The castle is nestled at the very top of the tree lines; the last vestige of life before the mountains become too inhospitable. “The air is thin here,” her owner says, offering her hand and helping Raely out of the carriage. “Drink plenty of water. If you need to sit down or lay down, do so. If you need to rest, rest.”

Orders. The music in her head tells her that these are orders and they are to be followed, obeyed, and obeyed unquestionably. “I will do so, Lady Elyri.” The castle towers over them, showed in relief against the pale moonlight. Three spires reach upward as if to touch the stars themselves. It’s constructed of heavy stone that had to have been quarried far to the south, and the intricate detailing above and around the stained-glass windows is so finely done that Raely can do nothing but marvel at the craftsmanship.

“I inherited it,” her owner says, wrapping an arm around Raely’s shoulders. She’s so large, Raley finds herself thinking. Large, dominant, and protective. “Let us go inside. You can marvel in the daylight when there is not a midnight blizzard on the way.”

“Yes, Lady Elyri.” She allows herself to be led up the grand marble steps and through the imposing doors to the arcanist’s castle. My new home.

“I promise that we have a hearth in every room, and the servants keep them going at all hours. You will never be cold again.”

She tries to memorize the instructions that her new owner gives for finding her way around the castle, but it’s been too long of a day for her. It seems impossible that she woke up in the sterile and plain containment cell of the Consortium and now finds herself in an ornate and magnificent castle; this morning she was property of the Consortium, and tonight she is property of a wildly wealthy arcanist. A wildly beautiful arcanist.

She shivers, certainly from the cold although the castle is quite warm. She wonders if she will be responsible for the arcanum needed to keep the castle warm with arcane fires once she was bonded to her owner.

“No, I know this makes me an oddity, but I do prefer actual fires for warmth. On the nights of the strongest storms, I might cast a spell to keep the wind from finding its way in, but you won’t be keeping arcane fires going at all hours. Now, at the top of these steps is your suite of rooms. You will have your own servants to call upon if you need anything in the night.”

“But I’m your property, why would they wait on me?” Her mind tries to work out the logic of it all; but the song in her mind is making her thoughts sluggish. Or maybe she is just exhausted.

“You are still a conduit; and you will be a channeler. Even if channelers are the property of the arcanist, the arcanist extends her status to them.”

Status. Hierarchy. She was not worth consideration before, not as her own person, for her own sake. But now she has status by way of the arcanist that owns her.

I am owned, I am safe. The music is too much. She lets her owner lead her the rest of the way up the stairs to a small landing and corridor. “The rooms on this floor are all yours. That far one at the end of the hallway is your bedchamber. You are to go to bed for the night.”

Her owner halts, pressing a key into Raely’s hand and gesturing for her to proceed down the corridor.

She hesitates, looking over her shoulder at her owner as her hand hovers before the keyhole. Lady Elyri smiles and nods. Raely inserts the key, not sure what to expect on the other side of the door.

The bed is huge, lined with curtains on all sides, the fireplace already filled with a roaring fire. She doesn’t care what’s beyond the bed and in the other rooms. She is pulled across the room, past the chairs and tables and bookcases, and directly into the bed. She sheds her clothes and pulls on the silk nightgown waiting for her folded on the pillows. She doesn’t even bother to close the door behind her—she is property, she does not need privacy—and slides under the covers.

The gusting winds whistle around the turret, but she doesn’t hear it; she doesn’t hear the crackling of the fire or the click of the door as her owner wishes her goodnight and pulls it closed. Her hand pulls at the hem of the gown until she can reach between her legs with ease, the song filling her mind and pushing everything else out.

I am owned, I am property. She touches herself in a spot she does not even have a word for, but it feels good. In her twenty-five years of life, she has avoided doing just this very thing—it’s never felt safe, not when her usual bed is the cold ground.

She is uneducated, even if a few jewels she met on the streets offered to instruct her. She has no idea what she is doing. But the song urges her on, forces her to keep going, the sight of her owner’s face dominating her vision as the song rewards her with each flick of her fingers and rub of her palm across her sensitive areas, her breathing ragged, and her brow lining with sweat as she explodes with sensation and pleasure she has never known before.

She lets sleep take her, lets the song pull her into vivid dreams of her owner, lets it sing to her all through the night.