could simply ask, but how true would the answer be? She needed to find her own answers. Somehow.

She sighed. Life had been so much easier before.

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The afternoon brought with it dark storm clouds, and soon the soft sound of rain filled the manor. Celia was glad she had a place to stay that wasn’t full of holes. The room back in New Gyr had leaked terribly when it rained, and the thin walls did nothing to keep out the chill. Celia was wandering the bottom floor aimlessly, looking for something, anything to give her answers, when she heard voices from the living room.

Peeking in, she saw a scene that somehow was more intimate than if she’d walked in on them having sex. Gella was sitting on the couch, her silver hair shining even in the dimmed magelight, and she was speaking softly to a peaceful Violet lying with her head in Gella’s lap. “That’s right,” she whispered. “you can’t help but listen to every word.”

The elf looked more relaxed than Celia had ever seen her, sprawled comfortably with a cascade of purple hair spilling over Gella’s legs. The mage was tracing the shape of the rune – the hole in Violet’s soul – over and over again, each pass eliciting a faint sigh from the entranced elf.

Seeing Celia, Gella quickly put a finger to her lips before continuing softly. “Violet, until I tap your forehead again, you will drift in the sea of stars. Hearing nothing until I tap your forehead again, now.” She stressed the last word, and Violet murmured happily with the barest of nods.

Celia swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. Seeing Violet, aloof and strong Violet, happily melting at Gella’s touch sent chills and warmth in equal measure running along her body. She thought back to Gella's first demonstration of her power, and couldn’t help but think that something like this would have been much more effective. It was so peaceful, so intimate. She knew how Violet was feeling right now – just as she had with Lauren, perfectly relaxed and perfectly safe. She hadn’t even noticed she was starting to stare, blinking slowly, until Gella cleared her throat. “Hello, Celia.”

Celia shook her head, trying to push aside the urge to sink, to share in that feeling she had enjoyed so well. Desperately hoping Gella hadn’t seen her start to slip, she took a seat in the chair Gella had used that first morning. “She won’t mind me seeing her like this?”

Gella shook her head, idly stroking her fingers through Violet’s hair. “She doesn’t,” Gella said, her voice soft.

Celia hesitated, before speaking again. “You love her.” It wasn’t a question. She knew the answer.

Gella flicked her eyes up, and Celia saw the devotion, the softness instead of her normal ice, and… she was looking right at Celia the same way. Maybe her gaze was a little less deep, but it was in no way colder. “I do.” It was so simple and direct an answer. “I care deeply for all my Treasures, Celia.” She looked down into Violet’s closed eyes, cupping her cheek almost reverently.

Part of her wanted to take this chance to explore now that Violet and Gella were occupied, but another part couldn’t help but watch Violet with rapt fascination. She had looked similar to that during the demonstration, but here she was obviously so much further gone. Celia’s eyes took in Violet’s expression, her demeanor, looking for all the world like she was in the middle of a fantastic dream. “Are you… changing her?” She asked hesitantly.

“No,” Gella reassured her. “Violet was simply feeling stressed, so she asked for some time away from her thoughts.”

Celia could see the appeal. Her trance with Lauren had been so freeing, and that was without planning, just Lauren’s words and a bit of fae logic to guide her. “Does magic… does it make the trance better?”

Gella frowned, considering that. “It can,” she finally answered. “It can save what might be years of careful work. I don’t know if I could get my Violet as deep as she is now without having used it in her training.”

Celia had to force herself back from that urge to sink. Why was it so strong? It had to be obvious. There was no way Gella hadn’t noticed her shortened breathing, or… noticed other reactions. “What was she stressed out about?” Celia quickly asked, desperate for a new topic, for a reprieve from desires that she was all too new to.

“Threats to the manor,” Gella replied, studying Celia. “There are times I get… absorbed in my work, or a new path of research, and don’t take proper safety precautions. Violet has taken on the responsibility of protecting me, and has done a superb job.” Her fingers stopped playing with the elf’s hair, and Gella looked down again with that wide, warm smile.

That smile slowly turned into a smirk. “You know, Celia, I would be happy to start working with you as well. You could be just as deep as my Violet is. As deep as you wish. As deep as you were with Lauren, or deeper.”

Gella might as well have offered to bed Celia then and there, for the feelings that stirred. A large part of her wanted to. Gods above, did she want to. She had experienced it, and she knew how wonderful, how peaceful, how right it could feel. The lingering fantasy from earlier re-ignited, Gella just snapping the warrior’s mind back into that perfect place of logic.

But there was a dissonance. Something still felt off. Was it her reservations lingering from earlier? Gella had assuaged them somewhat, but… Was it fear of the unknown? Maybe. Whatever it was, something told her that letting Gella into her mind was wrong. And she had learned to trust her instincts. But… “I…" She stammered, looking from Violet’s utterly peaceful expression to Gella’s warm smile.

“Celia,” Gella's smooth voice cut through her confusion, recentering her just as it had that morning. “I am going to be passing through the waygate tomorrow morning, and will return after no more than a few days. Please. Take some time and consider my offer. What happened this morning on the balcony has me worried.” The balcony. That brought back what Damian had told her. A lover, a pet, and a friend. Was that what she wanted to be? Each facet felt so tempting, so right…

“I… I will,” she mumbled, thoughts of what could be dancing across her mind, filling her with desire. “I…”

“Go on, Celia. I know,” Gella purred.

How Celia managed to reach her room in that heated state, she never knew. The door opened at her touch, and the moment it closed behind her she collapsed onto the bed and gave herself to the desire Gella had stoked to life. It had never been like this. The other times the need had arisen, she had taken care of it quickly, or shoved it aside. But there was no ignoring this. This was so much deeper and hotter, a river of fire burning through her veins. Fantasies and desires intermingled and sparked to life, driving Celia forward, to put her hand under her panties, towards that burning heat.

She curled her fingers in, letting out a guttural moan. She desperately kicked off her pants, sinking into the soft pillows and silky sheets. Legs spread wide, she moaned again as her fingers sent jolts of pleasure all along her body. She could see it clearly, giving in and letting Gella carry her away into a wonderful trance.

After a few moments, her moans turned to frustrated whines. She felt the jolts of pleasure, the pure pulsing heat from her pussy washing along her body, and yet there was something missing. Was it her holding herself back? That wasn’t it. This was just… incomplete. She could have what she wanted. She didn’t have to fantasize. Lauren had been so good to her, good with her, and she felt a sudden powerful urge to go just down the hall and… and what? Beg Lauren to help get her off?

That discordant thought stilled her desires long enough for a few more coherent thoughts to rise above the hazy heated fog. She was certain that Lauren would be delighted to help her, she had done it before. The priestess always was open and willing, for just about anything. Was that related to what Gella had done to her? But even if there was a dark, enticing thrill to the thought of begging her friend she… she just couldn’t do it. Submitting like that – not to Lauren, but to her own need – it made her feel weak and soft. Not that I had a problem being soft with her before, a deeper part of her pointed out.

Feeling the deep unfulfilled need thrumming in her body Celia covered her face with a pillow, groaning deeply. The heat was getting oppressive, and it was swamping her thoughts, whispering and urging her to just give in. She knew Lauren would make her feel amazing, and Tabby would take care of her needs without a second thought. Vi would…. Celia pulled her hand away from her body before she could sink any further into that fantasy. Vi was still dangerous, not because of what she was, but what she represented. That control…

That thought was sobering, and it pushed aside some of the heat, replacing it with revulsion. Not at Gella in particular, but in what the mage had done so long ago. But she was still soaking wet, and even shifting her thighs together brought a dull thrum of pleasure, one which felt tainted now. She cast around for anything else to focus on, settling on the rain pounding her windows. The high cold mountain rain. A wry grin split Celia’s lips. She could think of at least one other way to work out her body’s needs.

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It was hours later, and Celia was soaked from head to toe in a distinctly less warm way. The training field was a muddy slurry by now. From weighted weapons, to practice strikes, to simple exercises, she fed every bit of that roaring need she could to fuel her inner strength. It left her panting, exhausted, covered in sweat, and feeling wonderfully sated. This, at least, was familiar. The ache of her muscles, the tightness in her back… she felt like a proper warrior again.

Her desire hadn’t been quenched, not entirely, but it was weak enough Celia could easily force it down, shove it aside and ignore it for now. Returning the practice weapons to the rack she made her way back to the manor.

Getting muddy and cold and wet would have been torturous before, she reflected. It would mean staying muddy, cold and wet until she could build a fire or get somewhere dry, and even then she’d be covered in dirt. Now, though, it was strangely fun when she knew she had a warm bath and dry clean clothes waiting for her.

She had just opened the door back to the manor when Violet happened to be walking by. The maid paused, looking from Celia’s rain-soaked skin, to the grime splattered on her legs, and finally to her boots that were completely caked in mud. She smiled chidingly. “I admire your dedication to training, Celia,” she sighed. “Though, are you really planning on tracking mud everywhere?” She gestured to a basket by the doors. “Go on, take everything off. I’ll get it all washed later.”

The warrior folded her arms over her chest. Taking off her boots, she could understand. Perhaps even her pants, they had gotten a fair amount of mud on them. But everything? Surely that was just Violet wanting to see Celia naked again. “No,” she said firmly, bending over to unlace her boots. “I’ll take off my boots, Violet. But I’m not giving you another free show,” she grinned.

She hadn’t known Vi for very long, hadn’t had as deep of a heart to heart with her as she had with Lauren, but it felt nice to let her guard down around the elven woman. She was trustworthy.

Vi returned the grin with a slight smile of her own. “I’m afraid, Celia, I am going to have to insist. Unless you want to be the one to clean the house?” Beneath her long dress, Celia saw motion, and knew the elf had shifted her stance. She started to take off her boots, analyzing the situation, looking for an opening. She stood up, choice of action set. Violet followed her gaze, and dashed to intercept Celia, cutting her off before she could make it up the staircase.

The warrior ducked and spun, already having another trajectory. But Violet was fast, and she caught up, attempting the same kind of hold she had used that first morning. Celia pivoted, barely, but was off balance, her stance unsure. With a quick rustle of fabric, Violet seemed to almost flow around Celia and tried for another hold. Celia managed to just slip out again, but Violet’s hand shot out fast as a whip, and Celia froze as she felt the faintest of pricks on her skin. “I could,” Violet said with satisfaction. She made the needle disappear, somehow, and gave Celia a gentle smile. “But I won’t. And that wasn’t drugged, in case you were wondering.” She smiled softly. “I won’t use any of my concoctions on you. Unless you ask for it, of course.”

Ask for it, like a good girl, a half remembered voice whispered, and just like that the desire roared back to life, all the work done in the cold and the rain undone by a single flirty promise.

“You should take a quick shower before dinner, Celia,” Violet chuckled, moving back towards the entryway.

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Celia reluctantly awoke to a soft but insistent chime. The strange yellow gemstone contraption sitting on her bedside table indicated the time – two hours after midnight – but could be set to create that sound at any hour. Sleep had not come easily to the warrior. The lingering images of Violet deep in trance and the ease with which Gella had rendered Celia feeling utterly calm had worked together dangerously well. The pleasure her fingers coaxed from her body was exquisite and terrible, but she couldn’t quite crest the hill. Had she really been spoiled so much by that one taste? She had been left frustrated and slick, and it was only with the aid of an ice cold shower was she able to calm down enough to get some sleep.

She silenced the chime with a touch of her hand to the stone, and groggily tried getting her thoughts in order. She wanted to find things out for herself, with nobody interfering. She didn’t even consider Gella’s workshop or bedroom as options – one was likely too well defended, and the other had the person she least wanted finding out – but there were parts of the manor she hadn’t even seen yet. The basement, for one. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was she was expecting to find, since working for an enemy nation was near the top of things to keep concealed already. A dark cloud drifted over her thoughts. I know exactly what I’m afraid I’ll find. Proof that she really is a slaver after all.

She had tried hiding that from herself. The girls, Damian, and Gella herself had all adamantly denied that Gella had any desire for slaves. Celia wanted to believe it, wanted it so much that it almost ached. But she would never be a slave, and as wonderful as Gella could make a collar look and feel, it was still a collar.

Her desires, banked and still smoldering, rose again. Gella really could make a collar feel fantastic. She could do anything, so long as Celia accepted it. She could make her beg to be collared, beg to be allowed to be a good girl and do as she was told. The sheer intensity of that thought, the desire it evoked, shocked her back to reality. The warmth, that damned seductive pull to slip her hand in her panties, was only getting stronger and stronger. She knew that it would only lead to frustration. Sooner or later, she would have to talk to Lauren about it.

She forced her desire down, grabbing the sword she always kept nearby and sinking herself into it. She was steel. She desired nothing. She was made for combat. She was sharp, made for cutting into flesh. Deep into pliant, soft flesh… She grimaced. That wasn’t helping as much as it usually did. But the exercise still brought clarity to her sleep-deprived mind. She had answers to find.

The manor was quiet at this time of night. The sound of crickets chirping and the occasional owl hooting in the forest were all that punctuated the still air. Stealth had never been Celia’s strong suit, but she could at least move slowly enough to avoid waking up anyone else. She didn’t encounter anyone on her way to the basement, and the heavy door opened soundlessly on its hinges. Magical lights illuminated a set of stone steps leading down.

Compared to the tasteful opulence upstairs, the basement was practically utilitarian, though she wondered for a moment why there was magical lighting here but not in Gella’s workshop. The walls were smooth unpainted stone, and a number of copper and silver pipes lay bare across the ceiling. She knew copper was something one used to direct water, but silver? Didn’t that corrode? A number of rooms lay off the main hallway, and frustratingly, most didn’t open at her touch. Of course anything truly important would be under magical lock and key. She had almost resigned herself to returning to bed and salvaging what little sleep she could, when a door at the end of a hall caught her eye.

It was strange. It was made of something inky black, something which almost seemed to suck in light, like Violet’s armor. Strange shapes etched in blue light surrounded the frame, seeming to pulse in time with a rhythm Celia couldn’t quite place.

Well, if anything was suspicious, it was that. She approached it cautiously, and was stunned when she heard a woman’s voice on the other side. It was a soft, pitiable cry. I’m not exactly happy about being right, she grimaced. Steeling herself, she rushed the last few feet to the door and flung it open.

Inside, the magical illumination had been dimmed, and a strange warp of the air described a dome covering most of the floor. Within, a woman dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers was writhing on a stone slab, wrists were tied behind her back. A dark crystal pulsed wickedly on a nearby shelf.

“I… I must obey,” the woman whined, and something indistinct seemed to stream from her body toward the crystal. She cried and thrashed in her bonds, but the heavy scent of arousal spoke a much more worrying story. Celia didn’t need to see anymore. Had Gella really hoped to hide her dark secrets so thinly? She strode forward, face expressionless, her heart felt like stone.

A few short strides past the warp, and Celia was in front of the crystal, sword drawn. Now that she was past the dome, she could feel a tangible malevolence in the air, no doubt from that crystal. Somehow, she knew. It hungered. It wanted her spirit, her will, and it would happily drink her dry. Grimacing, she brought her sword down on the crystal. It shattered like glass, and the evil feeling in the room diminished.

The bound woman instantly began crying, curling up on her side. The rope on her wrist was easily dealt with, and the moment she was free, she threw her arms around Celia and hugged her tight. Her skin was slick with sweat. How long had she been down here? “Thank you, thank you so much,” the woman sobbed.

“You’re welcome," the blonde woman seemed disoriented and Celia helped her to her feet. “What’s your name?”

“Aversa,” she said after a long moment. “I’m sorry, that… that horrible thing…” She pointed to the shattered crystal. “It made me feel so soo…” She sobbed again, trailing off before taking a steadying breath. “So good! It made me want to obey… obey that awful mage.”

Whatever faint hope Celia might have had that Gella wasn’t to blame shattered more completely then even the evil crystal had. So it had all been a show for Celia’s benefit after all. What of Lauren? The priestess had been so gentle, so warm and friendly, and Celia had let herself get close. How much of what the pinkette promised had been real?

Aversa embraced her again, bringing her attention back to the present. “Thank you so much. You really saved me. What’s your name?” She asked, voice thick with appreciation and relief.

“Celia,” she answered cautiously. The question wasn’t one that could be used against her again, she was certain. “Can you walk? We need to get out of here before everyone else wakes up.”

Aversa kept the hug, and Celia was content to let her keep her comforts. They might be deep in a mage’s stronghold, but she had her blade, and if she kept her head on straight she might get past Wand’s Reach before daybreak. She didn’t have any way to get her bracelet free, but she was confident that-

“Oh, Celia,” Aversa said, her hug suddenly much stronger and tighter. She froze as something sinuous and flexible curled its way around her leg, gripping it loosely. She knew what that was. She bore a scar from one. “You really should stop being so trusting of strangers. Ceannas.”