“She's skin and bone,” the arcanist says. The arcanist’s skin is the pale, cool blue of the dusk sky, and her hair is the silver of moonlight. Her eyes twinkle like stars and Raelyantha is not sure if the arcanist is speaking or singing, her voice is deep and melodic. She’s the most beautiful woman Raelyantha has ever seen and she is embarassed to be in front of such a lady looking so… So poor. “Are you not feeding her?”

Raelyantha allows the buyer to squeeze her wrist and raise her arm over her head, saying nothing, trying to ignore the way her breathing increases just being near the gorgeous woman..

“When she entered out collection, she was malnourished from poverty. We have been doing our best to bring her weight up but we must go carefully. We ask that you do the same when you take her home.” The curator hands the arcanist a notebook that Raelyantha recognizes as the one the Consortium healers have kept.

“But she has a clean bill of health, otherwise?”

“Yes,” the curator replies and pulls another notebook out of a desk drawer. “And here you will find the documents from our arcanists. She has an aptitude for divination, defensive, and curative uses of the celaestum. She has a high affinity for channeling. While she came to us nearly depleted, we believe that with training, she will be able to channel for long periods of time before she would need to replenish. Please take it slow, though.”

She hates that they are speaking about her as if she were not there, or her input does not matter. But she is about to have a long-term residence. Food. Shelter. If not safety, at least security.

“I plan to,” the arcanist says as she flips through the book, pausing once in awhile and squinting at the fluid handwriting on the pages. “And about the other item I purchased today?”

The curator nods and stands up. “My colleague is preparing it for you. It shall be packaged carefully for the journey.”

“Perfect. Do you have any appropriate attire for the conduit? I do not think it is warm enough for us to leave with her wearing only a sheet.”

“Of course. Once you have finished your inspection of the conduit, I shall ensure she is packaged for travel, too.”

Packaged for travel. Other items. She is a thing now. Well, she has been since she voluntarily signed a contract declaring herself as such. She knew it before, but with the lady standing before her now? That knowledge is no longer merely intellectual.

“I want to be the one to put it on,” the arcanist says with a commanding tone; she is not used to being disobeyed.

“The collar? Of course. You wrote down your specifications before hand, right?”

“Correct.”

“And you know that if you ever wish to change them—”

“Yes, I know. But I wrote what I want. It’s not a lot.”

Raelyantha has no idea what they are talking about. Collar? No one had ever mentioned that. Specifications? Wants?

It doesn't matter. It won’t matter. She will have food. She will have a roof over her head. She will have access to clean water. There is nothing that this arcanist might do to her that can hurt her; she has lived through worse.

The curator leaves the room, and the arcanist sits down in the curator’s chair, reclining in it as if the office belongs to her, too.

“What is your name? I know what your paperwork says, but it want to hear it from you.”

“Raelyantha.”

“A Sylln name.” She does not need to phrase it as a question. Her eyebrow is raised; she waits for her answer.

“On my mother’s side. But I don’t remember any of my family. All I have of them is my name.”

“Raely, hmm. I like that.”

Raelyantha does not. She does not know if she is allowed to voice her opinion, though. She prefers Raelyantha, her full name. It’s the only connection she has to anything like a past.

“What is that face for?” The arcanist asks. “Speak up, before the curator returns.”

“I prefer my full name.”

The arcanist laughs. “I see. You're my property now, though.”

Head bowed, she nods to her new owner. She can endure. Food. Water. Shelter. And maybe, if she is lucky, medical care. She has not spoken to anyone about her condition, fearful it might affect her chances of finding a buyer. But now… This arcanist is legally obligated by her contract with the Consortium to make sure Raelyantha has all of her basic needs met in a humane and dignified manner. Including care of ailments and injuries.

She just has to make it to her new home. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You may call me Lady Elyri. I am the Dusksong Arcanist. You will be my newest channeler. And my first conduit.”

“May I ask a question, Lady Dusksong?”

“Lady Elyri is fine and yes you may.”

“You said newest channeler. Do you have others?” It’s not unheard of for arcanists to have more than one, but it’s not common.

“Not right now. I have had others, in the past. But they are no longer in my care.”

She wants to ask more, but she can hear the power under the arcanist’s words. She is not allowed a second question. “Yes, Lady Dusksong.”

“I told you once already. Do not make me repeat myself. ‘Lady Elyri’ will do just fine.”

“Yes, Lady Elyri.” Raelyantha blushes. She does not know if the arcanist insisting on conversing with first names is better or worse than the formality she had been expecting. But it does excite her a little bit that the beautiful lady has given Raelyantha permission to use such informality.

“Oh, my stars, you are going to be work. A real challenge. Come here. Remove the sheet.” She says it with a laugh; like she is both annoyed and excited.

Raelyantha obeys her new owner, letting the sheet fall around her feet and stepping over it. The arcanist takes in her body, looking it up and down, putting a finger here, or a thumb there, but never in a way that could be mistaken as intimate or sexual. Just a cold inspection of a product happily purchased. Until Lady Elyri gets to her head. She brushes aside Raelyantha’s hair and exposes her ears. Longer, pointed, and with downy feathers covering them. “Is this the only trace you have of your Sylln ancestry?”

“I think so,” Raelyantha replies, hoping that the arcanist won’t decide to go back on the purchase. She needs this; she can’t endure another two months in the Consortium’s containment cells waiting for the next auction.

The curator enters again, and if she is shocked to see Raelyantha naked and scrutinized, she hides it. She holds out a thick leather box to the Dusksong Arcanist. “The collar.”

The arcanist grins and takes the box, setting it on the curators desk and carefully opening the lock on it. As she lifts the lid, Raelyantha shivers. Inside is a solid gold ring, one that is about as thick as her thumb and just wide enough to fit around her neck; but there is no seam and no hinges; no way for it to go around her neck. “What’s that?” she asks, unable to keep the fear from her voice. She’s been so steady so far, hiding all of the fear, focusing only on the security that this bargain brings her.

“Something to keep you in line,” the arcanist says.

“I don’t plan on being an issue,” Raelyantha insists.

“I know. This is just insurance. Don’t worry about it, you’ll hardly notice it at all.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Our buyers are not permitted—” The curator starts but the arcanist holds up a hand.

“No. Just stand still.” The arcanist lifts the collar from the box and it shimmers like it’s fading in and out of existence. But the arcanist’s hands still clasp around the band no matter how immaterial it appears at any given second. Raelyantha braces herself and closes her eyes, but she feels nothing at all. “Relax,” the arcanist tells her. She opens one eye lid and sees the arcanist grinning at her. Her hands reflexively reach for her neck, and she finds the collar, seamless and sturdy around her neck.

But there’s something more. Something is different, but she can’t tell what. It’s like she can hear something, like a melody from a lone musician practicing in a tavern drifting outside and lingering in the ears of the passersby.

“See? That didn’t hurt at all.”

She wants to ask what the music is; it’s more than one lone musician now. It’s complex, competing melodies vying to be the solo; she needs to ask them what it’s meant to do, why she hears it, where it’s coming from. But then thinks better of it. She doesn’t need to know what it does, where it comes from, why she hears it. She just needs to do what her arcanist tells her to. That’s her job now. That’s how she will keep herself off the streets and out of the expensive healer’s huts.