“He is ill today, my lady,” Leilah informs her as she sets a mug of coffee down on the table in front of Raely. “Our lady says that you can spend time in the library or find your own amusement in your rooms. She apologizes for the fact that she is still tied up with her business.”

“Micarsh seemed fine yesterday,” Raely muses as she sips on the hot beverage; one that has quickly become a favorite of hers since her first sip of it just a few days previously. But perhaps it’s for the best that Micarsh is ill and cannot take her on the grounds for the last of the tour. Her body is sore, and she can barely walk. She vaguely remembers being on the balcony the night before and watching some very large birds circling the castle, but that doesn’t account for the throbbing pain between her legs.

Regardless, she is too sore to be wandering the castle with him, let alone going with him to wherever the stables and gardens are located. She can spend the day relaxing in bed, luxuriating in the soft pillows and silken sheets, enjoying all the luxury that comes with being the pet of an arcanist… or her owner gave her permission to spend time in the library. But even contemplating being near books seems wrong; she’s a mindless pet. Pets don’t need to read. Pets need to keep themselves horny to please their owners.

No, I’m not a pet, she tries to tell herself, taking a large gulp of her coffee and trying to banish the uncomfortable thoughts in her mind. I’m a conduit. I am the channeler who will soon be bound to the arcanist; I am more than just her property.

But the song rises quickly from the background, it crescendos in her mind until she finds herself humming along with it, even if the words are indistinct. She sways to it as more and more voices join in, more and more melodies overlap.

“I think I shall stay here,” she tells the maids, her foot tapping to the increasing tempo. “Can you tell Micarsh that I wish him well and am hoping for his speedy recovery?”

Leilah bows, exiting the rooms without another room.

Something about the way Leilah unquestionably obeyed Raely makes her skin prickle. So quick, almost efficient. She knows the servants, maids, groundskeepers, and other staff here are all paid a wage. It’s in their best interest to perform their job well, and obedience to one of noble birth must be ingrained in those who were raised on the periphery of that part of society.

Still, there’s more to it than that. It’s beautiful, the thought comes to her unbidden. Her obedience is beautiful.

Raely shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the thought. No. She will obey the arcanist because it ensures her security, it ensures her food and shelter. And even after the arcanist dies, she will have enough money that she will never have to worry about food again. But her obedience to the arcanist is not beautiful. It’s logic; it’s strategy. It’s a cold calculation for survival.

It’s pleasure.

The song increases in tempo again, and the only word she can make out is pleasure. It’s everywhere, the sound coming from all sides, all directions, surrounding her, trapping her, corralling her. Beckoning her back to bed, back to the warmth and comfort, back to the mindless and thoughtless indulgence of a hand pressed against…

The song whispers a name to her, a word for that special place between her legs. But she shies away from it. She tries to back away, deny it. If she names it, if it has a word, it will mean she accepts it.

“I’m a conduit,” she says into her mug of coffee. Rosamund does not even look up from her chores, and Raely is grateful. She has only been here a few days, she does not want anyone to whisper to Lady Dusksong that her purchase is strange, odd, or weird. Strange enough to warrant returning her to the Consortium. She cannot endure another season locked in their containment cells until the next auction is held.

Rosamund approaches, bowing low and looking at her expectantly. “I have finished for the morning, my lady. Is there more you require of me?”

Raely shakes her head. “I am fine, thank you.”

“I shall return in the afternoon with your lunch, my lady.”

What the two maids do when their chores are done is still a mystery to Raely, but she feels like phantom strings are tugging on her, pulling her back into bed.

And she has no choice but to obey, obey and accept the pleasure that comes with it.

She tumbles into the bed, pulling the curtains closed around it before shedding her clothing and spreading her legs wide. She has no idea why she feels so compelled to do so, but something tells her it would please Lady Dusksong for her to do so. She spreads her legs and lets her hand creep down between them, touching the spot that the song has named but she refuses to say; but she will rub it, she will tap it, she will circle it with her thumb while her forefinger and middle finger explore the aching hole, rubbing against the slick walls and bucking her hips as she does so. But she will not give any of this a name—not the acts, not the body parts.

The song tells her that she is acting like one of the jewels of a jewel house, that she is as needy and horny as them. She doesn’t know the word horny, but then suddenly she does. The song fills her mind with words, new words, exciting words. Words she needs to know. Words she doesn’t want to know. Words she wants to reject; words that feel so right. Words that she should have known her whole life because of what she is.

She sobs, she writhes, she begs the song to stop, to cease, to leave her be. She begs the song to teach her, educate her, finally give her purpose; finally tell her what she has always longed to be.

She does not hear the knock at the door hours later; she does not hear Rosamund sneak into the rooms with her tray of food. She does not hear the maid set the tray down on the table. She does not even hear the maid leave again.

The sun has set before she is released from the song’s grip; an entire day spent letting the song instruct her in the ways of sex and desire. It’s only when the song fades back into the background that she realizes how much of the day she lost in a haze of mindless lust.

“This isn’t me,” she whispers as she climbs into her cold bath, letting the chilly water bring her back to full clarity, the song temporarily muted. “I don’t want this.”

The words feel familiar, like she’s already had these thoughts and wondered about them—already wondered why she’s acting like this, what the song is doing. But that can’t be; this is her first time with a clear head. She dunks her head below the water, letting her hair fan out around her. She holds her breath as long as she can, hoping that the ringing in her ears will keep the song away.

“It has to be the arcanist.” She surfaces again, gasping for breath but free of the song still. “She must be controlling my thoughts somehow. She doesn’t want me for my ability to channel, she doesn’t want a conduit… She wants an arcane fucktoy.”

The word feels both natural and revolting in her mouth. A word she learned just this afternoon as the song whispered it to her over and over.

You are a fucktoy.

You want to be her fucktoy.

You need to be her fucktoy.

It feels good to be a fucktoy. It feels natural to be her fucktoy. You were born to be her fucktoy.

She had repeated the words back, harmonizing with the song, lending her voice to it as the notes came more and more easily to her shaky voice.

“I have to tell the Consortium. They promised they screened their clients, they said no harm would come to me. I have to find a way to tell them.” But how? She can’t even write. And how would she even get a letter to them? No. There is no way to tell them unless she can leave here.

She has to escape. She has to get out of here. She can find someone in one of the neighboring villages to help her. She bargained her freedom, not her mind. She’s not breaking her contract if she escapes.

But first, she must rest. Yes, she needs to get back into bed and sleep. She can’t escape if she is exhausted.

But her body is barely under the covers before her legs spread wide again and her fingers are shoved inside her cunt. Another word that she only learned this afternoon but she already loves it.

You want this, you need this. You will not try to leave.

“I want this,” she says as she rubs faster. “I want this so badly.”