CHAPTER 33

“My what?” Gella asked.

Almost simultaneously, Lauren too demanded, “her what?!” They both stared at Stretta, and disbelief flowed between the mage and her priestess.

“Her soul,” Stretta replied easily. “Though only a measure of it. From what your report described, Miss Evergleam’s soul has already deteriorated. We will need something to replace what has been destroyed, if she is to recover.”

Gella sat heavily on a chair, mind whirling with the implications. The man in front of her was the foremost expert on this, so there wasn’t any doubt in Gella’s mind that what he was suggesting was necessary. . But… her soul?

Before this moment she had never had any strong feelings for her soul. She had one, obviously, and it did the essential business of keeping her alive and sapient while she focused on important matters. The religions and priests had all manner of precepts, rules and things that supposedly helped a soul shine brighter, or stay more pure. But she had simply let it get along with it.

Now, though? She suddenly felt fiercely protective of it. It was… It was her soul! “What kind of side effects can I expect?” She heard her own voice ask distantly. In an instant she felt a flash of guilt. She had just pledged anything to help Celia, and already she was hesitating.

If Stretta noticed her grimace, he didn’t comment. “I have some theories,” he said with a half shrug. “However, this is not very well explored territory. Historically, the only soul manipulation magic users like you and I ever attempted was lichdom.”

Gella and Lauren both shuddered at that. Lichdom, the ultimate way for an arcane caster to cheat death. It was also one of the most horrible perversions of magic Gella could think of, arcane or divine. Existing forever in the twilight between life and death, caged in the rotting husk of your mortal body.

“Such poor souls,” Lauren lamented softly. “Ripping their souls away – shredding them to rags in the process – only to stuff them inside a ring or something.” She looked up at Gella, and the mage was pleased to see the sadness and revulsion swiftly melt away. “I’m so glad you aren’t that kind of wizard, Mistress,” she said adoringly, pink-rimmed eyes sparkling bright.

“As is any right thinking Adampora,” Stretta said firmly. “Thankfully, what I am proposing is nothing like that. In many ways, it’s the opposite. Sharing your soul to give life to another,” he mused, giving Gella a wink.

That gave Gella pause. Would she do this for her other treasures? As much as it hurt, she tried to imagine Lauren in Celia’s place. Or Tabby and Violet. Violet’s case especially hurt her, as her earliest forms of true control had trailed into this same territory and irreparably altered the elven woman’s soul. If she could, would she give a piece of herself to save them? The answer was nearly lightning quick. She would. They were hers – hers to protect, hers to nurture, hers to heal. “I’ll do it.” Gella said, and she felt a warm swirl settle on her heart.

Stretta nodded. “That brings us to the secondary problem. Miss Evergleam’s Talent will simply damage her soul again if whatever event in her past isn’t dealt with. Once we get to that point you will need to take the lead. The mind is your speciality, not mine.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Lauren asked softly. “I want to help too, if I can.”

“Even with Shala’s blessing on her, this may still harm Celia’s body.” Gella said thoughtfully.

“I can arrange for some more Shalan priests from the Ministry to be present as well,” Stretta offered. “But before we get too far ahead, Gella, there is something we need to discuss.” he continued, a tone of reprimand in his voice. He opened one gloved hand, and a page of Gella’s own reproduced writing appeared with a small flash of arcane light. “Lauren, I will be borrowing your Mistress for a moment,” he kindly told the priestess. “If you or Miss Evergleam need anything, just pull on the cord by the door,” he instructed, pointing at the length of red rope hanging down from a small hole in the ceiling. Then – with the slightest hint of iron in his voice – he added, “Gella, if you will follow me.”

Gella nodded, a sense of unease already prickling her. If this was related to her report, there were only so many issues he could have wanted to discuss. Stretta gestured, and the world around them was obscured by shadow for a moment. When it cleared, Gella couldn’t stop a gasp from slipping free.

The room they now stood in was grand by design. High vaulted ceilings and lancet windows, all rendered in heavy, gray stone that radiated a feeling of stern judgment. Magical light illuminated the circle they stood in, as well as the intimidating raised desk that ringed it. Stretta climbed that desk, seating himself beyond it to peer down at Gella. “While I appreciate your report’s honesty, the fact that your summoned demoness escaped – and quite nearly became a matter I would have had to deal with personally – is concerning,” he said, the earlier warmth and pleasantness replaced with inquisitive neutrality.

Gella met her lord’s gaze firmly. Nervousness, dipping into actual fear, ran icily from her stomach to her spine. She focused past it. Celia was going to get the help she needed. Everything else was secondary to that. Still, she let her heart freeze over, giving her the distance to properly process-

“None of that,” Stretta said firmly, shocking Gella out of her attempt. While she was left speechless and stunned for a moment, he continued. “Tricks like that have their purpose, Lady Sadran, but this lesson requires that you embrace it fully.

Sheer power flowed over her again, and this time it wrapped around the wriggling mental construct of ice and dispassion. Experimentally, she tried to sink back into its comforting chill, only to find that part of her mind paralyzed. The fear picked up, and as much as it confused the mage there was an undercurrent of respect. This was her own research wielded with a kind of precision she hadn’t thought anyone besides herself could muster. “I am impressed, my lord,” she said, proud of herself for the utter lack of nerves she heard in her own voice.

The Sorcerer studying her from above nodded. “Your research in Remere has been exemplary, Lady Sadran. The kind of brute-force subjugation of another’s mind of the past simply wouldn’t have been sufficient for an operation on the scale of the Remeran Experiment. So, in light of your contributions to that and in light of your efforts to clean up your own mess, I am inclined to be lenient in your punishment.”

The fear lessened, and Gella was able to breathe a little easier. She had been expecting some punishment for Aversa, and her lord was renowned as being fair-minded. Still, she had to ask, “I can assume this will be a fair punishment?”

Stretta nodded solemnly. “Yes. Absolutely equitable.”

All manner of interpretations of that phrase flowed through Gella’s mind. She was reasonably confident that her Treasures were safe, as was her status as a researcher. And it was not as if she could really object to – or resist – her lord and sovereign’s judgment. “I’m ready.”

“You, Gella of House Sadran, are ambitious and possessed of supreme confidence in your abilities,” he began, firmly. “As I would expect from any talented mage.” He held up a finger as if to stop any objection, not that Gella had a mind to do so. “However, in letting your hold on the demon slip, you did not only risk impairing your cover in Remere, but have also demonstrated less than adequate humility to temper that ambition. To that end – in addition to your continuing research in cognitive magic – you will be assigned as a subordinate to a new project in Remere.”

Gella stood and slowly thought over the decree. Working in a subordinate position was galling to be sure, but a new project ignited a curious spark in her researcher’s heart. “What kind of project, my lord?”

A small smile ghosted over Stretta’s face, and a measure of warmth came back to his voice. “My scrying has located the ruins of a vast temple complex to a deity that – for reasons I have yet to discover – has been entirely erased from history. When the time comes, you and your team are to assist the Ministry of History with their explorations.”

Her and her team almost certainly translated to her Treasures, possibly with Damian and his Heralds as well. This was hardly a terrible punishment, even if archeology and history were well outside her expertise. “I will do this for you, my lord,” she said quickly, before he could think that she was not grateful – or gods forbid, defiant.

“Serve me well in this and it will see your punishment fulfilled,” he declared. “Are you ready to have it bound?” At his question’s que, a shadowed portal opened up and a stocky dwarven woman dressed in the purple robes of Lah’s priesthood approached. Her long, dark hair was bound in innumerable braids, and Gella didn’t miss the thrilled smile she had, likely at being present in Stretta’s judgments.

She also had a few pieces of parchment in her arms, along with a black feather quill. “Would you like a brief of the legal details of the contract, Lady Sadran?” She asked in a much softer voice then Gella had assumed she had.

“Natarie is part of the team that you will be assisting. She’s an expert in contract law from across the world.” Stretta said, making the dwarven priestess grin wider.

Taking the offered parchment, Gella read through the first clauses and sections. It was straightforward enough, a term of service determined by the needs of the project, supplies as needed, expectations of her and her team. “I am ready,” she told Stretta and Natarie, the latter of which handed her the quill.

It was designed to draw on her blood to sign, and the parchment would – of course – be enchanted. The compulsion to obey the terms of the contract would be far from unbreakable. Gella’s skills could have the entire spellform undone with twenty minutes of careful work. But she submitted to it and signed the document, both out of professional courtesy to her sovereign – and the much stronger influence he was still exerting over her.

She felt the spell seep into her mind, and subtly shift the rest of her thoughts around it. For a moment she imagined the delighted looks her Treasures would have if they were in her place, having such power affecting their minds. The happy gasps, the grins and blushes. It ached, and Stretta’s power still held back her protective icy shield.

While the dwarven woman busied herself healing Gella, Stretta smiled at her. “With that unpleasant business out of the way, I believe we have your Miss Evergleam to save?”

Instantly the hold he had on the specific part of Gella’s mind vanished, and she let the icy, numbing chill pass over her heart, as if stretching after being released from bindings. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling, but it did belong wholly to her. She nodded firmly at her lord. “Thank you.”

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It was hours later, and the preparations to begin saving Celia were nearly complete. They had relocated to a large hexagonal room that had been specially reinforced and strengthened to withstand any damage from wayward magic. The doorway was even more heavily draped in magical protections, and even the enchanted lights were enclosed behind a thick layer of conjured force. The result was a room that, while perfect for its intended task, nevertheless looked far too cold and sterile for Gella’s taste.

“There is no chance Celia will regain consciousness here?” She insisted. “Such a… stark environment wouldn’t be the best thing to expose her to, first thing after she recovers.”

“None whatsoever,” Stretta said confidently. “Once we extinguish the spell consuming her, we will have to keep her in a magical slumber for several days.”

Gella nodded, and looked over the impressive magical circle Stretta and the other members of the Ministry of Wellness had constructed. It filled a good portion of the floor, with space for eight mages to coordinate their efforts. Intricate runes had been inscribed with nearly pure ethercyte ink to facilitate the successful flow of ragira. The whole affair positively thrummed with power, and that was before any active spellwork.

In the center of the circle – surrounded by a blank space – lay Celia, looking as she had the past couple of days, a doll with inert clockwork. Be strong, my knight, we’re nearly there, Gella thought with a sense of firm determination.

To one side, Lauren was conversing with a number of other Shalan priests and priestesses. There seemed to be an agreement between them, and – acting as one – they produced their own chalk and alchemical crafts to etch a much smaller circle in the blank space around Celia. Incense was lit and lent its calming fragrance to the room.

“If you are ready?” Stretta asked

Gella went over and over the plan in her mind, attacking it from every angle. Nothing buckled. She felt confident, digging deep into every scrap of Light she had, to burn bright along with the other mages. “Ready.”

At his signal; the other mages – a motley mix of races – all began channeling their ragira into the circle. The sense of power fountained into a grand thunderstorm of potential. Magic ink glowed like molten steel and the inner circle of divine magic crackled at the point where the two sources of power clashed like oil and water. Despite the sheer intensity of it, Stretta was calm as he lifted a hand toward the motionless Celia. “Seall an t-anam. Bi mar chèir romham, his voice boomed, marshaling all of that untapped potential into a workable spell.

Gella likewise poured her power into the pattern, connecting her to the other mages and Stretta himself. There was pain, deep within her chest. It felt sharp and precise, like a line being drawn with a razor of pure magic, Gella felt her very soul succumb to the spell. She braced for it, knowing from her sovereign’s explanation that this was her soul primed to split and heal Celia’s wounded one.

The air above Celia wavered and distorted like a heat haze, then snapped into sharp clarity to display the ever-evolving crystalline facets of Celia’s soul. The damaged section was even worse than when she’d seen it the day before, despite the liquid fire now being the color of pure gold. Likely Shala’s doing, to spare Celia the pain of her nightmare.

“I will hold back the force of the spell,” Stretta proclaimed with an upward gesture of his hand. A roaring, spitting column of flame erupted from the display, filling the room with a heat that was just on the bearable side of sweltering. It snapped and struggled against his might, unwilling to be bound away from the prime target of its hate.

The other mage’s magic reinforced the delicate expression of power, channeled up through the inked runes to wrap the runaway force of destruction up like an enormous snake.

Within the inner circle, Celia began to violently twitch and jolt. Lauren and her fellows were quick to administer their magic, forcing Celia’s limbs to relax. “We don’t have a lot of time, Mistress!” Lauren yelled over the roaring fire.

“She’s stabilized! Go!” Stretta commanded.

Gella worked her spell quickly, taking full advantage of the freely offered ragira to spare her own reserves. Directing her specialized, mind-shaping spell, she focused fully on her wounded knight. And as soon as the spell connected, the totality of her perception was pulled forward, leaving the crowded hall behind.

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Celia curled up in the infinite present. There was no past – there never had been. There was no future – there never would be. There was only Celia, alone and burning. The flames had long ago – and only this last moment – charred her flesh black, filling her mind with an agony that was as sharp and fresh as the first time she stubbed her toe, and as old and ingrained as her scar.

Movement was impossible. Thoughts were impossible. There was only the pain, the sheer, burning, searing, slicing pain. For a moment, something changed. A great silvery sphere surrounded her. Faint traceries of the sphere’s silver light feebly brushed against her, and just for a timeless second, the pain lessened.

Then the sphere clicked shut, the space beneath her shifted, and she was plunged once more into liquid agony. Parts of her she didn’t even have a name for caught alight, hollowing her out from within, like a tree struck by lightning. Power ripped its way out of her and contorted widely, only to stab back in. Screaming only opened her to more of the pain, and weeping made her tears turn to jagged trails of ash.

The fires pulled, ripping the woman into disparate parts until only the pain and the fire linked her to herself. She sank deeper, the space around her growing hotter.

Then it didn’t.

In one glorious burst, Gold surrounded her, turning the flame from a manifestation of agony to just another thing she had no words for. It was still present, sending tiny bits of her far beyond her reach – beyond anyone's reach.

But with the pain gone, there was simply nothing – no light, no sound, no memories or thoughts. There was hardly even a Celia. Just a nameless transitory wisp, slowly ablating.

Brilliant silver light pierced the darkness. It drove away the gathering dark and wrapped the wisp – no, wrapped Celia – in a web of silver threads.

The insatiable flames lapped at this new intrusion. The absence of pain didn’t matter to them. But the silver threads tangled with the flame, wrapping into one tight cord that bound Celia to her distant scattered self. The cord tugged, leading far, far away – up into the sky.

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Devastation reigned here. Great yawning chasms of flame erupted from the former spot of her inner fire. The merciless pyre there was a diseased, sickly looking black, sending out great plumes of choking smoke. Brambles, thick and razor sharp, crowded the base of it, leading to… to…

Primal and gripping fear seized Celia. The Red Door – so carefully sealed and ignored these past years – stood shattered and splintered. And she was being pulled – slowly but inexorably – toward it. Courage fled, replaced with more choking smoke. She wasn’t strong enough – could never be strong enough – to face that door. She was weak, and scared and–

The silver thread pulsed, and the smoke vanished. She… She was strong? She could be. She was brave. The silver threads thrummed reassuringly, and Celia swore there were words just on the other side of hearing. Words from… someone. Words that bolstered, words with a power to them.

In the heart of the corrupted, unquenchable bonfire, a single mote of Celia’s own fire shot forward. It impacted her in the chest, melding with her and filling her whole presence with warmth. A controlled, harnessed heat. The comforting warmth of a campfire on a cold night, the pure bright flame that pushed back the darkness.

Celia’s memories returned, little by little. A flame, a guiding light, a torch. She stopped struggling against the pull and held her arm out. Her own bright flame lit the way, while the gleaming threads of Silver wove around her in a protective embrace.

The brambles pressed in, wicked thorns ready to slice her to ribbons. Every gleaming point promised an eternity of nightmares – guilt and fear and shame made manifest. But they never quite pierced her, the threads always moving just fast enough to block them. She went deeper, and her progress slowed.

Her torch faltered, darkness stealing the warmth and light away. But she pressed on, clinging to the few embers that remained. The silver flowed over her arms, pressing into the midnight black brambles with an almighty shove, and then she was through. Into the heart of the Red Door.

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Endless stretches of grass blew in waves under a cloudless sky. The sun was behind her, casting her shadow out along the rough wooden watchtower’s floor. And I am in charge of the whole thing! Celia thought with a wide grin. Sure, it was only one of the watchtowers along the line. And sure, it was in the direction that her village had never been attacked from. But she was a real guardian now! Her dark leather chestpiece was still stiff, the head of her spear polished to a mirror sheen, and she had spent the entire morning with her mother, ironing a perfect crease into her shirt and trousers. She was just wondering if her boots could use another polish that evening when the trap door into the tower opened.

A slender woman climbed up the ladder, dressed in a flowing green dress with her midnight hair in a loose braid. Only one woman in her village had such a witty charming smile, or such piercing dark eyes – Natia. A small basket was hooked in the crook of her arm, and when she gave Celia a brilliant smile, the only thing Celia could do to respond was stammer and lock into a parade stance. “Natia! You… You can’t be up here!”

Rolling her eyes, Natia smirked and looked Celia up and down. “Have to admit, Red, you look damn good in armor.” Stepping forward and laying a soft touch on Celia’s cheek, Natia shook her head. “And I promise the world isn’t going to end if you take your eyes off the horizon long enough to get something to eat.”

Already opening her mouth to argue, Celia instead felt Natia’s warm eager lips capture hers in a kiss. She stiffened, then relaxed into it. Kissing another girl still felt so fresh and exciting. Ever since that first awkward night full of tentative kissing and hesitant touches, she and Natia had been nearly inseparable. Which apparently also extended to surprise lunches while Celia was supposed to be diligently protecting their village. “Nat, you know that stuff my dad had to promise to get me in early as a guardian.”

“You’re eighteen and five months. That’s practically nineteen anyways,” Natia dismissed with a cheerful grin. “Besides, you already take this so much more seriously than the other guards.”

Celia felt her cheeks glow with the compliment. Being so far from their lord’s holding, her village had to rely on themselves for defense. And that meant weapons training. Spear and shield, bow, and – if worse came to worst – bare knuckle fighting. Celia could still remember the first time she’d held one of the training spears. The feeling of power, the confidence. It had seeped into her bones on the spot.

Even the pangs of and aches of puberty hadn’t diminished her drive. If anything, she took a fierce pride in it. So, she had petitioned to become a guardian, to train and hone her body so she could contribute to her home. And eventually, her father had argued that she was mature enough to staff a tower all on her own.

But Natia did look amazing in green. Desire flicked happily in her chest. The memories of how soft Natia’s skin was – how incredibly gentle her fingers had been on her own body – were so damned tempting. Wrapping an arm around the other woman, Celia pulled her close and whispered “Temptress,” before sinking into another tender kiss.

One kiss became another, Natia’s lips moving down to Celia’s neck. Sighing softly, Celia tilted her head, baring more of her skin to Natia. “You’re so pretty, Cece,” Natia purred. “Are you sure I’m the one tempting you?” She added with a giggle.

“Maybe we’re tempting each other?” Celia offered, far too focused on the way Natia’s fingers were gliding over the small of her back to come up with something more clever. Not that Natia seemed to mind, judging by the way she was happily grinning.

Words vanished, lost to the soft intimate sound of two young women in love. Celia’s sense of duty screamed, but she was able to push it away. No one ever came from the high grasslands anyways.

She only just sat down with Natia in her lap, the dark-haired woman getting ready to pop a bite of something savory-looking in her mouth, when the trapdoor banged open again. Dalson – a stocky orcish man about three years Celia’s senior – glared at her from below. “Evergleam! Are you fucking deaf as well as stupid!?”

Celia stammered, caught flagrantly ignoring her duty. Only in the dead silence following Dalson’s rebuke did she hear the frantic clanging of the bell on the tower next to hers. The bell she was meant to be passing down the line. “Are we-”

“Yes! We are under fucking attack! Grab your shit, and I swear to Daray I’ll have your ass sent back to mommy and daddy’s farm for this!” Dalson bellowed, already sliding down the ladder.

Guilt and shame clawed down Celia’s mind. She had neglected her duty, put her village in danger, all for a pretty face and soft lips. Something hot and sharp poked her mind unpleasantly, and she all but threw Natia from her lap. “Go get together in the meeting hall,” she snapped icily, not meeting Natia’s eyes as she grabbed her spear and slung her shield over her back.

Not a moment after her feet hit the dirt below the watchtower’s ladder, Dalson grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the picket that led out to the fields. It was little more than some sharpened poles that might dissuade a galloping horse, more of a marker of boundary than any proper defense. Out across the grass under the nearly noonday sun, she could make out a quickly advancing mob.

“Make way, make way,” a self-important, richly-accented voice called from behind her. Celia groaned inwardly. To be caught neglecting her duty, being attacked, and now that dreadful Nythlara had to inflict her presence on them. Sweeping right up to the barricade in her obnoxiously bright blue robes, the elven woman looked imperiously out across the grasslands. “Faic astar fada,” she said, smugly, and Celia caught her glancing around to see the reactions on the guardian’s faces.

The elven woman was studying in their village from old Gerkson, the alchemist that made most of their medicines and potions. And as Hayer as her witness, Celia had never met someone that grated on her nerves like Nythlara. The woman pranced about in robes every color of the rainbow, acting so superior to everyone because she had magic. Celia gripped her spear tighter, forcing herself to keep her full attention on the advancing strangers.

“Well, what can you tell us?” Dalson asked sternly, while Nythlara stared through the warp in the air her magic had conjured.

“Fifteen of them, moderately armored,” she reported. “Nets, long poles, and lots of rope. I believe they are slavers,” she said smugly, ignoring the distressed murmurs around them. Whirling around in what Celia thought of as far too showy a way, the elven mage shook her head. “Never fear! With my arcane might these will be as-”

Whatever boast she meant to say died in her throat. There was a rippling warp in the air just behind her that deposited two figures with a loud pop! One of the figures, a pale, rail-thin human draped in elaborate dark robes, stepped gingerly to the momentarily stunned Nythlara and pointed an outstretched palm toward her. “Infectez avec un besoin de plaisir,” he said in a smooth, nearly hushed voice.

Multifaceted purple-ish light crackled and enveloped Nythlara, who grimaced and shut her eyes tight. The purple wavered for only a second before it pushed forward, enveloping her and pressing into her body. Celia, along with the other guards, all leveled their spears at the strange caster. “Who the fuck-” Dalson managed to bark before Nythlara interrupted him with a wordless desperate cry.

Nythlara sank to her knees, robes hiked high up while she desperately pushed her expensive-looking leggings off and threw them into the dirt. Giggling maniacally, she mewled in abject pleasure when her fingers thrust between her legs. Sounds of her enthusiastic masturbation underscored the pale man’s sinister grin as he surveyed the crowd. Only then did the second figure, a dirt-and-dust-covered young elven man, scramble over to the dark caster's boot. “Did… Did I do good, Master?” His timid, mewling voice asked, kneeling to kiss the tip of one boot.

Dalson was the first to shake off his stupor and charged the bizarre scene. The moment he got within arm’s reach of Nythlara, though, her hand snapped out and grabbed him around the ankle. The same purple light erupted from her and engulfed him as well, sinking into the orc without the same trouble it had had with the elf. Dalson tumbled before taking another step, roughing shoving his pants down. Freeing his cock from its confines, he joined Nythlara in frantic giggling and sighing while he feverishing pumped his hand up and down his member. “You did acceptably, Worm,” the dark caster said, slightly extending his boot for another enthusiastic kiss.

Fear pushed hard against Celia’s training. Her breathing was ragged and she could feel sweat trickle on her forehead. Glancing to her comrades around her, she could easily see that fear replicated on their faces. Whoever this was, their magic was far far more powerful than anything she had ever seen in person. “Worm, send the flare while I have a nice chat with our new friends here.”

The elf got to his feet and nodded with a frantic eagerness. “Yes Master!” He said with a simper before turning to cast a spell, shooting a large bright light up into the sky.

The pale human looked out at the assembled guardians silently for a long while. Enough for Dalson and Nythlara to reach a loud moaning orgasm each. They panted, wide eyed and dazed, before they seemed to recognize each other at least as humanoid. Crawling to each other, they roughly stripped each other bare and sank into rough, needy sex. “It’s so good to see my Lord’s gifts in action,” the pale man said with a thin smile.

Run! Celia screamed at herself internally Or hide! Or something She… her legs locked, her whole body tense. That tiny sharp barb she had felt with Natia seemed to almost crack, and suddenly she felt a warmth. A determination that melted the stiffness from her body. “Go!” She shouted, loud enough to startle everyone. “Get the civilians to safety!”

The other guardians all seemed to come alive at that, fleeing back toward the meeting house and surrounding farms. The pale man and his elf… Whatever he was, along with the still humping Nythlara and Dalson, burned into Celia’s mind as she turned and ran as well, eager to see her villagers protected.

________________

The scene blurred and faded, Celia watching herself through the hazy recollection of adrenaline and fear. The dark priest that visited their village that day easily overwhelmed their meager defense. His thugs ransacked what little of value they had, until there were only a few guardians left to protect the meeting house. She could smell the fires still, the smoke of burning huts. She had so badly wanted to run, to save herself, and in the thousand nightmares the brambles had shown her, she did. Hiding and weeping while the dark priest slowly captured everyone.

The web of silver threads pulsed around her, pulling her into what felt like an embrace. The brambles continued onward, the last fleeting recollection Celia had was a sharp bash against her skull and the sick swimming darkness.

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Celia came to in the familiar, wide open space of the village’s meeting hall. Her skull throbbed, and she could taste blood. Testing her limbs, she found them bound by strong rope behind her. Even worse, her clothes had been torn away. A sharp stab of panic hit her, and she looked furiously up. The dark priest stood over her, leering at her with his face twisted into an expression of contempt. “Welcome back, flame-hair.” He said in the same soft voice. Up close it seemed to slither over her bare skin, leaving the young woman feeling somehow tainted. “If you are at all curious, you are yet untouched.”

Celia’s glare shifted to confusion at the unexpected information. He apparently saw it in her eyes, and his smile got an edge that stirred panic in Celia’s stomach. “It will be so much sweeter when you beg for that privilege.”

Rage boiled over inside Celia. Lunging forward, she tried to at least impact him, make him lose his balance. He stepped gingerly away from the desperate attack while tutting condescendingly. “Enjoy that fight while you still remember what defiance is, flame-hair,” he sneered. Moving to one of the room's tables, he consulted a long roll of parchment. “You would be Celia Evergleam? Age eighteen and a half, daughter of Lysander and Lillian Evergleam?”

The mention of her parents' names jolted her to her core, and Celia desperately hoped they had escaped. Their farm was a little ways away from the main village, so it was possible the runners had warned them in time. And upon seeing that the dark pale man was waiting for her answer, she defiantly turned away.

“When your betters ask you a question, girl, you answer them,” the pale man hissed, annoyance lacing his voice. “Commande,” he continued, purple and orange light surrounding Celia’s body. “Now, answer me, girl,” he demanded

His dark magic ghosted over her mind, feeling dark and rich and surprisingly enticing. She needed to obey him, answer his question. It was the right thing to do, the only thing to do and… And… And he was a slaving asshole who would get nothing from her! “Fuck you!” She shouted, the purple light dissipating around her.

A single imperious glance was the only response she received for her triumph. Looking toward the space behind her, he made a beckoning gesture. One of the dark armored minions, only discernible as humanoid under the blackened leather and iron, hurried to his side. “Lord Vorgrim?” They asked, voice gravely and distorted enough to disguise any hint of who or what might be under the face concealing helmet.

“Fetch me Lillian Evergleam, we shall see if seeing a little family blood spilled will loosen this one’s tongue.”

“No!” Celia shouted, visions of seeing her mother’s blood staining her imagination crimson. “I’m her. Celia. I’m Celia Evergleam,” she said hurriedly. Surrendering like that felt wrong, it rasped harshly over her sense of pride. But she wouldn’t subject her family to torture just to soothe her ego.

“Well, let's let her enjoy some time with her parents, regardless,” the pale man – Vorgrim – said with a sickly smile. “While they have the chance,” he continued, voice practically dripping in malice.

Before Celia could fully understand what he was threatening, the armored figure roughly hauled her to her feet and marched her though the meeting hall. The communal space had been ransacked, most of the tables and chairs smashed. Outside the high windows, Celia could see the once clear sky was now tainted by smoke.

Reaching a large group holding at least a few hundred of her fellow villagers, Celia was shoved stumbling into the mass. Several other armored figures held them all at bay, but not with spears or swords. Each only had a wand in their hand, trained unerringly on the mass of naked and unarmed villagers.

“Sweetheart,” Lillian’s voice sounded out, relieved. Struggling over to her voice, the fear that gripped Celia’s heart tightened. Her mother and father were both alive, yes, but they were stuck here. At least she was relieved to see that – while they were frightened and bound as she was – they were otherwise unharmed.

“Celia, did they hurt you?” Her father asked quietly.

“He did some magic when I wouldn’t answer his question, tried to make me talk, but otherwise no,” she admitted, still savoring the tiny victory. “Did… Did they get everyone?” She asked, feeling worry and hope clash in her chest while she looked around the captives.

Lysander shook his head. “No, thank Lah. Gerkson distracted the bastards long enough with his powders and potions to let the Dawlrights and the Morigans escape,” he said proudly. “And I haven’t seen them bring in any of the children,” he continued, tone growing dark.

Celia and Lillian both nodded solemnly. It broke her heart to imagine any of the village children having to flee while their parents were captured. But it was certainly preferable to them being here with this evil man.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Vorgrim approached the captives. “I know you are all frightened,” he began, voice now positively thrumming with excitement, “but this is a day of celebration! My Lord Darishi, Master of Pleasure and Desire, has led me to your village to free you from this life of predictable mediocrity. Through his grace, you will be reborn and experience untold pleasure in his service,” he said with a reverence that drove icy spikes of fear into Celia’s heart. She had no idea who or what Darishi was, but she was positive she wanted no part of his ‘pleasure.’

From the dark murmuring around her, it seemed the rest of her village had similar thoughts. When his speech failed to produce much in reaction, Vorgrim nodded with a look of understanding on his wretched pale face. “Ah, but I can’t expect the unenlightened to understand what a gracious gift this is. Thankfully, my Lord provides a path to understanding.” Snapping his fingers, one of the armored forms brought him a dark leather satchel. Retrieving a glass ampule, he made a show of displaying it. “Behold! Salvation!”

Again there was only angry muttering at his display. If he was bothered by that, it didn’t show on his expression. Instead, he only pointed at someone near the front of the group of captives. “You there, girl, come and receive the gift.” The nearest armored form walked forward and Celia heard a horribly familiar voice yelling. Natia – naked and bound like all the rest – was screaming bloody murder and thrashing against the dark armor plates. “Be cleansed of your dull former life, and be reborn in Darishi’s service,” Vorgrim intoned as Natia’s nose was pinched. She struggled, face turning red from the effort until finally she gasped for air. With the ease of long practice, Vorgrim poured the contents of his ampule down her throat before the armored thug held her mouth shut.

Natia’s struggles were replaced by a few erratic twitches while Vorgrim and his assistant both stepped away. Kneeling on the dirty floor, Natia shivered and slackened, her face going blank and placid. For one horrible moment, Celia hoped whatever happened to her had gone wrong. That Tenebor had carried her soul away, rather than face whatever the doubtlessly horrible concoction had done.

That thought made heat roar in her, and she winced in pain. It felt like a tiny flame inside her, somehow. A few faint embers that flickered painfully, searching for something in her soul. “Oh no,” Lillian said, horrified, and Celia forced herself past her own pain to watch what was happening to Natia.

“Your old life has been washed away.” Vorgrim proclaimed over a doe-eyed Natia. “You will serve Darishi with your body, however your future owner decides to use it, slave.”

“Yes,” Natia slurred drunkenly, drool leaking from the corner of her lips.

“And thus are you reborn in Darishi’s service, free of the burden of thought!” Vorgrim proclaimed in a sick mockery of religious ecstasy. At his gesture, the armored thug undid the binds at her wrists and ankles. “Now stand,” he commanded. Natia rose unsteadily to her feet, and Celia could see that her eyes were glazed and unfocused.

Celia glared hatefully at not only the guards, but her own cowardly fellow villagers. She struggled again against the ropes, willing them with all her might to snap. “Celia, Firefly, don’t make them mad,” her mother whispered fretfully behind her.

It was sensible, perhaps even the smart thing to do in this situation. But watching the dull, vacant husk of the woman she had been passionately kissing just that morning simply standing there dug at Celia like a knife.

“You gods damned coward!” She roared angrily, straining again at the ropes.

Vorgrim’s pale face split into a vile grin. “Ah, it looks like we have a volunteer.” Looking at Natia, he pointed at Celia. “Slave, did you know that woman?”

Natia nodded slowly, her face utterly blank.

“How delightful,” Vorgrim nearly cackled. “What was she to you?”

For a desperate moment Celia hoped for some flicker of recollection on Natia’s face. For some sign the woman she loved was still there. “We were lovers,” Natia reported blankly, crushing the faint hope beneath an avalanche of despair.

Vorgrim’s twisted leer got even more vile. “Ah, young love.” He turned his head skyward. “And thus does my Lord Darishi prove his mastery even of Ishara’s most sacred facet.” He brought another slim vial from his satchel and pressed it into Natia’s hands. “Bring her, “ he barked at one of his guards.

“No!” Her father bellowed as the guard approached. Lysander was a strong man, and even with his hands and feet bound, he managed to impact the oncoming guard with enough force to send them tumbling. Their wand fell out of their hand, but what caught Celia’s eyes was the sheathed dagger at his belt.

Not wasting any time, she slid over and frantically fumbled with it, trying to get the edge toward her ropes. She had just gotten the latch undone and had the handle in her palm before a blast of magic impacted her. It had the force of a board cracking into the back of her skull, and she slumped down into unconsciousness

________________

Celia’s perception faded in before the last barrier. The sharp, burning brambles led just beyond here. All that existed in her mindscape was an infinite void, and the last barrier. Silver threaded around her, comforting and consistent, while her own firelight burned defiantly against the darkness. The threads wove tighter, covering her body up to her ears. Words full of love and hope washed over her, dropping into the hollow void she felt opening up in her heart.

She had failed her people. She hadn’t been strong enough to stop Vorgrim, hadn’t been attentive enough to warn them of his arrival. If she were only better, if she were only faster, then… Then…

“It wasn’t your fault, Celia,” Gella’s voice, loud and distinct, pulled Celia back. The woman was beside her, bathed in silvery light. She radiated love, acceptance, and desire. And Celia wanted to dive into her embrace, to fall into the depths of her eyes so she could swim to the bottom, and never have to think about these awful moments in her life again. But she couldn’t go back – there wasn’t even a way back, only forward, and through that last barrier.

“I have to go through here.” She said, the words flat and dull.

“You do,” Gella’s voice projected, confident and commanding.

“You’ll find out what a coward I am. I’ll never be good enough for you, or Violet and Tabby, or Lauren.”

Silver embraced her, and its cooling power seeped beyond Celia’s perceptions. Little threads of power wove through her. She was terrified, and with the light of Gella’s silver she could somehow see the terror. It was a brutish, slavering thing, running amok through her mind. “What happened there, it’s in the past, Celia. It can only keep hurting you as long as you let it.”

“I’m not strong enough now. I wasn’t strong enough then,” Celia insisted, and the great beast of her terror snapped its jaws.

“You are, because you are not alone,” Gella insisted just as strongly. Silver penned up the beast, letting Celia’s thoughts flow easier. “We will walk through together.”

Taking a glowing silver hand in her own, Celia marsheled her courage. It was faint and flickering, but it glowed just long enough for the woman to step across the last threshold.

________________

A powerful slap abruptly returned Celia to consciousness. It stung her cheek, and before Celia could snap at whoever delivered it, she saw it was a blank-eyed Natia. Instantly the rage and anger that burned in her chest was snuffed out, replaced with cold fear. “I thought that would take the fight out of you, flame-hair.” Vorgrim said, firmly.

Quickly enough, the rage she felt toward this awful man re-ignited and Celia struggled to get out of the grip of the thug holding her upright. “Though not for long, it seems. You’ve got spirit,” he mused, reaching up and running his too thin fingers through Celia’s fiery hair. She turned quickly, straining to do something, anything to hurt him. “I hate girls with spirit,” he finished, balling up his fist and ramming it into Celia’s stomach.

It knocked the wind out of her, leaving her coughing. Through the pain, she grinned. While it had shocked her, it hadn’t hurt for more than a second. “I’ve had harder blows from ten-year-olds,” she taunted, rage and bravado stealing control of her lips. It wasn’t smart, but she was long past caring. Fire danced in her chest, demanding action.

Vorgrim shrugged, shaking his hand out. “I leave the physical violence to those suited to it.” Leering at Celia from a step away, he made a show of taking in all of her naked body. “Once I stamp that fire of yours out, maybe that can be how you’ll repay me.” Horrible images oozed across Celia’s mind, being dressed like one of his nameless faceless thugs and inflicting this nightmare on some other helpless village. “But I get ahead of myself,” he snapped his fingers. “Bring me her parents.”

Celia struggled anew, thrashing and pulling until her arms ached. Her mother and father were dumped in front of her in a heap. Vorgrim quickly pulled out a dagger and Celia felt the sharp tip press just deep enough into her throat to draw a bead of blood. Instantly she froze, as did her parents. “A crude means of control, but effective,” he sniffed disdainfully, removing the dagger and crossing to grip Lillian’s hair and tug it up, baring her throat to the gleaming edge of his dagger. “In a moment my newest slave is going to gift you with Lord Darishi’s favor, and if you do anything – and I do mean anything – other than swallow it down, I will slit her throat.”

Celia had thought she had felt terror in her life before. Thunderstorms on the plains had scared her when she was younger and a charging great ox a few years ago had certainly frightened her. Even earlier today, seeing the enormity of Vorgrim’s magic, she had thought she knew it. But the simple sharp bit of metal pressed against her mother’s bared throat, it blanked her mind with true terror.

When Natia approached with the vial, Celia nodded quickly and opened her mouth. The potion was sickeningly sweet, like honey laced with poison. It coated her tongue and slid down her throat like sludge. Before she could even register the taste, it was already inside her. Celia's mind erupted in a frenzied storm of electric purple-ish sparks, each one igniting her nerve endings with an intense jolt. The sensation was more than good, it was fucking ecstasy. The sparks raced across her body, each one evoking a vivid memory of passion and desire. They flickered relentlessly, causing her body to convulse with pleasure as heat and need surged through her veins. A pool of anticipation and longing formed between her legs, and she couldn't help but release a low, guttural moan of euphoria.

Her arms were released, falling limply to her sides. Every thought felt sluggish, coated in Vorgrim’s heavy purple ooze. In front of her, two humans were huddled close – er parents, for all that the term mattered to her. Her mother was crying, while her father only glared at… At…

Her Master. There was no other word that could describe him, Lord Darishi had obviously ordained him so. By his will, this man owned every inch of her body, every thought in her mind, and she was nothing compared to him. He approached her with a hungry smile, hands moving to her breasts and fondling them. It felt amazing, a reward not just from her Master, but from the Lord of Pleasure himself. She moaned, shutting her eyes and smiling blissfully.

"That's it," Vorgrim growled in satisfaction. "Good girl." His words were like a hot breath on her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She couldn't deny the desire to obey that surged through her, swamping her thoughts with a hot, slick need to be useful. "I've been wanting you since I first laid eyes on you at the barricade," he admitted with a sinister grin.

She remembered her shameful, horrible earlier outbursts. She had threatened her Master, resisted him. But he didn’t want to hear her speak or apologize, he would order it if he did. So she simply stood, offering all of her body to him.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” Her mother yelled, and Celia’s eyes locked on her. Obviously, she was perfectly content to have her Master’s hands wherever he wanted them on her. “Celia! Firefly! Don’t let him touch you like that!”

Vorgrim glanced back at the furious woman, and at the silently fuming man. “Firefly. Adorable,” he said, contemptuously. “Your daughter is perfectly happy to surrender herself to me, I assure you,” he gloated. Stepping behind her, he ran a hand down Celia’s stomach and gave the flat plane of it a sharp slap. “I should thank you,” he sneered over her shoulder at them. “You raised a beautiful, sexy young woman. I’ll enjoy fucking a child into her.”

“You’re a monster,” her father snarled through gritted teeth. “I would rather die than watch you defile my baby girl like this.”

Vorgrim stepped back around Celia and nodded. “As much fun as that would be, I do have the rest of you to process.” Turning to address her, he gestured behind him. “Slave, make them drink an ampule each. If they try to stop you or resist too much, kill yourself,” he finished, ignoring the horrified looks on Lysander and Lillian’s faces. “You,” he pointed at Natia, “Go and get into the carriage by the barricade. You and Red here can reenact some of your nights together when I’m done here,” he said, eagerly.

Turning back towards the crowd, Vorgrim left Celia to look at her parents. The guard behind her handed her two of the ampules, and placed their own belt dagger in her hand before joining Vorgrim. She knelt and opened her hand with the ampules to them. “Each of you drink,” she said evenly, then lifted the dagger and pressed it to her neck. There was no fear, her body was simply property. If her Master wished his property to dispose of itself, it would be her greatest pleasure to obey.

Her mother and father each took one, and – with shaking hands – broke their ampules open. “I love you, Firefly,” her mother managed, lifting her potion to her lips.

Something inside of her mind snapped. The dagger trembled in Celia’s hands. She turned and glared at her own disobedient body. She was property, a slave, and she needed to obey – and to obey. Obeying felt so good. Her thoughts came faster and faster. Only barely noticing that her parents had lowered their vials, Celia’s eyes stared through them.

Obey… Obey…. Obeyobeyobeyobey. The word came faster and faster, melting under the repetition into a nonsensical sound. Pleasure flared, tried to distract her – tried to remind her that obeying was what she was for. Then, it too flared white hot, melting and dropping away. She had a new god to serve, Lord Darishi, and he would surely… That thought was consumed in fire.

She stood. Her parents loved her. That was simple – it was bedrock among all the fire. A power she had never felt bubbled up, a power she didn’t even have a name for. It scalded her, burning to be put to a purpose. Then the remnants of Vorgrim’s potion fouled it, exploding in her mind with one last violent burst.

The flames went wild. Names, people, places, all tumbling and burning as one. Only one thing remained. Love. She could protect what she loved.

The man – the pale man– was the enemy, and she had strength to defeat him. She pressed forward, all concerns forgotten. The dagger in her hand burned bright, becoming engulfed in fire itself, and Celia surged.

________________

Celia stood with Gella, looking at the ash-covered former redhead. Her hair had been bleached to Celia’s current ash blonde. She rose unsteadily to her feet, and Celia looked at what her past self saw – really saw – with all distortion, panic, and fear stripped away.

The once bustling meeting hall was now a smoldering ruin, with twisted and charred timbers jutting out at odd angles. Black smoke billowed up into the fiery sky, creating an ominous and apocalyptic scene. As Celia surveyed the destruction before her, her heart raced with a mix of fear and exhilaration. The blast she had unleashed had been strong enough to obliterate everything in its path. Among the rubble lay the bodies of her friends, her family, her entire village. All of them were dead, their lifeless forms contorted into grotesque shapes by the force of the explosion.

It hurt. But the pain was old, and the wound long delivered. It wasn’t a shock to see her parents' bodies, nor the bodies of her friends. The Celia of the past obviously felt it much more keenly, screaming wordlessly in incoherent rage and pain. She looked around, eyes wide and feral.

Clutching her head, she ran off down the long path toward civilization.

“My first memory after that must have been days later,” Celia said quietly, feeling the ache of long-buried shards of misery finally removed from her. “I… I told myself so many stories. That I ran away, that I hid. Eventually, I guess I just stop trying to make sense of it and shut it away completely.”

Gella, still highlighted in glimmering silver, put a hand on Celia’s shoulder. “None of it was your fault. That man, he…” She sighed and Celia could see her looking for the words. “You couldn’t have stopped it, no matter what.”

“I… I know,” Celia whispered back. The truth of it was obvious after a moment’s clear thought. The other watchtowers had spotted them, she hadn’t run or hidden. A small glimmer of pride shown through, encouraged by silver threads. “And I… I got them to warn everyone,” she said with a weak smile.

“You did,” Gella agreed, warmly. “Several people survived because of your actions.”

Celia looked out at the now frozen scene of death and destruction. “Even if I took many more lives.”

“Your magic manifested, Celia. It was an extreme set of circumstances, the combination of factors I couldn’t begin to count,” Gella explained.

It felt hollow to her. Even the fact that she was apparently Talented did nothing to lift her mood. But Gella’s arms around her did – her lips on the warrior’s shoulder did. Slowly, she let go of the grief, letting it settle here, where it belonged. “So. What now?” She asked in a weak, fragile voice.

Gella took a step forward, the gleaming silver light emanating not just from around her, but from within her, as well. "You are wounded, Celia," she stated firmly, yet carrying a hint of urgency. "And there is only one cure." The mage's eyes bore into Celia's with a fierce determination, brushing past that still freshly-awoken and newly-named submissive desire. "I must ask this now, Celia Evergleam," she began, her tone filled with intensity. "Do you still wish to be mine? My champion, my lover, my Treasure?" The air seemed to buzz with anticipation as Gella waited for Celia's response, her own glowing presence making her seem larger than life.

Celia stared at Gella and felt every last thread of the mage’s silver retract. This was the moment. Beyond her trip to New Gyr, the contact, or anything that had happened sense – beyond her previous begging, her hope that Gella would claim her, it all came to this. She knew the answer, and it brought a smile to her heavy, wounded heart.

She knelt, going down to one knee. “Gella, I pledge my sword, my heart, and my soul to you,” she solemnly swore. The words echoed that first day in the manor. It had felt like a threat then – now, Celia knew better. It was fulfilment. It was happiness. It was love.

“Then rise, Celia Everglem. Embrace me as your Mistress, as you liege lady, and as a woman that deeply loves you,” Gella said, and Celia was shocked to see a few tears in Gella’s eyes as she rose.

Their arms intertwined, pulling each other in closer until their bodies were pressed together. Silver shards burst forth from Gella's back, shimmering and dazzling like stars in the night sky. The ethereal strands enveloped them in a gossamer cocoon, caressing their skins with a gentle touch that felt more intimate than any physical contact. As the silver threads sank deeper into them, they felt a warmth spread throughout their bodies, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of love and familiarity.

“I want you to dream of somewhere warm and safe, Celia. When you wake up, I’ll make that dream come true. I promise.” Gella said, her voice soft and tender.

Lethargy and exhaustion rose up the warrior. There wasn’t a mote of protest, but Celia did manage to whisper, “thank you, Mistress,” before she eagerly sank into the comforting depths of sleep.