To speak on victory, you must first begin with passion, for those without the red-blooded desire to win will have naught to celebrate should their house be blessed by lady luck. Inside the oracle’s tent sat two mercenary women, both members of the same infamous band; one of them was smiling and the other was not. Victory was as fickle a mistress as fate, as the fortune-teller before them was keen to teach the brigands, and it did not kiss upon the cheeks of those who found nothing to savour in battle’s wake.

Anarres Báncourte was in a dreadful sulk, and had decided—rather arbitrarily—to blame her dour mood on the ghoulish sight of the greying hag before her, rather than the stench of blood that brought bile to her lips twice on the trek back to camp. Blood stained her gambeson and stuck to her hair, forming a stark red contrast against that shaggy white mess, which draped down to frame a warlike glower. The elderly bitch that sought to read their destiny had more colour in her hair than the young sellsword; it reminded Anarres that she was an other, that her humanity had been tainted by a terrible, wonderful past that would go on to elude her like a cocky phantom in the years since her brief respite from selfhood. She was being haunted by a dead jester in the decrepit palace of her memory, its jokes all tired and done and its blood too dry to spill.

“Ana, stop being a mopey cunt for once in your goddamn days and give your Auntie Tav some love. We’re celebrating, lass, and you’re not the one with a fresh war-wound.” The second, older mercenary was one to speak on victory; passion meant to touch her like a prospective lover and Tavia Von Durenburg saw fit to fuck it like a bride. “Always makes me wanna mess you up when you give me those widow eyes, and that’s dangerous when we ain’t alone in my tent.”

The white-haired girl snapped out of her daydream—a sad whalesong of the self in which torturous fantasy animated jesterbones of memory—and flicked her gaze onto her hulking godmother. The much bulkier woman, hugged tight by black leather and animal furs, often became an incarnation of smug when in her goddaughter’s company. She found Anarres easy to push around and manipulate; she knew exactly where the girl’s buttons lay and pushed them well. Still, there were moments in which the stunted creature could riposte that ceaseless verbal—and often physical—assault to render her familial tormentor out of kilter.

“Oh, is that so? My apologies, Godmother, have I been a neglectful apprentice again? Here, let me see that nasty wound… don’t think it can wait till we’re alone, can it?” Anarres took the initiative with a cold glint in her eyes that told her Auntie Tav that she was in the mood to regain any measure of catharsis she could get her hands on. Even repurposed dolls could be dangerous when they were desperate. The younger merc took the woman’s bandaged hand, paying no mind to their patient seer, and removed the wrappings to get a look at the gouge. “Nasty… but you’ll live. Here.” The apprentice spoke in a practised monotone, something she had perfected in a past life that now worked a treat in teasing her tyrant godmother. She brought the fresh wound to her mouth and kissed it before snaking out her tongue for a proper cleansing. Tavia quirked her brow, half-turning towards their third wheel before the slick caress of her junior’s strongest muscle demanded she meet the girl’s eyes. Anarres was staring daggers at her, even in that moment, cursing the woman whose blood she lapped away at. The taste was awful, but the younger woman revelled in it; that metal flavour reminded Anarres that her godmother was mortal. Tasting iron meant facing life head-on, be it your own or somebody else’s. The last of the Báncourtes was all too familiar with it by then, having bitten down on iron syringes, sparring blades, and the broken skin of sleeping beauty. It was because she considered herself so cultured in the taste of iron that Anarres could safely confirm that Tavia’s blood was the least palatable of all that she’d sampled.

Even so, hate was a drug; Anarres Báncourte, having recovered from one all-consuming substance, found that she was once again an addict.

“All better? Mama’s kisses are—”

The doll, play-acting her personhood on the stage her Godmother built for her, had pushed it too far. Tavia’s hand lowered from lapping tongue to the girl’s delicate little throat, squeezing roughly. She would never kill her family, her property, but watching the small victory Anarres had carved become snuffed out in mere seconds brought a satisfied curl to the older woman’s lips. Blood clung to the corners of the brat’s mouth. Tavia—having made her point—eased her grip from the sputtering mercenary of her making and ran her grubby thumb over the bright red smears. She pushed the bloodied thumb into her goddaughter’s mouth forcefully, Ana’s eyes downcast as she imagined the seer’s eyes on her in that moment, felt them violating her in that heady loss she always found herself surrendering to when she had the foolish notion to act tough.

“Don’t act up in company, girl, you embarrass me enough as it is. Keep that pretty mouth shut and sit still for just a little while. I’ll make sure you won’t be able to sit comfortably for days after I’m done using you tonight, so why not enjoy the short reprieve, eh?” Tavia speaking so candidly in front of their wizened guest was a show of cruelty that filled Anarres with a growing meekness. She loved her Auntie Tav; she hated her Auntie Tav; she was, for better or worse, at the mercy of the woman’s whims come rain or shine. Anarres knew this, but she acted out anyway. As she sucked on her guardian’s thumb, softening into a comfortable nothing like a good daughter placated by wooden dummy, the apprentice sellsword wondered docilely if this is how her beloved Princess felt in her mama’s care. Safe. Not the mother who fell sick and died, leaving that precious gull to develop sadistic tendencies to cope with the way she’d been left to the rot and stink of that city, but her real mama. This mercenary girl, little more than a porcelain doll in those halcyon days, had made her counterpart a dreamer—immortal in the clear blue skies—and was now left with an empty vessel she used for idle pleasure and cold comfort. Still, that love lived on inside her chest—gnawing at her ribcage like they were the bars of a crib that refused to let those feelings go.

That was right. Tavia was just a distraction—a punishment and a painkiller—which was ironic given the force of her hips and her open palm strikes, to say nothing of teeth and… well, the white-haired house staff were so perfect in their good behaviour that Tav saw a need to repurpose the flogger that once hung in the maid’s quarters. Tavia was not a saviour, she was meaningless consolation. Worse, she was a jailer.

With the pride of a mother, and the loyalty of a Doll, Anarres bit down as hard as she could.

Then, nothing. A lapse in consciousness, like the space between one memory and the next made into a vale by the medicine that once ruled her; the tincture spread Doll’s thoughts apart, turned a single shock like this into an intermission. Try as she might, she could never quite regain that brightness Tavia so often admonished her for losing. Her self-effacing wit, however, was left intact. Anarres blinked slowly. Her vision had blurred and a sharp ringing assaulted her right ear. Ah, Auntie had smacked her, struck her so hard that she blinked out of existence for a good handful of seconds before that gentle void denied her yet again. The rejection almost stung harder than her Godmother’s firm discipline, which spread over her skin in a dull, throbbing ache that the secret Doll would never openly confess to the catharsis in. Punishment felt better than praise; an unintended consequence of being trained by an ill-tempered sadist whose impulses had eventually backfired on her.

When Anarres turned her head, she was unsurprised to find that her Auntie Tav was not at all displeased; in fact she appeared vexatiously content in herself. Ana had given her just cause to expend some of that post-battle adrenaline, the rough fingers in the smaller girl’s hair were twining into it gratefully and possessively.

Then, Anarres flicked her gaze over to the fortune-teller. Her expression was depressingly indifferent, and Ana could not help but grin as she figured the travelling hag must have seen much worse. Public disembowelment, rape, drunken angry men who were not so selective in who they laid their hands upon, animal abuse, child abuse, witchcraft, and… Anarres paused. The old woman was staring into her eyes directly, she’d realised, with an intensity to her gaze that had the white-haired killer suddenly paranoid that the nosey bitch could read her mind. The awful and intrusive thoughts were just for her, and the Princess, and sometimes Auntie Tav when the woman beat—or fucked—them out of her. Not wholly sure if she preferred the passivity in the woman’s eyes or the sudden grim intensity, Anarres cleared her throat and leaned over the rickety wooden table between them.

“Looking’s free but if you wanna lay a hand on me it’ll cost you.” Her lips curled into a glass knife smirk; as sharp as it was fragile. She was put in her place when taking out her immortal frustration on her Godmother, but outsiders were not permitted to smack the sense back into her for her foulness and so she had no cause to play nice with the hag. She reminded herself of the role she’d been cast in, and that Tavia’s mercenary band was well renowned for its cut-throat fellows—so infamous for their indelicate conduct that they were thought of more as brigands than the hired sellswords they were—and sometimes Anarres found it easier to lose herself in the performance. She wasn’t truly one of them. She was pure. She was kindness. She was mother’s love and beauty wrapped in leathery hide, scarred and maimed and molested by the world she weathered out. “Cost you the damn hand, I mean. I ain’t a whore so stop gawking…”

Tavia snorted so obnoxiously loud it was clear she wanted both to hear just how endlessly amused she was by her errant goddaughter’s attempts to claw back some semblance of dignity. The hand wrapping around Anarres’ back and groping her unabashedly told the girl exactly what that snort had meant, as though she needed help with that. You’re not her whore, no, but you are my fuckdoll. Now be a good bitch and heel. She listened to the voice that projected from the wanton touch with a quiet little scoff, losing her voice as quickly as she’d found it.

“You’ve not spoken a word since we came in here. You’re either incredibly patient, scared for your life, or senile. Which is it, seer?” Tavia led the conversation, leaning on the wobbly table with an elbow as she continued to hold her surrogate daughter-toy firm by its ass—which she had designs to welt later that evening.

The elderly woman smiled thinly, fingers gnarled by age setting down the cards she meant to conduct the reading with. Her lips pursed, before opening to reply to her generous patron; she did not get many. “I do not fear that which will not hurt me, Lady Durenburg.” Her voice was as withered and grating as Ana had suspected, making the Doll appreciate the respective softness of her Godmother’s gravelly, husky tone. “I am clairvoyant, dear, I am well used to the act of quiet observation. Your interpersonal conflict is a drop in the ocean to my well practised meditation. Does this answer suffice?” Her crooked smile became more animated, showing off the unflinching nerve of somebody with her best years well behind her. She could challenge a beast like Tavia because she knew the shame of the Durenburgs would not sully herself by striking a woman she might well kill with a single backhand. Not again.

“I’m not sure my family would take too kindly to you calling me a Lady. I’m not sure that I do either!” The woman’s bluff was paper thin; even a clouded, brain damaged thing like Ana could see just how much the noble title had tickled the brute with rich blood. “So you’re not scared then, good. Don’t need the deck that holds my damn fate being shuffled by shaky hands.”

Anarres scoffed again. She simply could not help herself. To a girl like her the concept of fate was utterly hostile. She had earned her Auntie’s wrath—delayed until their evening rendezvous—by disrespecting her authority with such an audible noise, an obscene volume for demure little Dolls that breathe now only so that they may provide a warm fuck later. For the time being, Tavia was content in maintaining her composure while letting poor Ana know her displeasure with that firm grip against the girl’s backside. The girl really, really could not help herself though—the distaste for that blood in her hair was making a true masochist of her in the moment. “Since when did you become so mystical, Auntie? You know it’s bullshit, right? I mean, not fully, but you don’t need to be a psychic to read cards, anyone can do it…”

“The mouth on this girl.” Tavia smirked at the seer, who did not return the dirty, conspiratorial smile. Not being punished for her acting out almost felt worse than actually being hit, like she wasn’t worth the strain in her Godmother’s wrist. “My Anarres is a feisty cub, isn’t she? Why don’t you do her reading first, my good woman? Only two died at her hands from what the count told us, though the little shit tried to lie again. That’s paid for a single card pull, eh girl? Fate is paid in blood and bronze, you ain’t getting much of either so… a single card for my single-minded brat.”

The psychic nodded sagely as though she had foreseen this outcome. For once, it was Anarres herself who wished to whet her backhand. Like she cared that she was only getting a single pull! That suited her just fine; it meant this stupid little pastime would be over quickly, and she could escape her Auntie Tav’s reach for just a short while to be with Her.

“I can see it might be a tad difficult, but if I may, I implore you both to try and clear your minds and let those high spirits settle down now.” The old hag spoke sternly, wielding an authority that she did not rightly have. Anarres found it strange: the irrationality to when and with whom her sleazy, awful, murderous keeper would wear respect. Tavia nodded and released Anarres’ buttock from her grasp, causing the apprentice to scowl privately, unable to help but torture herself with the thought that this ritual she was coming to resent must have been more important to Tav than her—specifically, the fun her ‘erotic fuckdoll body’ yielded. It was a horribly self-degrading thought to harbour, of course, but Ana felt the phantom of that hand against her ass begin to dissipate and let its absence fester into a bitter yearning to make this seer her third.

“Can we get this over with?” Ana urged, already craving the company of another, much younger being to help her smear that shame and dread. She would pluck golden blonde hair between her fingers and kiss upon lips softer than the down of a hatchling gull.

“You have places to be, kid? Better make it count then, than running mouth of yours has a toll.” She’s so fucking pleased with herself. Anarres scorned the dark red which rose onto her cheeks, knowing that her accursed Godmother was not one to make idle threats. Tavia did not bluff, her promises were assured to pass; in that sense, she, too, was a fortune-teller.

“A single pull.” The seer decided to pay no mind to the incessancy of her patrons, who seemed more restless than the wind that shook her tent. She nodded to herself with that knowing, crooked smile and held the deck before her, tapping the top of it three times in a ritualistic manner before shuffling the cards—which appeared as well-aged as the woman herself. As she shuffled, Anarres and Tavia sat and watched, antsy in their seats when robbed of their usual routine. It was apparent to any who observed the two for long enough that they were each equally as addicted to the other, dependent on that rush of flesh and feeling. The exertion of the day began to take its toll on Ana, who was still just a young woman—aged beyond her years—and she yawned deeply as the old woman jumbled her old deck. Tavia touched her gently this time, like the beast really cared, pulling her sleepy goddaughter’s head onto the soft fur that draped across her broad shoulder. Anarres accepted without hesitation, resting her head against the woman and rocking with her breathing. The cheek that Auntie had struck so hard as to bruise was now being soothed by the same woman’s warm, safe shoulder.

The shuffling lasted barely a minute, but Anarres was practically drifting off by the time the seer began to fan out the cards in her hand. Some of them had been rotated 180 degrees by those deft hands which undeniably knew their way around the deck. “You need choose only one, dear, but do not rush. Feel it out, only one of these is calling to you right now. Sense it.”

Anarres blinked away the drowsiness that had begun to consume her and gave a light, sardonic smile at the other’s reverence to such a silly little thing. It was just a game, a tool rigged to provide some manner of insight and well-meaning advice no matter which of those damn cards she pulled. The girl loathed superstition because she was painfully jealous of anything and everything that dwelled outside of the mundane, such as polite dollys touched by Milky Way kisses and supernatural princesses and the magic of whales so says the bishop, the bishop. What damn bishop would that be? I know no clergymen. I know no cetaceans. I know nothing. I am nothing. I am mundane. Unspecial.

The birdcage around the former somebody’s heart tightened, and Anarres winced at the sudden palpitation. She stared hatefully at the cards before her and reached out to snatch one between her forefinger and thumb impatiently, plucking it like down from a dove. She was seven years old again, when her name yet held weight, standing by the stream as she watched her brother—the eldest—poke his new favourite stick into the heart of a dove’s carcass. He ushered his sister closer and the Báncourte girl obliged shyly, still too young to understand the folly of following men. Her smile died when she laid eyes upon the dead thing, and her stomach churned in commiseration. Still, its feathers looked so pretty—even in death. Young Anarres made her meek approach and cast her shadow over the corpse, giving a hopeful, naive little smile that would make her future self retch. The girl knew that dove feathers were highly spiritual. Peace, love, hope and new beginnings; these were the deep and immutable meanings behind the feather that little Anarres plucked, and she made sure to keep that in mind as she felt it brush her palm and turned it over slowly.

Ana blinked, her eyes narrowing as she rejected the sweet thing that needed saving and returned to the jaded one whose need was just as dire. In her hand was the tarot card she had pulled, turned over in her palm. “It’s upside down,” she remarked plainly, in a voice small and bored.

The old woman leaned over her ramshackle table and craned her neck to read the card, making Anarres wonder if she wasn’t meant to snatch the card away herself after selecting it. “The Page of Swords, Reversed…” She muttered, and the irritable merc shrugged, incensed by the knowing nature of that voice as she waited to have her fate explained to her. She did not know much outside of the Major Arcana and even then her knowledge was as lacking as her Auntie’s tact. The seer looked at Anarres, and she saw. “You’re clouded, girl. Spiritually, yes, but mentally too. You’re having difficulties connecting with others, communicating, isn’t that right?”

“Anyone can see it is, woman, my Anarres has learning difficulties.” Tavia was never going to sit still and silent through her goddaughter’s reading. “What’s it say about her immediate future though, eh? Any tips?”

“She’s calling me stupid,” Anarres interjected, her bitterness as performative as her sweetness. “Someone should remind this crone that I’m the only one of us with a blade belted to her hip… and I hear I’m awfully scatterbrained.”

The hag pursed her lips, then cleared her throat noisily. She elected not to delve into other implications the card could spell regarding one’s general demeanour—it didn’t seem necessary, nor fruitful, to point these things out in present company. “I fear your vulnerability to manipulation and mental games, somebody with a sharpened wit could take advantage of—”

“My lack thereof?” Anarres was searching for conflict like a bear stalking deer. Unfortunately, her prey was possessed of foresight.

“On the contrary, girl.” The wrinkled smile was a royal flush—a glinting grin upon Anarres’ juvenile attempt at escalating the conversation. A Doll is not designed for predation, just preservation. “I’ve observed you for all of an hour, perhaps less, and I’d be a fool to ignore your own wit, dry and sarcastic as it may be. It is not unpalatable to a tired old crone like me. I rather enjoy the bite.” Her smile turned kind, and Anarres hated that one most. It was a declawing kindness. “The animosity comes not from me, but from within. You question yourself, your decision making… if you even have the right to make decisions for yourself at all.”

Tavia Durenburg cocked her head, silently observing the exchange with an air of light amusement on her face. Her little girl lacking agency suited her just fine—better yet, it was what Anarres wanted, practically begged for most nights.

“If you’re telling me my Godmother is capitalising on my—”

“Not necessarily her. I see hardship in your future. I see a girl who misplaces her faith. I see a troublesome love, once impassioned, now turned cold. Turning away.” The seer spoke in a gentle, earnest tone, and Anarres grunted indifferently in response. Her love was in the sky; her love was buried in her ribcage. She tossed the card onto the table and crossed her arms like the child her Auntie often made her feel, wholly different to the daughters she’d once claimed for herself. “It could even be the one you love.”

“I…” Anarres started, before realising that she almost made the mistake of buying into this show she sought to scorn. Her mouth closed out of contractual obligation to deep-seated spite, and she turned to her Auntie Tav like a little girl who knew not how to end a conversation with a stranger.

Tavia smirked, taking her property’s chin into her giant hand—still drying from that intimate lapping—and levelling her face with Anarres’. “Don’t sulk, kid. You know, in some decks, the pages are princesses.” Her coarse thumb ran across that still-soft skin, and Tavia leaned close to press her dirty lips against the sealed Doll’s forehead. “Almost, eh?”

Ana shook, closing her eyes as her Auntie teased her under the pretence of sweetness. She was almost a princess, she supposed, acknowledging the words with a pain in her gut. Her counterpart, a real princess, was almost alive. In her dreams, the two would look as twins and live like pigs. In a sense, she was living out her fantasy; Anarres often felt like a juicy cut of meat up for the slaughter.

Before the girl could think of an adequately sharp retort, dressed up in nicety like a thorny rose of speech, her Godmother’s tyrant touch left her chin as quickly as it seized it and she returned her attention to the ever-patient seer. “Believe it’s my turn now, mmh? I got… seven confirmed, not my proudest work but it only goes to show how big and scary my band has gotten that each can hold their own! Even little Ana pulled her weight for a glorified errand girl.” Tavia’s hand fell upon her fuckdoll’s mess of white hair; her touch never could leave the girl well alone for very long. Handling Ana like a soft toy was a rooted habit. A vice. “Three cards, then. Never could be fucked with the long ones, I’d like Lady Fate to skip the foreplay and get to fucking me—as she often has.”

“I suppose we shall see,” spoke the seer, smiling her shit-eating smile. “The cards you choose will be turned over together and will spell a story of your past, to your present, to the impending future. Go ahead and choose, dear. Carefully now.”

Tavia Durenburg was not a woman of faith, but she did place chips on superstition. She respected the supernatural the same way men oft thought to respect women: on her own unflinching terms. Fate would bend to her will, and if it didn’t like what she wanted, it was not fit to be her guiding light any longer. Fate was to be challenged, conquered, pushed into the corner of the room where it would serve her—demure and quiet—smiling prettily with hearts in its eyes at the return of its champion.

The cards fanned out before her and the woman stared at their worn backs like she was searching for meaning in the scuffs and scratches. It did not take very long for her to tire of entertaining mysticism in the choice, and soon she picked out three random backs to be placed down before her on the table. Her dark eyes flicked up to give the seer the confident look of a gambler who had yet to taste the inevitable fall. Tavia was cocky, like that was something you could be during a reading such as this. She treated Tarot like any other card game. She was playing to win.

“Go ahead and turn them over, don’t make this old woman reach over now.”

The mercenary leader snorted derisively, nodding to her elder and dropping her fingers onto the first card-back; she did not handle it with much care. Believing does not mean revering. Turning the card over horizontally and returning it to its place in the spread, Tavia had to stop herself from echoing Ana’s own stupid comment upon seeing it. “Reversed, shit.”

“Indeed. Judgement. This is your past. Were you, perhaps, judged too harshly for a mistake made—or something that you were unfairly blamed for?” The seer’s words were laced with venom, and Tavia’s hiss was as a pit viper’s rattle. Push no further it said, without room for alternative interpretation. Tavia was reminded of her disownment, which directly proceeded her first taste of real power. Her fiance was a man, much older than the thing of fifteen who persuaded the pampered pushover, the mommy’s boy, that he’d be better off with a cunt between his legs than that useless cock his and her families truly expected him to seed an heir with. The gouge that young Tavia made would not permit her a wife, the poor fuck bleeding out long before they could reach the altar.

Without saying another word, Tavia flipped the centre card and was pleasantly relieved to find it in an upright orientation. “Fucking finally,” she muttered under her breath. “The Ten of Cups… sounds about right for my present, given that I intend to fill up on mead with my fellows in the banquet hall the moment we finish up here. You’re free to join us for the feast, crone, put some real meat on your bones to last you till you kick it.”

“I look at this card and at you, dear, and I see that your present life is filled with contentment. You are more than pleased with your lot, and you are… happily reunited with family.” There’s a touch of irony to the statement that isn’t lost on any of them, though Tavia did indeed look as spiritually fulfilled as suggested. Anarres held her fucking tongue.

“That’s good enough for me, suppose it’ll paint a fuller picture with the three together? So far you’re just telling me what I already know.”

“Indeed. The past lends insight into decisions made in the present, and said decisions can prevent or assure the future in that card you’re presently itching to turn. Go ahead dear, I’ll earn my rate.” This time, when the seer gave her crooked smile, Tavia matched it. She’d come to appreciate how the old crone had settled into the way of things in the keep.

“Mm…” grunted Tavia, taking the final card into her hand and bending it with her thumb. She turned it over to reveal The Moon, its depiction almost shimmering out of the card; the illusory incandescence captured both Tavia and her white-haired companion, engrossed by the silvery-blue moonlight that teased their eyes for just a moment before common sense returned to them in slow, heavy blinks. Anarres felt her mouth go dry as she was reminded of her former Owner’s iridescent smile and saw it reflected in the beautifully painted moon.

The seer furrowed her brow, and Tavia shrugged. “That’s… good.” Her face had turned dour and her words came out strangely sullen. “The Moon holds valuable insight into your future, powerful intuition… I… oh yes, it…” She cleared her throat, Tavia picking at the splintered wood in the corner of the table while Ana subtly leaned closer. “Everything may not be as it seems, and your dreams can help you intuit this—pay attention to them, they will not deceive.” The old woman stared down at the card like it had said something, interrupted her reading. Ana’s eyes narrowed as she found herself wondering at the cause of their fortune-teller’s strange fit; rumours would suggest that drawing Death or The Tower could be cause for an upset during a reading if you’re a limp-dicked greenhorn, but she’d never heard of anybody getting their panties in a twist over this card in particular. Perhaps the old crone was simply having a stroke. When Tavia’s hand returned to her body—as though to mitigate the stress—Anarres mused that her Godmother must have been just as lost.

“So what’s this all say about my chances at getting a girl who can outlast me in bed?” The bear of a woman laughed, attempting to diffuse the tension in a way that made Ana cock her head. Was her Auntie shaken by this shit demonstration, she wondered, lips curling in a helpless, self-destructive motion. Her tongue was not only her strongest muscle, but her most masochistic; it never knew how to sit still, possessing the survival instincts of a domesticated animal.

“Since when do you want a girl who can challenge you, Auntie? Maybe if you met a woman who wasn’t afraid to hit you back you’d…” The girl trailed off, her put-on glare dying in the soft whites of her eyes. Tavia was giving her that look. Anarres knew that when Tavia was giving her that look, she had to be good and quiet else there’d be hell to pay—and her cut from the battle wasn’t hefty enough for such a toll. She did not mind paying with her body instead, but when Tavia went for her mind—sharp incisors plucking at the fraying tendons of sanity like she meant to play her out in lyresong—Ana was always impressed to discover that the brutish woman was not short on cunning, as shrewd and untamed as her manipulation often was. “I… I’m sorry, Godmother. I didn’t mean that.”

“Do you want to hit me, Anarres?” Distracted again; their tango had a way of overriding all else in its crucible of thrilling taboo and cruel catharsis. “Go ahead, give me your best shot.”

The seer was packing away in a rush, even though the reading had not concluded. Tavia made a mental note to address that, but found it hard to look away from her errant Goddaughter, who had been mouthing off just a little past the acceptable limit for her to abide.

“Fuck you,” the girl spat, meeker than she’d meant to. Her every breath felt like a bonus, like she was living on borrowed time. “I’m not…”

“Not what?” Tavia played smug, but she was grasping at any distraction from that morbid expression the reader wore the moment that Moon card flipped. The moment she sensed the old woman was lying to her, she lost interest in the ritual. It had become tainted. Like this love.

“I’m not your toy… your doll…” Ana hated the words she spoke, because they went against what she truly wished for: to be put in her place, permanently. Perhaps she was simply baiting the woman. She hardly understood her own mind these days, so it was difficult for her to know. “Hit me as much as you want, I’m still loyal to Her before I am docile for you.”

Tavia nodded, suddenly turning away as though the words meant nothing. Ana felt the tension that had built inside of her like a clot, unable to disperse without a clear resolution to the passing conflict. It knotted inside of her and made her sick with worry, for she knew her Auntie Tav too well to assume she’d get away with those words unpunished.

“Say, crone. What’s with the abrupt finish? Thought you were intending to earn your rate?” Tavia brandished her knife rather unsubtly, using it to pick her teeth as she rocked on her chair like a delinquent.

The woman paid no mind to the empty threat and reached into her robe to flick a partial refund onto the table. Bronze clattered against the wood in a nice, metallic thud that sounded like music to the gambling woman opposite her. When she reached—hesitantly—for the Moon Arcana, which seemed to be carrying some manner of unexpected energy that even the unenlightened had managed to sense upon its turning, Tavia’s knife suddenly struck the centre of the card with force and lodged itself into the table on the other side. She had pierced The Moon, and the energy in the room felt somehow different for it; colder, with a grim foreboding that even a cynic like Ana felt brush against her skin in its silver caress.

“A keepsake, since you’re ripping me off as it stands.” Tavia groused, lifting up her steel claw and staring at the Tarot card impaled upon it. Above them, from the tent’s centre support, hung a small corona of flame that supplied the cramped space with light. Fire danced through The Moon’s hollow likeness and created an image of utter prophecy. The Durenburg’s disgrace deigned to deface destiny, and in so doing created the fullest image of the future: The Moon, beautiful and searing; the immolation of the now giving way to a dream, an illusion come to life that washed away old understandings and laws in its incandescent rage.

Anarres looked away.

When the mercenaries stepped out into the evening breeze, they were greeted with the crescent grin hanging high above like a predator laying in wait. Tavia had stuffed the punctured card into her satchel, having left the bronze where it sat on the disappointing crone’s rickety old table.

“Well, that was a fucking wash,” the woman muttered under her breath, noticing her quiet companion walking at her heel despite those lofty words from earlier. Not her toy. Not her toy. Tavia played the words through her mind like they were difficult to parse, a slip of foreign speech she had not the ability to translate. “You, kid. Off to the banquet hall before you go up to your old room. Need my girl strong and healthy so she can stop embarrassing me with these measly body counts. The comatose cripple can wait, you sick little fuck.”

Anarres’ face turned red with fury, and she pawed angrily at her Auntie’s quilted leathers. “She’s not a fucking… ugh, you’re so—”

Before Ana could finish her sentence, she was hoisted up from the ground and slammed into the rampart wall they trekked beside. All the air in the younger, smaller thing’s lungs was expelled in a single sharp gasp as she felt those huge, impossibly strong hands hooked firm under each of her flailing arms. Tavia pressed her into the wall several feet from touching the ground, placing them at eye level for once in their lives. “I’m so what, girl?” The woman snarled, too impatient to take out her frustration over the curtailed reading after the feast. “Tell me, won’t you? Tell your Auntie Tav what she is. Nice and slow, like I’m paying you by the hour.”

The girl felt her heart pound like it was in her head. Her breathing hitched dramatically, one of her boot-soles planting itself against the other’s tree-trunk thigh and attempting to push her away fruitlessly. Eventually, she found her voice, feeling that familiar fuzz begin to tickle the back of her head even as she scrounged together the last few defiant words she could muster; a last stand of speech, a brat’s longest winter.

“I…” She exhaled immediately, then tried again. “You’re one of many… you’re just a convenient fuckbuddy that happens to be my abusive Godmother too.” She watched the woman’s nostrils flare and felt her stomach implode. Still, she could not err from her decision, she would see it through to the end as any good Doll would carry out a task. “You speak of my disappointing body count out there, well fine, because my body count in the keep is far more fucking impressive. Maggie, Teresa, Jen, Kaine, Sera… I could go on. I’m drowning in choice here… I-I’m…”

“God, you’re adorable.” Keeping the girl in her suspended position with just her weight pressing against the other’s, Tavia seized her goddaughter’s face in her big, grubby hand and tilted the girl’s head to the side with a touch Anarres could not hope—nor bring herself—to fight. A tongue that carried with it the scent of mead and meat and cunt dragged itself across the white haired troublemaker’s burning cheek, coating it in Auntie’s dark affection. “You’re mine,” she breathed, in a husky, animalistic voice. She was close to growling. “Only I get to touch you like this. Don’t feed me fucking lies, the only other person you dare lay your hands upon is a glorified corpse we only keep around because you agree to split your food and water for it, maintain it like a plant, with a warm hole ready to shove your greedy little tongue into and a mouth that never says no.”

Anarres shuddered, wanting so badly to protest, but the loathing crossed with her Auntie’s teasing carved a deep X into her chest and left the girl as despondent as yesterday’s Princess.

“I let you play with your toys because it amuses me how low you can get, but you’re starting to get big ideas about talking back to me, and it’s frankly just not something I think I can tolerate any more.” The woman laughed into Ana’s neck, sucking on the skin between breaths of dirty speech. Several passers-by had noticed the scene, some stopping to watch from a safe distance. Anarres’ fists balled until the knuckles turned white, hoping terribly that none of her daughters were amongst the onlookers. Tavia was becoming bolder in bringing their horrible dynamic out of the bedroom, but this was the first time she had ever been so open and Ana realised she did not have any say over how public her defilement was at any given moment. Shamefully, the entire line of thinking made her unbearably slick between the legs and that much easier to control.

“I… mmmgh… A-Auntie…”

“I’m going to punish you for your behaviour tonight. Really punish you. Do not make the childish mistake of thinking that every method of hurting you I have at my disposal is something you can secretly get off to. I know just how to make a sweet, adorable goddaughter out of you—one that never acts out of line again in front of guests.” The woman held her property by its heavily perspiring neck and pushed its chin down, shoving her tongue down the Doll’s throat. Anarres went away, gradually, sinking deep within herself where she belonged—in that ribcage crib that played host to Princess.

Every second Tavia gagged the girl with her long, merciless tongue caused Ana to recede a little more. Inch by inch, the Doll she truly was found itself chiselled onto that soft, malleable, fuckable flesh she kept in shape for her Godmother’s pleasure and approval. By the time she was permitted to gasp for air, a sputtering and suspended thing with messy white hair draping over its lightly weathered face, the Doll was already working to perfect its smile. It wanted to please Tavia so deeply that the woman never made that cynical sellsword resurface ever again. It wanted to be useful, and cherished, just as it had been once upon a time. The smile clicked into place through the fatigue and indignation and then it broke again into a mess of trembling lips—caught between a scared frown and a pristine simper. “Mmghh… yhou’re… whattt… d-do you mean?” A sense of foreboding kept Anarres from accepting the doll-state she was usually too eager to slip into, Tavia’s talk of real, serious punishment having sobered her with a cold chill of dread. As they danced their dance against the stone wall of the Báncourte family keep, a few more joined the crowd, whispers filling the air like swarming gnats.

“Not for dolls to know. Just smile and let me pose you. God… the way you blank out the second I so much as tilt your arm into a new position turns me on so goddamn much I near about forget to fucking breathe.” Tavia’s teasing had a premonitory glow because Ana knew the immutable truth in those words. She had never been used like that back when she was owned and adored by her royal keeper, but it worked so well at catapulting her into that comforting dissociative headspace that robbed her of autonomy and responsibility.

“I ah… s-slipping… was I… what was I… saying?” The fantasy was consuming her whole, Anarres loving the way Tavia could lift her up and pin her against that wall without even breaking a sweat. The much smaller girl felt her legs dangling down above a ground she did not crave to return to. She would be a marionette, feminine and pure, manipulated gladly on the strings of fate that removed the burdensome choice of willingly accepting her place as her superior’s passive little molestation-doll.

“You were telling me how you’re not my toy, you dishonest slut. Let’s test that.” Tavia’s hand wrapped around one of the Doll’s wrists and pulled the limb up over the plaything’s head as it began to bottom out to that strict touch it was conditioned to adore and obey. “What are you, Anarres?”

The girl died and left only a lingering heat on her face and in her body, loins alight with excitement at finally being put in her place. Doll looked upon its master’s face and that smile clicked back dutifully. The mere act of having its arm posed up high above its head was a simple trick that always broke the fragile ego of the shell it wore from time to time. “I’m Your Doll, Owner… ah… Auntie.”

“Tch. I’m coming around to that one, actually. Strokes my ego like it’s a second cunt.” Tavia had never gone this far while still relatively sober, and never out in the open like this. Doll felt pride swell in its chest—a haunted maze of clockwork and memory—and the tension in her body disappeared with Anarres.

Doll kept its arm held up in pose, sighing happily as Tavia began to pose its other arm crossing over the first,—but it as though it was a witch to be burnt. Holding its arms up high against that wall was a strain on the Doll’s body, which still ached from the battle the sellsword had participated in, but it knew that a good Doll did not complain nor falter in its tasks. Being Doll again was making it euphoric, skin alight with tingles as its mind shrunk down; the rest of it followed suit, shoulders spilling inwards and gut sucking in. Doll was petite, pretty and perfect for its Owner. “How… can this one serve?” The dollspace had taken over completely, Anarres adrift in a sea of her own self.

Tavia grabbed the thing by its cunt and leaned away from the wall, holding her property up with a cupping hand so firm and possessive that its power could never be denied. “Finally, you’re saying words that don’t just make me want to smack you. It’s a nasty dark red now, where I hit you earlier. I can only imagine what it’ll look like come morning. Along with that collection of scars my Anarres has been amassing, you’re not a very well kept doll any more, huh?” The woman’s sandpaper thumb ran over the scar that trailed down the Doll’s jaw while her other thumb pressed against the toy’s pleasure zone through its ill-suited clothing.

“It’s…” the Doll began, feeling shame flood its ego like ice-cold water through a breached hull. It was almost sobering. “It’s sorry, Owner…” The word played on its tongue so eagerly, because until today Tavia had always denied it the use of such a powerful title. The woman told Anarres she was going to punish her, but Doll only felt rewarded, managing to maintain its smile even as it was tortured with the knowledge of its asymmetrical, raggedy face.

“Not sorry enough. You take advantage of the safety you’re afforded here, being mine. My goddaughter, my apprentice, my fuckdoll. You tell tall tales like a mouthy kid about sleeping around when we both know that’s not possible. Not for my Ana, anyway, but you… well…” With a beastly glint in her stare and madness in her breath, Tavia squeezed hard between the Doll’s legs and patted its cheek in mocking commiseration. “Let’s get your tally up, eh? Make it so my foolish girl ain’t such a little liar after all. I’ve been far too possessive, how terrible of me.”

“What can it do to help?” The Doll asked calmly, only slightly haggard from the building strain in its arms and the strong grip against its sex.

Tavia released the Doll without warning, watching it fall down onto the grass below and sprawl across it like its strings had been cut. The white haired property scrambled up onto its knees while doing its best to ignore the shooting pain. As it began to look up, fingers twined into its hair and tilted its head upwards forcefully. “Service them, like you do me.”

Doll tried to tilt its head but the fingers in its hair held it firm. With marble eyes, it stared out past its Owner’s legs towards the crowd which was now at least ten strong. No, fifteen. Even in this altered state, the Doll felt horror in its chest. The crowd exceeded the list of names that the foolish Miss Báncourte had spat in her silly attempt to bait her Godmother. “Who? All of them… Owner?”

“First come, first serve. I’ll see you, I mean, Anarres, at the feast. Or maybe I won’t. Don’t take too long, Doll, show them your technique. Maybe you’ll be the one to make me proud while my Ana continues to play the fuck up.” The woman spoke coldly, her commanding tone sending shivers down the Doll’s spine as it realised the closest onlookers had already overheard and were gradually shuffling closer. Tavia removed Anarres’ belt and confiscated her blade.

Doll watched as its Owner stepped back with a vicious grin, and forced into place its best smile yet—as rigid as the hanging crescent. “Yes, Owner.” The difference between the Anarres from the fortune-teller’s tent and this compliant, docile dolly was a thing to behold; they wore the same skin, the same clothing, but their souls were utterly distinct. They did not hold the same light behind their eyes.

“Good. I won’t fuck you tonight, girl. Don’t much like the thought of digging into my men’s leftovers. But if you come to my room later, I’ll wrap you up in that blanket you like the smell of and hold you in these arms until you drift away. Brush your damn hair and rest your head in my chest.” The woman smiled fondly, stepping further back as the closest onlooker, Maggie Haine, flicked her eyes between the Doll and Master suspiciously.

“Th-Thank You, Owner.” The Doll beamed, completely gone. It simply wanted to be useful, to be used. Maggie’s approach made its heart rate spike as it arched its back and pushed its knees together to assume the posture it once held atop its favourite pillow in those gaudy royal halls it missed so dreadfully.

“Yeah, thank me later, kid.” Tavia turned away, The Moon burning a hole into her heart. Destiny was calling.

Anarres felt the hooks in her skin, pulling her back up to the surface she scorned. Her body ached, and her face was sticky with secrets; Doll sometimes hid from her the shame of their shared desecration and Ana could not quite tell whether it did so out of love or spite.

“You’re not smiling like a freak anymore,” spoke a caustic feminine voice, “guess that means you’re back to normal, huh?”

The white-haired girl was still too out of it to snap back into full awareness; her rise was gradual and often self-contested. She felt something soft below her head and realised that it was resting in another’s lap, then she felt the cold breath of night against her breasts and remembered that her Auntie Tav had forced her into… something. “Mmgh… who?” She could tell that this was not her Godmother’s voice, and certainly not the woman’s huge lap which she rested in. This was somebody small like her. Mortal.

A hand rougher than Anarres’ but softer than Tavia’s brushed that white hair behind the disoriented Báncourte’s ear and tilted her gaze up by that musty cheek. “Only me.” The woman who Ana recognised as fellow mercenary, Maggie Haine, furrowed her brow as she continued to gently stroke her rival’s cheek. “Don’t get up in a rush, you’re exhausted. Had to stop and let you lie down for a breather and you fell asleep on me. Ugh, now I’m dropping, else I’d wipe that lost little look off of your stupid face.”

“You…” Anarres swallowed, experiencing the familiar yet different taste of a woman against her tongue and a sharp stinging across her breasts. Her gambeson had been torn open rather unceremoniously and her chest was glistening with the other woman’s saliva—was marred by fast-developing little bruises. It was almost nostalgic, in a way, to see the swell of her bosom so thoroughly enjoyed by another’s mouth. “You used me.” It wasn’t a question, nor an accusation, but simply an observation.

Maggie snorted, a vile little look in her eyes that seemed to pluck at Ana’s like vultures. “So what? You use me too. We both know those two kills you took credit for today were slain by my hand, and you’re always stealing away her attention when you know I was her favourite before you.”

“You sound like a child.” Ana laughed, drily, turning onto her side and curling up in the grass by the well Maggie rested her back against. They were far away from others, which made Anarres grateful. “You took me… claimed me. I’m remembering slowly.” She stared at the other mercenary’s flat stomach and felt the juvenile urge to blow a raspberry against it. “Thank you.”

“You’re joking. God, you’re fucking unbelievable. Dirty slut. Property. What was it the boss called you? Fuckdoll. You’re a real piece of work, thanking a hateful cunt like me for taking advantage of you in a mentally addled state. Hell’s all that about anyway? You touched in the head?” Maggie stroked her fingers through Ana’s hair much more carefully than the girl’s Auntie Tav did. It was as close to tender as a brigand like her could get.

Letting her eyes fall closed and accepting her place in Maggie’s lap for just a little while longer, Ana nodded weakly. “A little… but I’m used to being used by other women, so…” The girl buried her face so much her voice came out muffled and distant, but Maggie made out the words well enough. “Thanks for keeping the men away.”

Something twitched back to life against Anarres’ cheek, Maggie’s fingers slowly tightening into that mess of white hair—soft as dove feathers. “So it’s just men you don’t like? Not…”

Anarres half-heartedly nuzzled the reawakened cock-bulge with her cheek and shrugged. “I’ve only ever known you as Maggie, and you’re pretty enough… for a sellsword of The Split Tongues.”

The upright mercenary snorted, her grip tightening further until she caught the other wincing. “Don’t be cute with me, freak. I dream of cutting you every night.”

“I’m in your head.” Ana tried to sit up, but Maggie kept her held down by her hair. “Relax, I’m not flirting. I despise you just as much, it’s the only way I know how to get comfortable with someone.” She managed to negotiate herself onto her back again, staring up at the woman who just violated her body with a half-moon smirk. “Does Doll suck cock well? Can’t imagine it does.”

The raven haired Maggie Haine contemplated spitting on her fellow’s strange smugness, but decided that Anarres wasn’t worth any more fluid. “I came twice, you really don’t remember? That’s sickening, you really are a freak.”

“Yeah. Something I’m good at. You should…” Anarres trailed off as Maggie’s stomach suddenly growled like a little lioness, and she watched as her supposed rival’s face reddened in embarrassment. “Feast still on?”

“Let’s go, if you can walk.” Maggie’s body stirred, her fingers receding from that soft white hair she almost didn’t want to let go of.

Ana scoffed. “Not like you fucked me, I’ll be fine. My knees don’t even hurt too bad on account of the soft ground, typically Auntie would have me on something harder.” With just a little struggle, Anarres rose to her feet and closed up her gambeson as best she could, smiling indecently at those infantile nips strewn across her chest. If only she had the tincture, she could have fashioned a half-decent daughter out of her comrade-in-arms. Perhaps arrangements could still be made… but that was a thought for another time; Anarres’ stomach had begun to rumble too.

“You speak like us most of the time, but then your voice gets all proper sometimes, y’know? Slips through the cracks.” Anarres’ face flushed as Maggie addressed that shattered-porcelain speech, wondering if she’d been doing a poor job of hiding what she truly was in front of those she pretended to be one of. She supposed it did not matter so much any more, not after her Godmother had started to reveal the truth of her own, filthy accord.

“Shut the hell up.” The girl grumbled, fixing the bone-white hair atop her head, which had been disturbed on multiple occasions throughout her evening alone. “I’m starving, Auntie Tav made me sit through that card reading crap and appeared to get ripped off in the end anyway. Surprised she didn’t split the damn woman in half, maybe she’s softer than I thought.” That was right, Anarres had felt relieved ever since returning to her senses and finding herself in Maggie’s lap. The way Tavia had spoken, she was bracing for the dread of a punishment she could not simply shrug at. Had the beast overestimated Ana’s own self worth in regards to her body? Strangely, it didn’t seem likely. Maybe it was the men that Maggie led her away from that were intended to teach her a lesson. The thought of one laying a hand on her even respectfully made the pleasure doll want to hurl; she thought of Piotr, and the frail king, and the would-be assassin—he was the worst of them all, a rat in human flesh whose scheming turned the wheel that would come to topple the perfect simplicity of a Princess and Her Doll. It could be argued that her singular hatred was irrational to a point, that it blinded her to the horrible deeds committed by just about every female figure in her life, but Anarres knew and cared not. for at least the women made her cunt wet. It was transactional, in a sense.

“Don’t let her catch you saying that, you’ve already got a nasty bruise across your cheek I sure as shit didn’t give you.” Maggie hesitated for a moment, before sidling up close and wrapping an arm around Ana’s waist to pull their hips together as they walked. Anarres shot her rival a dirty look and the woman returned it, shrugging. “Folks might still think you’re free for the taking, yeah? I’ll keep ya nice and close, but you fucking owe me.”

Despite herself, Anarres blushed. The touch was not unpleasant, rough as it was, and she placated herself on the scent of worn leather and subtle hints of lavender worn by the bitch parading her around like they were an item. This is how they entered the food hall, as a pair, with their fellows sure to whisper rumours Ana cared naught for. It didn’t matter what anyone thought of her.

“Her seat’s empty,” Anarres muttered observantly, staring at that absent throne as she teetered on the edge of understanding. Some things were beyond accepting, however, and so she simply decided that the woman had finished her feast while the Doll was on its knees gagging on cock. She must have returned to her room already. It was unlike Tavia to do so, but the woman had been changing her habits recently.

“Sit and eat first. You’re really that obsessed with her? I can’t even compete…” Maggie pushed Anarres down onto a seat at the table she did not usually eat at, the one occupied with those she could not possibly relate to. “I’m not letting you go to her until you’ve filled your belly with something, even just mead. Bet you could do with a tankard or two, eh?”

Maggie was being too nice. Anarres hated the guilt that she spied in her companion’s face, turning away and reaching for a roll of bread as hard as her Godmother’s knuckles. As she began to eat, with slow meandering mouthfuls plucked by indifferent fingers, she tuned out the conversation that began to stir up amongst the mercenaries at the table. They were comparing their kills and gloating about sexual exploits, trying to one up each other every time with little regard for honesty. The girl ate her food mechanically, staring at that empty throne and missing the warmth of another’s touch. Maggie was back to an annoyance, nothing more, spitting as she argued with her fellow killers and keeping her hands to her damn self. Ana could still taste the woman’s semen on her tongue, and a part of her wondered—wandered—aimlessly through halls and halls of thought. She thought about what her life would be like in that moment were she as human as the rest of the table’s occupants. Maybe she’d commit herself to the clan, and maybe she’d make Maggie hers, and maybe she’d kill her fucking Godmother and claim that throne and maybe she’d stop feeding that useless sack of meat in her bedchambers so that she could move on from all the demented horrors of her past. There were many maybes in those halls, but no matter how much Anarres walked she never caught up to any of them. They were whales, all of them, and they were wretchedly white.

Anarres stood. The only one at their table to pay any attention to her excusing herself was Miss Haine, who gave the white haired outcast a half-hearted scowl to send her off. Ana nearly smiled, before returning the hateful look with just as little heart. Then, she was in the corridor. Maggie had assumed that Anarres was itching to run straight to her Godmother’s chambers and throw herself upon the woman as she did each night they spent in the camp, and she was right in that Anarres did sleep in the clan leader’s bed when the time to turn in came. But she had a very important detour that took priority over anything Tavia could ever hope to offer her. She had a date with her Princess, one that she’d been waiting all week for. Her footfalls picked up their pace and she tugged at her gambeson impatiently, forgetting that it had already been torn during that hazy period of dollhood. Her heartrate picked up pace in tandem with her steps, and by the time she was almost running down the hall, her heart was sprinting in her chest.

Princess. Lovely Princess. Your Mama has come. Indulgent fantasy conquered the former Dollmother, who felt like a husk of her old, perfected self, and she carried herself over to that door with strong purpose shackled to her limbs, tethering her in a forever of feeling—a prison of want—that did not permit her to escape the feeble, clawing love which sawed through flesh and bone alike with its serrated edge.

She could not help herself; this was more important than anything inside of that packed hall she had fled from. None of that mattered to her. Parties and pleasantries and pissing contests? That wasn’t anything to Anarres; that wasn’t real, it did not matter to a thing like her—a thing that was unlike the others, wholly unique in her existence in all the ways she told herself, convinced herself she was, demanded herself to be. Anarres loosened her gambeson and thought of her delicate little flower awaiting her on the bed. She placed a hand against the door tenderly and wet her lips with a placated smile. You’re the only piece of me that matters, Princess. You’re the only part of me that’s real.

And then, she pushed. And pushed. And pushed to no avail.

And her mobile heart sank inside her ribs.

And her body buckled with a cold spike of dread. It pierced her heart like Tavia’s knife had perforated The Moon.

And Anarres tried the door again, absently, shaking more violently than she had after gutting the farmer boy—her very first kill by her own bloodied hands.

The door was locked. Anarres felt her soul leave her body, remembering that dark look in Auntie’s stare and the empty throne and the fragile world she’d come to rely on broke into pieces before her very eyes, before a locked bedroom door, one belonging to the eldest Báncourte daughter—now barring her entry. She felt rejected by fate, a Page beset by Swords which punctured her like a pincushion.

And Anarres kicked. And kicked. And kicked until the door finally gave and swung loosely into the room. Her rage was a well atrophied muscle, but she did her best to flex it in that moment as she gazed upon the hulking figure of her Godmother sitting beside her Princess on the vast bed. She reached for her sword before remembering vaguely that Tavia had confiscated her belt. She tried her best to shout, but her voice turned hoarse and died inside her throat. Her skin was hot and cold and damp, and she stepped into the room without knowing what she intended to do. What could she do? It was evident from the sights and smells of the room that she had arrived too late.

“Hey, kid.”

Anarres drowned out the voice as she stared at the Princess, who sat upright and broadcast a sunbeam smile so brightly into Ana’s eyes she had to squint.

“There you are, Doll.” Spoke the illusory blonde, as tainted by Auntie Tav’s ungentle affections as the real thing. “Come to save you Princess from her tower? Good girl, ahaha… but you can’t lay a hand on this woman can you?”

“I’m talking to you, kid, sit your ass down.”

The two voices were overlapping. Anarres was shocked to find that she was still upright, staring between the two contrasting women with a glassiness in her gaze that stole away the ill-advised anger. Shock, then.

Feeling all the strength leave her body like it never existed in the first place, Anarres collapsed onto the bed’s edge, beside her Godmother, and wondered which of them was worse. She had used the sleeping beauty far more times already, and to claim ownership or suggest consent was pure egotism. Still, morals did not concern Anarres. She felt violated all the same, in ways she never knew possible.

“I’m going to kill you, Auntie Tav,” the girl stated candidly, not a hint of obvious emotion in her voice. She was still as the ocean, and her mind was clear blue. Her word was whalesong, reaching out to the far edges of fate. Forget The Moon, Tavia was marked for Death. “Not right now. Maybe not even directly. I’ll be the sweet goddaughter you seek to turn me into, I’ll be on my best damn behaviour. But I’ll find my moment. I’ve killed outside of battle before. I was underhanded and ruthless. You didn’t know me then. You don’t know what I’m capable of when I’m not sedated by your treatment… I didn’t even blink as I watched two men’s hearts burst open inside their chests and the light leave their eyes for good.”

Tavia Durenburg did not fear death. The woman ruffled Ana’s hair, roughly, and the girl leaned into it amicably. Anarres felt peace in her heart now that the decision had been made. Just like her Dahlie, she tricked herself so easily; manipulating Dolls was as easy as posing them.

If only the Doll knew just how soon it would be that her faithless prayer was answered. Marching upon the shores of the rotting golden cove, clad tight in imperial black and emblazoned with the insignia of a wolf clenching its jaws around The Moon’s waxing crescent, were dozens of invaders from across the sea. Among them was a woman who did not wear their crest, whose leathers were far less shiny and new. Her face was obscured by a long mask that extended out like the curved beak of a bird, and in her hand was salvation. Something special. Something secret.

Something cerulean.