She takes another cold bath, even though both Leilah and Rosamund insist that she cannot deal with the frigid mountain air if she is already freezing. But today is it. Today is her chance to escape, and cold water is the only thing she has found that can temporarily silence the song and give her the clarity she needs to follow through with her escape.

Micarsh has recovered from whatever ailment had kept him in his own bed chambers for three days.

Three days where Raely was at constant war with the song in her head; it sang of depravity and sexual desire, of need and lust, of being hollowed out and used as a fucktoy by her owner.

And she gave in over and over again, letting the song fill her mind with all the debasing thoughts while she rubbed her cunt until the entire bed was soaked with a mix of fluids. She realized what the song was doing—associating it with pleasure, building the connection in her mind. It feels good to obey, it feels good to be owned, it feels good to be nothing but a toy for her owner’s pleasure.

She needed her owner. She wanted her owner. She would do anything for her owner. She would be anything for her owner.

It convinced her subtly, it convinced her overtly—she wanted this; she wants this. The song was only repeating back to her that which she had already wanted. It was just educating her on what she had always needed but never knew.

But after every time she gave in, she would jump into the waiting bath, as cold as the mountains themselves, and the spell would break.

She only has a few minutes at most to think clearly, to rise above the haze of lust and put together a plan. And she has to maintain enough awareness to be able to follow through with it.

But she is sure that she can do this. When she is with other people, when she is outside of her rooms, the song fades, it decrescendos until it’s just a simple background hum. Still trying to mold her, still trying to re-shape her mind. But not as overwhelming, not as all-encompassing. And now that she knows what it is doing, she is certain she can handle it.

Micarsh leads her out of her rooms once she is bathed, clothed and fed, and she is pleased when he hands her a thick coat. She will need it if she’s to find her way in the cold.

“She still doesn’t know you plan to take me out here?” They approach a back door through the kitchens. He holds up a finger in front of his mouth. “She doesn’t need to know everything.”

He opens the door and the collar around her neck reacts with a zap as she approaches. It does not want to let her outside. She grits her teeth. She’s endured worse pain. She steps outside the door, half expecting to be hit with a more intense wave of agony, but nothing happens. Relieved, she follows Micarsh.

Go back, go back, go back. The song tries to overwhelm her, but she slips off one of her gloves and focuses on the cold.

It’s only a short walk to the small structures behind the castle, but it’s enough for her to figure out that her best bet is to make for the tree line and head east. If she can make into the cover of the trees, she can run deep enough into the forest and then find a way to cover her tracks. Micarsh is an older Umile, he might still be strong, but she doubts he has much stamina.

She almost feels bad for him. She’s come to enjoy his company, and he seems lonely being so far from the dowager countess. She wonders if he will be punished harshly for her disappearance. But that doesn’t matter as much as her freedom.

It was one thing to give away her agency, but this is giving away her identity. She doesn’t have much of one; but it it’s still hers. She had expected to still be in control of her thoughts, her wants, her needs, and how she saw herself. This is not what she had agreed to when she signed that contract with the Consortium.

She doesn’t want to go back, but the Consortium had given her two choices when she signed herself over to them. Allow herself to be sold to an individual buyer, or become a channeler for them. At the time, living in one of their containment sells, an individual buyer seemed preferrable. But if she can make her way back there… Maybe she would choose the other option. At least their channelers were not slowly forced to think of themselves as fucktoys and embrace a life of rubbing their cunts.

A jolt runs down her spine and she knows it has nothing to do with the cold. Even thinking the word fucktoy causes an ache in her cunt and the song briefly rises to the surface. Maybe she can fool it.

I am a fucktoy, I want to be a fucktoy, she sings in her head.

The song loosens its grip on her mind and retreats, convinced it is not needed and that Raely is doing its job for it. She removes her other glove and slips it inside her pocket.

“It’s only used for a few animals, but last year we did have two litters of puppies. This year, we might have a colt, though.” Micarsh laughs as they approach the stables. He reaches into his coat pocket for his large ring of keys and Raely spots her opportunity.

She grabs a wooden pale full of snow and ice and swings it with all the force she can muster, knocking Micarsh into the snow. She dashes away, making for the tree line, hoping she didn’t cause any permanent damage.

She runs, darting through the trees even as the collar around her neck burns. The song is a discordant roar.

Pets don’t run away.

You need to return.

You want to return and finish your training.

You are just a fucktoy; fucktoys obey.

She screams, knowing it might draw people to her but she can think of nothing else to do to drown out the song, to keep her grip on reality. She pinches herself, she slaps herself, she removes her cloak and scarf.

She risks a glance over her shoulder and sees no pursuers. She lets out a brief sigh of relief, just enough for the song to slam into her mind again.

Stop.

She stops.

Get on your knees and rub yourself until your owner collects you.

She falls to the forest floor, but the cold snow hitting her knees brings her back to lucidity before she can start rubbing her cunt.

She screams again, determined not to slip up again, and runs.

Smoke fills her nose and she hears shouts over her own screaming.

But they aren’t voices that she recognizes; not from the kitchens, not from the rest of the staff. The more she tries to pick them out from the battle in her mind, the more they don’t even sound like they belong to a Ulime or Mihon. They are far deeper, rougher. But it doesn’t matter. That’s not what matters. She needs to get to them; they might be able to help her.

She follows the smoke, letting it guide her to her saviors; to her rescuers; to the people who will help her. Maybe they can even help her get the damn collar off.

The trees give way to a small clearing and the source of the smoke is hazy in the distance. Three large tents surround a tall camp fire. But where are the people? She knows she heard voices. She knows she heard them, so where are they?

Surely they heard her screaming? Did they run from her thinking she is a threat?

She stops short of the campsite, sinking into the snow and running her hands through it, the cold allowing her to let her voice rest for a few minutes.

But then they appear; shimmering into existence in front of her, but standing like they had been there the whole time. They are not dressed for the cold; the scales on the tops of the arms and down the sides of the necks visible, their tales swaying slightly behind them, and their thick scaled horns framing their faces.

Draeyn. Three of them. The winged shapeshifters from the north.

“Help,” she whispers. “Please help me.”

The tallest one approaches, a thin tongue flicking out. “You smell of a strange arcanum.”

“Yes, I know. I know. I need help though.” She clenches the snow in her hands, balling it into an icy rock in her hands. Cold brings clarity.

The Draeyn brushes the hair out of her face as they hunch down to get a better look at her. “You’re Sylln?”

“Half. My name is…Raely…” She pants, not sure how long she can continue to hold onto reality. No. She’s not Raely. She’s Raelyantha. Her stomach drops as she realizes how much the arcanist has been able to manipulate her in such a short time. “Raelyantha. But there’s an arcanist, she’s trying to—”

“The Dusksong?”

“Yes…” She hopes these Draeyn aren’t friends with her owner. No, not owner. Not owner. Never owner. She hopes they won’t just take her right back to the castle.

The Draeyn smirks. “Perfect. She was teaching you to be an arcanist, too?”

Raelyanatha has no idea why they are asking her so many questions. “She was keeping me prisoner, I need to get out. She was forcing me to be her channeler.”

The Draeyn nods slowly and the other two move in closer, flanking Raelyantha on all sides.

“Can you help me?” She squeezes her eyes shut as she clutches the ice harder, the song assaulting her mind with a barrage of orders.

Return home.

Come home.

Obey.

Obey.

Obey.

Now.

“Ah, she’s really fucked you up, hasn’t she?” The tall Draeyn says, running a taloned finger down her cheek, a threatening caress.

All Raelyantha can do is nod as tears well in her eyes.

“Get her. Pack her up well.” The tall Draeyn snaps their fingers and the other two spring into action, pining Raelyantha’s arms behind her back and holding her down.

“Let me go!” She struggles against them, and the song screams at her.

Fight back. Fight. Fight!

She can’t argue with it. She looks to the sky, the sun still traveling toward its zenith. No stars from which she can draw cellaestum, so something else will have to do. She knows it’s a risk; she’s not trained. She’s only ever managed it by accident; and every time she’s purposefully tried to channel before, she’s ended up injured or worse. Even the thought of channeling arcanum awakens the pain that often comes with it. Bile rises in her throat and she runs her fingers over the ice in her hands.

She tries to focus on it, willing her body to run cold, too cold to touch. Too cold to handle. Freezing the Draeyn’s hands.

It doesn’t work, it’s not going to work. Her head is full of agony, a hammer beats at her skull and her vision doubles.

“It’s easier if you don’t struggle, Raelyantha. But you’re coming with us. We got a nice job for you.” The Draeyn says it kindly, but she lived on the streets long enough to know when a threat lingers under the surface.

She ran from those men, every time, ran before they could make good on their threats.

But she can’t run. Not here. Not now.

“Release her.” Commanding, indomitable; the voice of the Dusksong Arcanist rings through the clearing. “Or die.”

Raelyantha is not sure if she should thank the arcanist for saving her from the Draeyn or curse the fact that she’s been caught trying to escape.

The arcanist draws a sword and raises it slowly until the tip is pointing directly at the leader of the Draeyn.

“Why should we? She said she was running from you. We found her. She’s ours now.”

She hates it. She hates that this Draeyn is somehow more repulsive than the witch that tried to warp her into a sex toy. But the Draeyn’s attitude, the way they say the word ours, she wants to throw up. She hates that even now she would rather be the mindless fucktoy of the witch then whatever these Draeyn want her for. At least as a mindless fucktoy, she felt happy and at peace. She doubts the Draeyn would afford her that.

“I warned you.” She says it as if she is sorry; as if she already regrets her actions. She is as fast as a predator pouncing on prey—her sword slicing through the neck of the Draeyn leader before they could even reply.

The other two release Raelyantha at once, backing away with their hands in the air. “We didn’t mean nothing by it,” one of them says.

“Yeah, we just were trying to help her. She said she needed help… Honest, we didn’t know she was your property.”

Raelyantha gets to her feet and races to the arcanist, wanting nothing more than to be by her side; needing to bask in the safety she provided. “Behind me, kitten,” Lady Dusksong says, placing an arm in front of Raelyantha. She obeys without question. She’ll be safe if she stays in her place by Lady Dusksong’s side.

Two guards appear from behind trees, just as fast as their commander. But they do not kill the Draeyn, instead they knock them out and bind their wrists. “You should not have crossed the border. And you should not have even laid a single finger on my property.”

She turns her back on them and takes Raelyantha’s hand. “Come along. I do not want you getting sick.”

“Are you… Are you going to send me back to the Consortium?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I tried to run away.” Raelyantha… Raely wants to cry. Why did she want to run away? She can't recall why she would want to.

“But you remembered your place once I showed up.”