The road ahead was clear, not a silhouette in sight. It had finally gotten dark, which brought Maggie some relief despite the fact that she was more vulnerable in the low light. At least this long, arduous day was finally going to end soon. Maybe tomorrow would prove less… testing.

“Catch up with us on the road… yeah… fuck you too, Ana,” the sword muttered bitterly, dragging her foot as she walked and doing her best to ignore the shooting pain in her ankle, made pointless by Anarres’ cruel decision to render the hunt null and leave the meat behind. Maybe Ana could see it too—that the boar represented Maggie’s desire for an easy end. Maybe this is what she deserved.

No, fuck that. To hell with these games. If Anarres thought that she could get away with playing god—imitating her godmother’s strength like she wasn’t as transparent as the precious stones crammed into pouch hanging from Maggie’s girdle—then she was in for a rude awakening from the one with her feet still firmly planted on the earth. Slow, plodding feet, that carried more strain than Maggie cared to take notice of. Were she to take a break, she would become lost to the cold night creeping in. This was her test, and at the end of it… she was going to drag Anarres Báncourte back into the reality she had fled from. Ana was no saint, she was just an angry little girl trying to bully her way out of facing her own damn trauma. And Maggie had suffered her petulance enough already.

One foot dragged, and the other stomped. This was how she walked the remaining mile, her breath so haggard she felt suffocated by the mere act of walking, even with both knapsacks absent from her weary shoulders. She supposed she was to be grateful for the fact she had been relieved of her duties as the group’s pack mule following her injury. No, that was simply more fuel for Anarres’ fire.

Maggie supposed they would just have to see which of them burned brighter; which sister would engulf—and subsume—the other.

Drag. Stomp. Drag. Stomp. The marker came into view and Maggie smiled bitterly at the fact she’d have missed it had it gotten any darker. Drag. She made her way down to the river, which ran parallel to the road. Stomp. The tent came into view and she smiled again, the curl as bitter as the last. She had fallen so far behind that Anarres and her eerily competent serving girl had already propped their lodgings up. She was not too shocked by this, since they had become proficient at pitching tents during their days as members of The Split Tongues, but the sword without a sheathe was already balking at the idea of sharing a single tent between the three of them.

Dahlie was standing outside of the tent, which Maggie realised she could have tracked down without any need for a marker. Just follow the billowing pillar of smoke, reaching out to grasp those heavens Anarres had spent her purgatorium days in spite of. The smoke was protruding from the top of the circular tent in a spiral, letting Maggie know that, at the very least, she would not be cold during her confrontation with the bitch who sought to claw out her self-respect.

“Took you long enough.” Dahlie remarked as Maggie reached earshot, her smile as sharp as that knife in her sleeve. Her eyes, too, were as daggers. The glorified maid was standing outside as lookout not for Maggie’s sake, but as a precaution on account of the smoke that gave them away. It was a risk worth taking; bandits would only rob them of all they had, were they lucky, while the cold killed without conscience.

“Fuck you. I take it she’s inside?” Maggie’s spirit had been hardened by her lone walk, rather than broken. Whatever game these two inhuman freaks were running on her ended here. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of reducing her to a mule, or a dog, ever again.

No, those were not what Maggie truly wanted to be to Anarres. Not sister, nor sword; nor lover; nor rival; nor pet; nor priestess. There was only one thing Maggie truly wanted, deep down, and Anarres knew it all along. It was a word that cut her like a knife, for Dahlie’s tongue was as sharp as the rest of her and often caused collateral. Taking these verbal lacerations in stride was tougher on Maggie than the physical tolls of the day. At least, they suddenly felt so when the daughter spoke again.

“Mother’s waiting for you, yes. She’s been helping herself to the alcohol. Apparently we no longer need to rely on it for barter. Reckless but, ehe, Mother knows best. Always.” Dahlie was devout, even when she knew that Anarres was acting rashly—which happened to be most of the time. Her faith in the woman whom she adored above all else transcended common sense in that way. Mother was absolute. Almighty. Even if she was also layabout fucking drunk at that precise moment in time.

“Just get out of my way, freak. The adults have some things to discuss, okay?” Maggie did not wait for Dahlie to move, pushing forwards with a drag—and a stomp—and shoving the Dolldaughter aside with all the force she could muster. Dahlie made like a curtain, letting Maggie brush her aside and disappear through the tent’s musty flap. Her expression became complicated as she stood there, now alone. Remaining outside, for now, Dahlie waited silently in anticipation of the events that would occur inside that tent, knowing that—come morning—the dynamic between the three of them would be forever changed. She kept her ears peeled in case Maggie was indeed foolish enough to threaten Anarres, but otherwise remained in wait, like a predator. The cold could not bite her in any meaningful way, because Dahlie’s heart was burning with the simple love of a royal Doll.

There was enough kindling in her frail soul to last an eternity. Mother’s love burned just right.

The inside of the tent was awash with dancing orange light, which was absorbed by the harsh black of Maggie’s foreign uniform. Drag. Stomp. Stop.

“Take that ridiculous thing off.” Anarres did not slur her words, telling Maggie that she had not been drinking long. There was still an edge to Ana’s voice—sharp enough to wound if she chose the right demeaning words. Maggie took in the almost saintly image of her drunken charge, who sat by the fire with a leather flask in hand. The sight of Anarres in just her undergarments gave Miss Haine pause. It was overwhelmingly white, that chemise she was wearing, and something about that felt wholly indecent to Maggie. Anarres was not a pure woman; she was Armageddon in a tight white chemise. She was masquerading.

Maggie, too, was dressed inappropriately; the both of them were playing pretend. “Fine,” she muttered, under her breath but loud enough to be heard. She wanted Anarres’ attention in that moment—wanted the woman’s eyes on her. Only her. The other one, the prettier one whom got to call Anarres Mother, would remain outside. This unspoken contract between them all was enough to make Maggie a fool again, just like that. She was tired; she was desperate.

And so she slipped out of her uniform, honey skin spilling out from its black leather confines as the garments fell to the ground one at a time. Maggie bared herself, with only a hint of shyness in her face and a blush that spanned her entire body. The dim, flickering dance of orange light illuminated Maggie’s storied form; her body was a diary of battle, penned by scars. Anarres took in the sight like she’d never seen it before, her eyes trailing down from Maggie’s proud face, to her modest chest, and then down further still.

“You’re usually already hard for me. My, we must be feeling indignant.” Anarres Bancourte cocked her head, giving the warm, lightly amused smile a mother would show her child. “That’s nothing I can’t fix. I did promise. Come here.” The woman parted her legs, gently patting the space between with an assessing gaze that never left Maggie’s shifting stare.

Maggie Haine bit her lip like it was a cut of meat, reminding herself that she came here with the intention of giving Anarres a piece of her mind before things went too far. But… maybe that could come after this—this secret play of theirs, concealed by linen which played host to a lively jig of light and shadow. Despite herself, Maggie obliged the other, quiet as an obedient daughter as she made her slow approach without drag nor stomp. Butterflies assaulted her stomach as the raven-haired sword lowered herself down before the fire, shamefully enjoying its warmth—though not half as badly as she craved the warmth at her back. Slowly, cautiously, Maggie reclined against the other and those legs closed around her gently. Anarres shushed her when she opened her mouth to comment on how this changed nothing, and then the woman held her property close, with one arm snaked around the poor girl’s torso. The other hand still held the flask, bringing it to Maggie’s quivering lips as her own brushed against the pliable thing’s shoulder and neck warmly.

Maggie was paralysed by the desire she was losing to before she even had a chance to make her stand. It all happened so quickly, in the blink of an eye. She had fallen into routine, undressing herself for Anarres and sinking, shamefully, into the comfort that the woman could provide her. It had been like this ever since Anarres’ arrangement with the boss became strained—since the first night Maggie dared to nip at the Dollgirl’s bosom. Ana could be frighteningly perceptive sometimes, and so, on the first night after Tavia’s defilement of her goddaughter’s princess property, all those months ago…

“H-Hey, the fuck do you want?” Maggie was sitting in the centre of her tent, sharpening her hunting knife. Anarres’ fellow mercenary sister was wearing just her undergarments, and Ana made no attempt to hide the wandering of her gaze. Maggie’s body fascinated her, for she knew none other quite like it nor the medicine used to make it so unique. Anarres’ rival in arms smirked, her expression darkening as she sheathed her knife and crossed her legs. “Did someone finally beat you to the boss’s tent? Or did she finally wise up and kick you out for being the unstable freak you are?”

Anarres closed the tent flap and made herself at home inside of Maggie’s tent, taking in the scent of post-battle exertion and mead. “She can impale herself on her own sword for all I care. And your door was open.” Ana shrugged impishly, sitting herself down across from Miss Haine and slowly loosening her gambeson.

“Well, you’re not the fuckdoll right now, that much is obvious. What the hell are you doing in my tent, bitch? Want me to put you out of your misery?” Maggie thought back to their strange encounter the night before, which had already begun to feel like nothing more than a silly dream. In the dreamlike memory, the boss had reduced her rival’s mental state to that of a demure doll, fit for little else than performing sexual labour for its fellows. All of Ana’s rough edges had been filed down and what was left was a pretty whore who wouldn’t say no. Naturally, Maggie had taken advantage, letting the stupid slut fellate her twice over before she was too turned on to hold back from an even more wanton vice. The Doll’s breasts were so perfect, just the right amount of curve and fat and—

And there they were again. Glinting in the light cast down by the corona overhead, Anarres’ chest lay bare. Maggie’s mouth suddenly felt very dry.

“I’ve come to seduce you.” Anarres spoke unlike herself. It wasn’t Doll’s voice either, but something more imperious. Confident—destructively so. It made Maggie grow hard before she knew what was happening. It made her heart pound and her skin shrink and her lips purse. “After you left these little sores across my breasts last night, I asked around. You’ve played around with most of the women in this clan. They told me things, desires you tried to push on them… fantasies. But none of them would bite.”

“Anarres, I think you should watch what you say. Had enough mead tonight?” Maggie spoke through gritted teeth, wondering if this was her payback for taking advantage without hesitation the night before.

“I’m dead sober, child.” Ana laughed, spreading her legs wide. She looked so large for once, despite her scrawny nature. She looked so inviting. Still… child? Child? Maggie wondered if her companion truly had a death wish. “I wonder if your fixation began when my daughters arrived, or if you’d been harbouring it since the day you were orphaned by Tavia Durenburg.”

“Anarres. I will cut out your throat if you continue to speak.”

“But she wouldn’t be your mama, would she? You’ve been all on your own for so long. Poor little girl.” The ashen haired temptress smirked unpleasantly, and Maggie’s hairs stood on end. The words were making her twitch uncomfortably and Anarres did not avert her gaze from the embarrassing movement. “Come here, Maggie. I’ll give myself to you, be your mama. Only within the confines of these thin walls of course. Only to get it out of your system. Okay?”

It took a while for the head rush from standing up too fast to subside, and by the time it had, Maggie was already naked in her mother’s arms. She was wearing nothing but her beads, which the superior woman curled her finger around playfully.

“Ah, I hate these things. You’ll take them off while in my lap, in future. With the rest of your clothes. My daughter is a clean slate.”

Daughter. That’s the word. The one that made ruins of Maggie’s ego and composure. The temporary daughter leaned back freely into Anarres’ arms and her smouldering hatred disappeared for a time. She tilted her head back to accept the alcohol being offered, knowing better than to deny her mother’s whims when they were together like this, in a sort of corporeal dream that they agreed never to discuss outside.

“Mmgh…” Maggie swallowed the strong spirit with some difficulty, continuing to sink back into Anarres and forget why she was even upset to begin with. She’d been craving this for the past couple of days now, and that Dahlie bitch, who got to speak so openly about such embarrassing, wonderful things, was constantly in their way. Making her feel like nothing but a cheap imitation of a real daughter.

“Maggie. I’ve been unkind to you.” Once again, Anarres spoke unlike herself. She was commandeering, almost frightening. Like the boss, but much less playful. “I took you as mine that night, and all the nights after, because I knew you were one of Auntie Tav’s favourite toys. It was petty of me, and… unproductive.” Anarres did not tilt the flask back down. Maggie’s eyes began to widen, then water. She was swallowing as much as she could, while some leaked across her chin and spilled down her chest. “I let you waste away in limbo, and look what a mess it made you into. What a disappointment you’ve been today. Not knight, nor squire, but a wastrel. It’s my fault.”

Maggie began to choke on the alcohol, spluttering as she did her best to finish the flask—which she had begun to suspect was the expectation. It burned her throat, but she suddenly felt too meek to do anything about it. Anarres would often become imposing behind the tent flap, and had physically disciplined Maggie on several occasions when the silly thing would speak out of turn. At first she resisted this staunchly, but then the treatment would recede, Ana’s breasts would be covered, and Maggie would whine at herself for letting yet another wall come crumbling down. She gave into it completely after a while, but learned how to compartmentalise it well. Just like Dahlie, once upon a fairytale.

By the time the flask was finally pulled away and Maggie was free to take in fresh air with gasping breaths, she was already a stranger to the Maggie Haine who had entered. Miss Haine was rightfully incensed, and dignified in her stolen uniform. This new girl, Magritte Báncourte, was a sputtering mess who hid her erection between her thighs as she laid back against her mother indulgently, torso slick with a glaze of sweat and spirit.

“C-Can I?” Maggie turned her body sideways and nuzzled Anarres’ chest, which was concealed behind a slip of fabric thinner than the linen walls protecting her from shame. The disappointing daughter dug fingernail into thigh as she cursed herself for disappearing into this so suddenly, but she was utterly fatigued from the trials of her day and this comfort being offered was far too alluring to reject. She curled her legs up, and wet her lips, and told herself that it must have been the alcohol making her so easy for Anarres.

“Address me properly.” Anarres chuckled.

Maggie kicked her legs petulantly, and buried her face into the other’s shoulder to let out a short groan. When she pulled back, her face was redder than before; it was a perfect marriage of embarrassment, lust and inebriation. The alcohol was finally getting to her. Good, thought Anarres—it would loosen her up.

“Can… Uhm… May I suck on your breasts, Mummy?”

Anarres scoffed, stroking fingers through her little one’s curly black hair. She preferred the word ‘mama’, personally, but permitted her daughter this leeway. It was cute, in a way, and so she did not chide her young. Not for this, anyway.

“Go right ahead, make yourself nice and stupid for me.” Again, she chuckled, feeling just as much catharsis as Maggie at finally having the girl properly under thumb. Her body really was made for tempting, as she learned the day her family was put to the death for it. Why not use that?

“I can bite you…” the little one whined, unconvincingly; she was already slipping deep into that submissive bliss that came from the taboo fantasy she’d become helplessly addicted to.

“But you won’t,” Anarres asserted. Her digits grew more rigid in Maggie’s hair, holding her sometimes-daughter firmly as her voice hardened. “Don’t fuss, or I’ll bring the paddle out.”

Maggie softened in an instant. Her eyes became round and wide, like a domesticated animal’s, and her fingers dug themselves deep into her Mother’s wretchedly white chemise. She did not take the woman’s threat lightly, feeling a phantom sting against her lower cheeks and shuddering. She believed the threat because she had seen Anarres stow the implement into her pack, and pretended not to. The last thing she needed was more soreness for the next stretch of their journey, but Maggie could already tell that if Anarres were set on disciplining her the woman would get her way regardless. All that vitriol she carried into the tent had ascended along with that pillar of smoke in the centre, and now it was enjoying an afterlife in heaven above.

This place was paradise—lost—and Maggie would surely find herself swept away with the damned if she so much as loosened her grip on her Mother’s nightdress. So she clung for dear life, and licked her lips like a hungry mutt at the sight of Ana’s free fingers playfully pulling down the fabric housing her fine bosom. Her breasts spilled out with a light bounce that a simplifying Maggie followed with her tilting head. In Ana’s pantheon of daughters, Miss Haine was more of a pet begging for scraps than she was a dutiful dolly or pretty princess. That she was so marred by battle and wore her hair in dishevelled black curls instead of the uniform white only made her that much more adorable in Anarres’ ambitious gaze. It was a sign of her influence that somebody outside of her soporific sister cult could still be pulled into her orbit and crushed by her gravity. Maggie knew it too and clung ever closer. Anarres was a black hole, and Maggie was mere space debris—far too insignificant for any respectable astrologer to commit to record.

She was rehearsing ego death, role playing oblivion night after night to get a glimpse of the inky black devotion that flooded the hearts of Daughterdolls like dear Dahlie. The moment her lips touched upon Anarres’ soft, milky skin, Maggie pretended to die. Reborn in her place was somebody who did not know Anarres Bancourte as anything but a maternal steward. There, in those awful arms, Maggie could finally fucking rest.

“You know, earlier today,” Mother began, in that sultry, reedy voice of hers, “I thought about beating you into the dirt.” Maggie’s body tensed slightly, but she continued to close her mouth around Anarres’ surprisingly fat nipple and placate herself with it needily. She listened passively to the horrible confession, while slurping at her would-be abuser’s breast like a wanton slut—it was better, sometimes, to be a mindless glutton for tit-flesh and soft touch than it was to remain uncomfortably present. “When you were showing off with that sword of yours and we were held up by that thief. I imagined ruining you, violently. In great detail.” Warm, loving touch glided down the daughter’s back and seized the ass that would be welted were Mother’s dark fantasies to see fruition. Maggie shifted as the woman groped her, but only to allow Anarres more purchase of her backside.

“Mmgh…” Maggie chose not to speak, because she didn’t want to. Her heart deafened to the words being fed to her. She chose to enjoy the simple comfort of her Mother’s body and hope dearly that gentle praise was soon to come. It wasn’t. This was just the calm before the storm, and she had turned her gaze away from the apocalyptic eye staring back at her; she was ignoring it, that winking fate. Anarres noticed Maggie’s wilful ignorance and smiled, for she had been told that Maggie would be too exhausted to think rationally and was glad for the confirmation. This was okay, she told herself, petting the nursling babe with genuine affection and reminding herself of that old doctrine. The best thing a person can do is end.

“Maggie… my Maggie. Had you been just a little more competent, I might’ve believed in your ability to survive the road ahead without this. But I see now… my daughter has convinced me. You need this. Like she needed it—like I did.” Anarres spoke calmly, pulling the girl closer. Maggie did not remove her mouth from the woman’s teat, but her eyes flicked upwards curiously; cautiously. She was not the simpleton she played the part of, so could tell that something was wrong. Still, Maggie’s penchant for blissful ignorance prevailed. Her head rush had begun to overtake her thoughts, the strong alcohol burning against her cheeks like hot coals as her eyelids dropped like led weights were pulling down on them.

Dahlie entered the tent, but Maggie did not hear the Doll’s deft footsteps. Anarres continued explaining, nails clawing into her property’s giving flesh.

“While you were failing to keep pace with us on the way here, I asked my competent daughter how it was that she became so dependable. My memories of the palace are so hazy, still. The tincture spaced your mind apart like that.” The woman gave her kin a wistful grin. “She told me all about it, and some things came back. I… need to put you through hell, like I did her, so that you can emerge devoted. All daughters should fear their Mother, no?”

This time, Maggie’s ignorance faltered. The previously pacified girl pulled away from that comforting chest, a line of spittle stretching out between them before finally collapsing against her chin. Anarres’ nipple was slick with saliva, which made it glisten like Eden’s apple. It almost tempted her back, but Maggie was becoming concerned that these words were implying a breach of their arrangement. As though reading her daughter’s mind, the woman continued.

“I-It’s okay, really. The woman I love most in this disgusting world, whom I cherish above all things, put me through so many terrible things before I learned that worshipping her was the only salvation I had available. I deserved to love her, and she deserves to be loved… always. So I know that, in the end, it’ll all be okay. Don’t worry, pretty girl. This means you’ll be my daughter in earnest and not just the unsatisfying fake you’ve been performing as in secret up until now. We can tear down these walls. Okay?”

Maggie looked upon her Mother’s smouldering stare and shrunk into an ego shaped casket. She was terrified of the unflinching, serious look she was being given. If looks could kill, perhaps they could grant life too, in the same foul breath. “Ana, what… makes you think I want that?”

An object resembling a human lurked behind Maggie Haine, who was none the wiser to its presence. Her body was still twisted, perfectly mirroring her mind, and her gut. Anarres continued to stroke her hair and it felt so fucking good she wanted to cry. Or scream. She was in danger, but if she cried for help, who would come? The boss? No, Tavia was gone. Dahlie? No, this was all her script if Anarres’ words were to be believed. And, well, Mother was absolute.

“Your body wants it.” Mother’s smile was blinding sunshine. Her fingers pinched and groped at Maggie’s naked body and the girl writhed against her touch like the weak bitch she was. Her cock twitched pathetically, leaking over Anarres’ thigh as her eyes began to water. The drink had made her so sluggish but she was fighting to centre herself. She was fighting oh so hard, but a single little pinch was enough to have her sighing out in need. Sighing out her efforts in a single breathy moan. “Your soul pleads for it.” Fingers lifted Maggie’s head effortlessly—just two placed beneath her jaw. Their eyes met, and locked, and Maggie felt her will being measured by the penetrative gaze of someone looking all the way through her. Right to the back, where her dirty secrets lay. Anarres stripped each of them, like brigands ravaging village women, and told the room with her level stare that she knew what Maggie wanted better than the sword itself. “It’s just your mind playing catch up, then. Minds are fickle like that… minds are a fresh pair of boots. They just need breaking in, stretching out like new leather. I’ll teach it give, that rawhide mind of yours, to make you flexible and receptive to my mothering.”

“I… don’t feel very…”

“I can see you’re hot and dizzy. You need taking care of, but that comes later. What else do you feel? What do you see?” Anarres’ questions suddenly felt very important, but Maggie was struggling to find her mental footing; she instead felt that she was falling, into a deep abyss of herself from which she could not escape without a reaching hand. Mother’s hand. She saw it there, glowing. Why was it…

“Wh-what did you put in that… y-you poisoned me?” Maggie stammered, her vision blurring as the light of the room appeared to dim and coalesce into a bright, fixed point: Anarres’ hand. Her own were now sweating profusely, and her mouth pooled with saliva that spilled down her chin when she unconsciously bobbed her head.

“It has nothing on the medicine I was made with, but it’ll do nicely. Dahlie’s proof it isn’t strictly needed, but your… adjustment… requires expediting as much as possible given our lack of free time. Slow dalliance into devotion is not a luxury you can afford, I’m afraid.” Anarres reached out and cupped Maggie’s cheek to prevent her head from continuing its ceaseless bobbing. A long line of bubbly spit dropped out of the poor thing’s mouth, falling somewhere near her throbbing cock—which was drooling so badly that you might consider it in direct competition with her spilling lips.

Maggie leaned into the hand despite herself, listening like the open receptacle that she’d been drugged into. “It’s a weaker tincture, but that’s only fitting for a weaker daughter. Your imperfections are matching, my darling disappointment.”

“Whhh… what did y-you make me d-drink? I-I only tasted the alcohol…” The panic made her blood circulate faster, adrenaline fighting the sedation in an uphill battle she was already beginning to lose. Losing felt… good. Too good. Why was she so turned on?

Hands fell upon Maggie’s shoulders from behind, and a new voice graced her ears—like a sharp point puncturing her ankle as she struggled up an incline. “Ethyl alcohol, ambergris and ergot. Or to dumb it down for you, little sister: bouse, whale vomit and mould.” Dahlie gripped Maggie tightly from behind, while Anarres held her from the front. She felt completely at their mercy, Miss Haine, and it was beginning to feel impossibly hot. She was feverish, hallucinations starting to molest her vision as the fingers slid down from her shoulders and wrapped around to assault her chest. Dahlie was wasting no time, rubbing her new sister-toy’s nipples between forefinger and thumb on each side while the whimpering mess in her hands fought to stop herself from throwing up her lunch due to the toxicity of her supposed medicine. “Don’t worry, you won’t get sick, I mixed it well. Your boss used to have me make this ‘potion’, as she called it, for her late night rendezvous. She said it made her ‘feel more.’” Big Sister Dahlie hummed as she would when playing with the Dolls back in the palace, one hand leaving the perspiring daughter-in-training’s chest to grip her cock. “I can see it makes you a fucking pushover.”

Anarres observed both of her daughters intensely, seeing Dahlie’s true nature laid bare before her for the first time, even if she had always known of The Devil that occupied that pretty bundle of flesh and bone she chose to mother. It was useful back in the palace, as Dahlie became not only an enforcer, but a tranquilizer, keeping all of her sisters placated with playtime so that the Dollmother could selfishly remain with her favourite child. She was also, in a sense, seeing Maggie for the first time. It was apparent, as she looked at that shivering wreck before her—its pupils dilating into wide black holes and hips rutting up into Dahlie’s practised hand—that she was never anybody’s rival. She was a weak, lonely thing who needed a Mother. She would get that and more; she would receive a god.

“P-please…” Maggie was panting into the stuffy air, pushing against Dahlie’s hand without knowing whether she was asking her ‘sister’ to stop or to give her more.

“Awww… can we keep her, Mother?” Dahlie giggled, seeming much more playful now that she had another toy to fuck, though she was clearly in need of a reminder that this night was not for her sake.

“Dahlie. You’ll ruin her. Let go of your sister and fetch my sword,” Mother snapped. Dahlie’s confidence receded, but only a little, and she nodded obediently like the perfect devotee that she was. Mother was absolute. And besides, this was her plan at the end of the— “The second flask I had you prepare. Drink it.”

The daughter blinked. She was already half way across the room, gripping the handle of her Mother’s arming sword, when the unexpected request—no, order—spilled from Anarres’ lips. Maggie was processing it all too slowly, trying to figure out what they could possibly need a sword for before the room’s endless spinning stole the worry from her head. She needed to focus on not spinning away, instead.

“Mother, are you certain? I… why should I need to—” Dahlie closed her mouth instinctively when she noticed that her Mother was giving her that look. The one that told her not to question what she was being told. Fortunately, Mother was generous, and decided to elaborate despite owing Dahlie no explanation of her whims.

“It only seems fair to even the odds a little. To make her know she’s been defeated properly. More than that, however… it’ll simply make the show more fun for me to watch. Don’t you wish to entertain me, girl?” Anarres spread her legs a little wider, sitting like her Auntie Tav would and wearing a matching cockiness.

Dahlie cleared her throat and expelled the protest from her mind, remembering that questioning her Mother was the height of foolishness; not because she truly thought the woman to be a god, but because she accepted how tightly bound her self worth was to the comfort she provided. Only Anarres’ hand could cover up that word on her body and give her a home. Dahlie’s worship was practical and self-serving. Her eyes shone. Maggie’s eyes, meanwhile, were flooding.

“Of course, Mother.” Dahlie gave her perfect Doll smile and picked up the second flask, returning to the centre of the room while resolving to drown her complicated feelings with a simple assurance: Mother is absolute. Without affording herself another moment’s hesitation, Dahlie removed the leather bottle’s cap and downed the liquid dutifully. It burned so terribly, but Dahlie was well accustomed to burning. Her eyes flicked over to Maggie, who was curled up like the runt of the litter in Mother’s lap, fighting the nausea poorly and beginning to hallucinate on account of the ergotism.

“Give my knight her weapon.” Anarres lightly pulled at Maggie’s hair to stop her from sinking too deeply into her comforting lap, then gave the girl a light shove onto her back. Landing with an unceremonious thud, Maggie stared up at Big Sister Dahlie, who looked down at her like she was the dirt under her boot. In Dahlie’s hand was Anarres’ arming sword, which she inexplicably dropped into Maggie’s lap before taking a few careful steps back, sidestepping the controlled fire in the centre of the room. Dahlie’s elegant movement was impressive when the bootleg tincture she had taken should have made her much more sluggish. Perfection was her knife; if it became harder to achieve, it only meant she needed to cut deeper. She would bleed for Mother, though it hardly seemed a thing to worry about when she looked upon the one who was to try and spill her blood. Maggie was barely in the room.

“Wh-whaaat’s…” Maggie slurred. Anarres cupped the girl’s cheeks, which had grown pale and damp.

“Pick up that sword and defend yourself, Maggie. You wish to be my knight, yes? My champion? Then earn it. Show that you’re worthy by besting my real daughter in single combat.” Anarres’ tone was kind even though her words were madness. Maggie winced at the notion that she was not a ‘real daughter’, before remembering that it was not good for her health to want for such wicked things. She was losing her grip on reality and fantasy was taking over, that much was apparent, but her yearning to finally fucking prove herself once and for all on this day of disappointing Her… it was too tempting, in her addled state, to deny.

“Fffffine…” Fingers slowly curled around the sword’s handle and Maggie stumbled onto her feet with great difficulty. The room was spinning, the colours were collapsing, and Dahlie looked like The Devil herself; an eight foot demon with flaming black wings that filled the small space and made Maggie feel trapped. One hand gripped her weapon’s handle while the other seized her wrist to still the damn trembling. Her breathing came out haggard, but she was doing this for… what? What was she doing this for? Herself? Mother? Catharsis in finally getting to cut Dahlie, who was more of a suitable rival for her than Anarres had ever been? That’s right… this smug porcelain cunt had been lording it over her from the very beginning—just how fucking perfect she was. So great that she was permitted her Mother outside of these linen walls. Maggie hated her, truly, and now she had been given permission to show the stupid, delusional little serving girl what a real killer could do. Maggie was a sellsword, and a former member of the most dangerous mercenary clan this side of the world. She had slain countless foes, many of them being men who were larger than her and had underestimated her ability and her ruthlessness.

Except, Maggie wasn’t so impaired on the battlefield. And she was never engaging in one on one combat. And she was a sniper first and foremost. And… Dahlie was not underestimating her. She could see the Doll’s guard was up. Would these observations cause Maggie to reciprocate this caution? No, she was simply too drunk, and Dahlie did not even have a weapon! It was only when she took her first step towards the cocky shit in her sights that Maggie remembered: Dahlie always had a weapon.

With all the force she could muster, Maggie swung her sword down with intent to kill, not maim, and in a single decisive strike. She was relying on her superior distance so chose not to draw any closer before making her strike, and so was caught completely off guard by the glint of steel from her opponent and the familiar sound of clashing blades.

“Y-You…” Maggie recoiled. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. Dahlie had retrieved her dagger with lightning reflexes despite her rapidly declining motor function, and diverted Maggie’s overhead swing with a blade short enough to stow in her sleeve. The arming sword bounced off of Dahlie’s cross guard and the Dolldaughter quickly wrapped Maggie’s arm while sinking a fist into her little sister’s gut.

Maggie’s vision blurred as she stumbled back and crumpled against a pain that made her breathless. She was completely shocked by the exchange of metal, which had only lasted for a second or two at most. Parrying a sword blow with a dagger was not typically feasible, both on account of the former’s superior reach but also, simply, the weight with which its blade crashes down. Dahlie had counted on the poison having sapped Maggie’s strength, but even so, gravity was where the brunt of that force came from and so her technique was nothing short of terrifying to an experienced killer like Maggie.

“I’ve been told not to damage you.” Dahlie said calmly, twisting Maggie’s arm until she was forced to drop her sword. The duel was over in an instant, how embarrassing. No. Maggie did not consider a real battle over until one of them lay dead, it was how she was raised.

“I wasn’t… told that.” The raven haired runt muttered coldly, bending one leg and pushing off against the floor in an attempt to knock Dahlie off balance and break free. The two moved across the room as a single unit, Dahlie collapsing back into the fire Maggie led her to before letting go and rolling across the tent floor. Anarres sat back and watched with narrowing eyes, checking to ensure that their last remaining shelter had not caught fire in all the chaos. It hadn’t, but the same could not be said for Dahlie’s uniform, which she pried herself out of swiftly while Maggie went back for her discarded blade.

When Maggie turned around to face her opponent, she was taken aback by the sight before her. Dahlie was stomping on her clothes with a look of extreme displeasure that brought Maggie some much needed catharsis, but the knight’s smugness was short lived—and died the moment she took in the sight of her rival’s bared form and the word it played host to, over and over.

Orphan.

“What…” Maggie stared openly, while Anarres moved to stand at last.

“Do you still not understand yet? This is what it takes! I-I’m trying to help you, sister. Mother is going to fix you.” Dahlie was acting more erratic at long last—less perfect. Her body may have rejected the pale blue medicine, once upon a time, but she was not immune to this lesser concoction wreaking havoc on her mind and body. That, and she was always more timid when bared; this shame that stained her body was to be hidden away, so that none save for her closest family could know the truth of her.

Maggie stared. That word. It was singed into skin so many times, in so many places, that even just imagining the pain… the derangement… was just as nauseating as the poison.

Orphan. Orphan. Orphan. Orphan. It was everywhere you looked. Orphan. The word defining Dahlie’s body, defiling it with a shame that Maggie felt sick for finding solidarity in. It was everywhere, and Maggie felt that she was going mad just by looking. It no longer appeared like a real word. It was so familiar, yet completely foreign. Hostile.

It was almost as though the word was quite literally eating her. What would otherwise be a conventionally pretty body was transformed into something more bespoke by those self-administered burns in the shape of a single repeated word. Orphan ad nauseam.

“Isn’t she beautiful, Maggie?” Anarres stepped around the fire she had just repaired, and behind the marred sack of flesh she called a daughter. “I mean, she’s utterly grotesque below the neck when exposed like this.” The woman’s cruelty gave Maggie pause, and she watched with a horrible curiosity as Ana’s arms snaked around her property so casually. One ran down Dahlie’s torso, over those myriad wounds made by copper brand, while the other gently seized Dahlie’s chin and lifted her head. “But she knew to keep her face pretty for me, and well, even if it looks ugly… this devotion is beautiful. Let me assure you.”

The argument felt ridiculous, because neither Anarres nor Maggie could think a young woman like Dahlie unattractive due to a few burns. No, these words were chosen only to keep the Dolldaughter herself comfortably trapped in that cocoon of conditional worth and hopeless dependence. The Doll smiled, loving her Mother’s touch more than she cared for the truth.

“She’s my most obedient possession only because she’s sinned the most. And suffered for it at her own responsible hand.” Mother spoke so closely to Dahlie’s ear that the Doll could feel the woman’s breath, shuddering in the safety of that hold and letting the counterfeit tincture take her at long last. The room was spinning for each of them now. This was how they would form new familial bonds: violent and feverish. “Now she knows that only a Mother’s touch can save her. Only I can hide the shame of what she is without me.” It was like a magic trick: Anarres slid both her hands over those burns and fanned her fingers, covering as much of the Doll’s shame as she was able to. Not a single ‘Orphan’ remained wholly intact, and Dahlie immediately relaxed as though the shame no longer reached her.

Maggie understood the imagery being fed to her well enough, but still had no idea why it was being shown to her. She may have been jealous of Dahlie, sure, but she would never allow herself to become something so…

“Isn’t she perfect?” Mother’s words were making Dahlie blush darkly, her arousal just as visible as Maggie’s. “Don’t answer that. You lost your duel and let your big sister disarm you. It’s only fair she gets to… enjoy her victory over you.”

Gritting her teeth, Maggie kept hold of her sword—which was actually Anarres’—like a child who could not accept losing a board game. “She’s… n-not my… my big sister.”

Anarres looked at Maggie Haine one last time before making her decision to proceed. For years, she had let her Godmother’s soporific abuse distract her from what she truly was. She was so firmly wrapped around Tavia Von Durenburg’s finger, placated in the large shadow cast by that awful woman’s thumb, that she’d softened from those twilight days in the cove. Recent events had begun to poke the bear, and Anarres slowly found herself again. The woman who would be regent—who put her children through hell to see them become their best, prettiest, most poseable and exploitable selves. Maggie even wanted it, didn’t she? Wanted to become a daughter, even if she didn’t know what that truly took. Anarres knew that she was never wrong, and Dahlie’s faith in her confirmed it. Everything she did was just.

This was necessary.

“Reconsider that, okay? You’ll be thankful for the family where you’re going.” Mother’s arms pulled Dahlie close, curling around the former orphan’s neck. The next words out of the woman’s mouth would define the night, and the three’s relationship going forwards. Hierarchy, if you will. The words were a command Dahlie could not disobey even if she wanted to, which she did not, because the words were also permission she had long been waiting for. The words were a reunion. The words were seven trumpets in a neat little row. They were a point of no return.

“Go ahead, Dahlie,” Mother’s voice graced the Doll’s ear. The victor needed a reward, of course, but more importantly, Maggie needed to learn her fucking place. “Rape her.”

Maggie stood still as the thing that called itself her sister instantly closed the distance between them in another flash of glinting steel. Once again she had the superior reach, but she could not think to lift her sword. Weight pushed onto her like she had been beset by a wild dog, and before she knew it the blade was out of her hand, her back was flat against the ground, and Dahlie was pinning her like she meant to… oh, wait, that’s exactly what she meant to do. Maggie’s head was a wheel of flame, the room continuing to spin as her mind burned with confusion and panic. Her body was an overheating mess, sprawled out under the other’s heat-scarred form.

A knife against her throat, stinging her moist skin while the accompanying words cut even deeper. “Resist and I’ll bleed you like a pig.” Dahlie’s eyes were wide, her pupils just as large as Maggie’s and her pallor no less sickly as she too found herself at the potion’s mercy.

“Gghk… I-I…”

“Hush now, little sister. I’ll make you feel good. Maybe one day Mother will touch you like this, but it isn’t likely.” Dahlie laughed, keeping her blade at the other’s throat as she shifted herself into a more comfortable position—for her—atop her prize. Like any worthy game, Maggie was to be mounted.

“Wh-what? That’s…” Feeling pathetic for it the moment she did so as she looked upon those stern eyes that made her feel impossibly small, Maggie flicked her gaze up to their looming Mother’s. Her mood had slowly grown dependent on her secret nightly rendezvous with the woman she liked to call ‘mummy’ when nobody else was present to witness her burning shame, but now they were implying that this… this… was all she deserved anymore. She hated how effective their efforts were, even laid so bare, in making her feel like she needed to be good for them from now on. Not just Mother, but her Big Sister Dahlie too. Without earning their approval, she was just a scrap of meat to be treated roughly by the alpha above her. Was that it?

“Dahlie’s transition took months. For you, it really will just take a day. Suppose you came pre-broken… and that crush you had on me did you no favours.” Anarres smiled warmly and the faux-affection became a battering ram against her drugged-out victim’s heart. The Mother began to root through one of their bags while Dahlie made sure to steal back her sister’s attention.

“A-ahhnn… hhhey…” Maggie tried to struggle, but her neck was lightly bleeding already from the sharp pressure, and her cock was throbbing hard against Dahlie’s dainty digits. Fingers curled around the shaft and guided it into place. Dahlie kissed the head of Maggie’s cock with her lower lips, having gotten more than wet enough to take her little sister from her brief time in Mother’s arms alone.

When she lowered, the two girls moaned out in unison. Dahlie brought her hips down on Maggie like a crashing wave, rolling them in a practised motion that told the uniquely endowed Miss Haine that, real or not, this was not the first time Dahlie had been penetrated. The thought of this Doll taking a man seemed absurd, and Maggie knew not of others like her—not to say they were not out there—and so she thought back to Tavia Durenburg’s wooden implement and the way it had sodomised her and stretched her out so many times she could’ve started taking the woman’s fist instead.

Maggie grunted, feeling the sting against her throat whenever she so much as swallowed while she felt something much more intense below the waist. Dahlie’s insides squeezing down on her, every fold and groove that slick passage provided was something Maggie was never going to be able to erase from her mind. The way she felt stuck in her. And how good it felt, despite the circumstances. Dahlie’s womb was a paradise wreathed in jet black flames, corrupting all non-believers with its tight squeeze.

“You’re really cute when you’re not pretending to be a soldier. When you’re easy for me… ehehehe… s-so cute. Hahhh… this is the real you… another weak little sister for me to push around, have my way with. Fuck back into line… gods, I’m so lucky. You are too.” Dahlie rocked her hips, thrashing insatiably as she enjoyed the warmth of a real cock inside of her for the first time. She loved how hard Maggie was for her, it told her that this was what her little sister wanted. What Maggie needed. “We’re so lucky!”

Maggie stared out with an unfocused gaze at all those brands coating Dahlie’s otherwise pristine skin. If she gave into this, she would no longer be… that word. That word she didn’t much like. If she let herself enjoy being a daughter, she would… she’d… she’d what? What was… the downside?

Her independence. Her dignity. Her willpower. And most assuredly, looking at Dahlie above, her sanity, too.

“Ghhh… I… we… llllluckyyyyy… no… ahh! G-gods… that’sh wrooong.” Maggie bit her tongue. Maggie pushed her hips up. Maggie panted and moaned and gasped for air in the stuffy tent as the hallucinations and dizziness turned her into a drooling puddle of fuckable flesh. A sex toy. What did she call herself at the start of the day? A knight? The thought made the ragged woman giggle deliriously while Dahlie took advantage of her addled state, a line of red spit trailing down her left cheek and dripping onto the tent floor. If this was lucky, she needed to make sure that her karma did not run dry.

“Neither of you are permitted to finish until I get my Princess back.” Anarres bluntly declared, sensing that both her daughters were beginning to get lost in the pleasure in their shared, compromised state. “Two more minutes and then I’ll need you ready for what comes next.”

Maggie did not know what came next. Her vision was too blurry to rely on, so she had no way of seeing her new Mother sitting herself down by the fire and heating something in its flames. Something copper and borrowed.

Dahlie, too, was unable to see what her Mother was doing, but she knew. It was her idea, after all, after Anarres off-handedly asked if the Doll had packed her punishment tool. Of course she had; she would never leave home without it. Dahlie was sharp in so many ways, but Anarres was her blind spot, and so she genuinely had not considered that her Mother asking that meant that it was not, in fact, an idea she came up with. Manipulating Dolls was as easy as posing them.

Two more minutes. The time limit made Dahlie more feral, and the Doll-devil lowered her body to smother Maggie with a firm press. Maggie’s torso and chest became intimately acquainted with the feeling of those punishment brands, while Dahlie’s mouth closed around her new toy’s neck and began to nip and suck at the skin wantonly. She was going to make her little sister wear an assortment of mementos of their first time together, from little bruises across her neck to a deep itch for Dahlie’s cunt etched into the back of Maggie’s manipulable mind forever. All daughters are their mother’s property, of course, but the possessive Big Sister wanted a piece of them just for her. When she fucked her family she was playing for keeps.

Just one minute left, give or take; Dahlie’s internal clock was near-perfect. She finally let go of the knife and seized both of Maggie’s wrists, pinning them up high above the weakling’s head and assaulting her mouth with a forceful kiss. Maggie was so overwhelmed that she allowed Dahlie into her mouth without even thinking to protest. Why would she?

Oh that’s right, she was being… Dahlie was raping her. It’s not that Maggie had forgotten that fact, or anything silly like that… she’d just begun to suspect that maybe she deserved it. Nobody else seemed fazed by the assault, after all, so it… it had to be warranted. Her mind was all floaty and broken in that moment, so she succumbed like fabric to flame. She’d let a firebrand like Big Sis Dahlie fuck her into ashes and thank her for the trouble.

Dahlie kissed Maggie like she was trying to shove her tongue into the other’s lungs, robbing her breath and almost passing out from her own oxygen deprivation by the time she pulled back. Her eyes narrowed, her lips curled, and Maggie looked upon the smugness of a demi-god choosing her to be its meal. She made the mistake of looking upon that face hopefully, wishing—in a brief dizzy spell in which rational thinking eluded her—to be consumed entirely. The Doll spat on her face, rolled her hips one last time, and then dismounted from her runtish little sister right on cue.

Maggie panted breathlessly on her back as she stared at the tent’s open ceiling, still spinning. The apocalypse had come and gone; the end of the world was a beautiful woman. It was unclear whether Maggie was in heaven or hell now, but she could hardly care about such drivel in that moment. All she could think about, the only thought that really took purchase in her ailing mind, was just how badly she wished she could finish. Maggie’s psyche was on the rocks, and she felt like she might just die if she didn’t get to come.

What was it that Anarres… that Mother said? Not until they save Her Princess…

Fuck.

“Turn her over for me, I think I know exactly where I’d like to put this.” In Anarres’ hand was the same brand Dahlie had used to discipline herself for years now. It looked so striking in her Mother’s hand, and Dahlie swooned. Her eyes were sparkling as she forced a half-conscious Maggie Haine onto her stomach and cradled the runt’s head in her lap lovingly. “It’ll give her something to be grateful for even when I’m spanking her.”

“Hhgk… I’mmnot… I… m’luckyyy… sstoppp… I’m… ehe… M-Maggie.”

“Yes. That’s what almost 4 ounces of liquor and other psychoactive substances will do to someone.” Dahlie spoke sagely, as though she had not also consumed the same drug cocktail on their Mother’s command. “You sound like such a silly little girl. I want to ride you again already…”

“Sometimes I think it a shame I no longer have access to the belt my Princess once made me wear. You’re disciplined enough not to need it, I trust?” Mother hummed, shuffling closer to her target while the brand was still hot.

“Of course, Mother! I-I can keep my urges under control, for you. I just… I’m really grateful when you allow me to… have my fun.” Dahlie chewed her lip and smiled like the good Doll she was as she ran a thumb over one of the bruises developing on her sister’s neck and shoulders. It was good handiwork, she thought, subtly holding Maggie’s head against her crotch to let those airheaded groans stimulate her sex.

“Good girl.” Mother’s praise was a searing hot poker to Dahlie’s thoughts of freedom. To a well trained object like her, such fantasies could only ever linger in the form of nightmares. Dahlie smiled easily and stroked her sister’s messy hair. She watched the brand lower down to hover above Maggie’s defenceless backside and held onto the poor thing for support, as any good big sister would.

And another searing poker met its mark.