lois333
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Hey everyone,
As announced here, Bound by Desire is officially starting.
You’ll find the prologue below. All the current details about the story are explained in the announcement post, so feel free to check it out if you haven’t already.
I’d love to hear what you think about this first glimpse into the world, so don’t hesitate to comment, favorite, or share your thoughts. Hek I'm even interested in knowing who's your favorite character from this intro to the story.
Without further delay, let’s begin.
As announced here, Bound by Desire is officially starting.
You’ll find the prologue below. All the current details about the story are explained in the announcement post, so feel free to check it out if you haven’t already.
I’d love to hear what you think about this first glimpse into the world, so don’t hesitate to comment, favorite, or share your thoughts. Hek I'm even interested in knowing who's your favorite character from this intro to the story.
Without further delay, let’s begin.
The air was thick as tar, saturated with salty foam, rancid sweat, and rusted iron. The stifling heat clung to the chipped stones of the docks, making each breath a painful effort. In the distance, the sea emitted a heavy, lazy swell, as if it too was weary of erasing the filth that Slaver’s Bay spewed into its waters.
The docks were a network of rotting beams, narrow alleys, and clandestine markets barely lit by smoky lanterns. Everywhere, slavery was shamelessly displayed: chains clinking softly against bruised ankles, merchants lounging on wicker chairs, whips abandoned against grimy walls. The night was alive with murmurs, flesh trading, coarse laughter, and muffled sobs.
Atop an old building, a lantern swayed slowly, intermittently illuminating a thin figure screaming under blows. Further away, on an abandoned quay, stacked iron cages held huddled bodies, eyes open to the night like condemned beasts.
In this open-air hell, three figures slid together, heavy-footed, half-torn stolen boots pounding the chipped stones. Each step was a struggle, a contained pain.
Aisling led the way, her wings folded nervously against her back. Her boots, too large, flopped with each step, biting into the tender skin of her heels. She gritted her teeth, sweat mingling with grime running down her back.
Erynn ran beside her, her hand clenched around a makeshift sword. Her stolen shirt clung to her irritated breasts, and her stiff boots crushed her feet with every stride. Each movement was a cruel reminder of her bruised body.
Selka brought up the rear, hopping from one foot to the other to avoid feeling the painful pressure of the narrow boots on her hypersensitive feet. She bit her torn sleeve to stifle the nervous whimpers that rose, each impact electrifying her taut nerves.
Behind them, the shouts grew closer: clinking of chains, cracking of whips, mad barking of dogs in pursuit. Torches danced in the shadows like hungry fireflies.
— Faster… Erynn panted through her teeth, glancing quickly behind her.
Aisling nearly slipped, caught by Selka’s abrupt gesture. Their fragile balance teetered for a moment, the boots emitting a strangled creak against the wet stone.
A flash of memory crossed Aisling’s mind: suspended by her wrists, her feet exposed to forced caresses amid coarse laughter. She shook her head, dispelling the vision, and resumed her run.
Their legs were heavy, their lungs on fire, but they still rushed forward, driven by a deep terror.
Selka slipped on a wet board, a nervous giggle muffled by her sleeve. Her feet begged her to stop this torture of too-tight leather with every step.
Erynn felt the fabric scrape against her taut breasts, the pain stabbing her chest with each breath. She gritted her teeth, refusing to slow down.
In their desperate flight, amid the stench of sweat and chains, these memories burst within them like shards of white-hot steel.
The torches danced behind them. The sound of dogs tore through the night.
But their minds, at their wits’ end, plunged despite themselves into these memories of exposure, bargaining, and control. What each of them had endured.
The silhouette of a devastated warehouse loomed before them.
Aisling staggered slightly, her hand brushing the cold stone. Behind her, Erynn groaned softly, clutching her sword to her chest. Selka stumbled, stifling a nervous giggle in her torn sleeve.
They were no longer really there. Their bodies still fled, guided by a raw instinct, but their minds were tipping over.
Tipping into memories, into traumas.
Aisling felt the cold stone under her fingers, and despite herself, everything came back: the perfumed rooms, the polite laughter, and above all... him.
The haze of the escape, the stifling heat of Slaver’s Bay, the shouts behind her… Everything disappeared to plunge back into the past.
She was elsewhere. Motionless.
Suspended in the center of a vast room, her arms outstretched, attached to silk cables stretched from the ceiling. Her wings folded against her back, unable to move. Her bare legs barely quivered, her feet exhibited like the fragile jewels they had become.
The golden light of the chandeliers fell in a diffuse rain upon her, caressing every inch of her diaphanous skin.
Her hair, pale silver and wavy, fell in tangled strands around her lowered face. Her green eyes sparkled with contained rage, golden flecks surfacing under the effort she exerted not to yield. Her skin, almost translucent in its paleness, seemed to absorb the light, tracing delicate shadows on her protruding ribs, on her frail hips.
She was small, slender, almost unreal, betraying her half-fairy origins. Every line of her body sculpted to inspire covetousness and adoration. Her transparent wings, marked by chains and mistreatment, trembled faintly with each nervous spasm.
As for her feet, now living works of art, their skin was so fine, so fragile, that the slightest breath seemed to brush against them. Stripped of all calluses by constant care, they had become instruments of pure receptivity, sensitive to the slightest contact.
The onyx walls reflected her image, multiplied to infinity: a fairy creature, offered, vulnerable, perfect. The room was silent, save for the lazy crackling of a distant flame.
Everything had been meticulously prepared.
She was not simply a prisoner. She was exhibited as a living work of art. A masterpiece.
And amid the shadows that floated at the edges of the room, there was him.
Aisling closed her eyes, trying to deny the moment. That’s when the first shiver ran through her. A touch, so light she thought she had imagined it. A breath of air, perhaps. Then a feather. Fine, soft, insidious.
It slid along the arch of her foot, just under the vault. A nervous spark shot along her nerves, an involuntary spasm shook her ankle.
The restraints tinkled softly. Around her, the shadows murmured in pleasure. Aisling bit her lip, rage bordering on tears.
A second touch, more insistent, teased the tips of her toes. She felt her toes curl, open despite herself like petals forced to offer themselves to the light.
Her breath quickened. Shame rose, sticky, implacable.
The Collector, who was watching, approached, his steps muffled. She did not see him, but she felt he was close.
The beating of her wings, tiny, tried to tear itself from the trap of her bound back. In vain. A note rose in the air: soft, musical, almost mocking.,An instrument of glass was placed against her skin. A fine crystal wand, vibrating, brushed the sole of her foot.
The spasm was immediate. Aisling stifled a gasp, her toes curling in a silent plea.
The murmurs grew louder.
Another touch, along the inner line of her bare thigh. She struggled not to writhe, aware that each jerk, each movement made her more beautiful, more desirable, more fascinating to her torturer.
She gradually became aware of the moisture between her legs, of the tension accumulated in her lower abdomen. A high-pitched moan escaped her, weak and fragile.
She felt the Collector’s smile form, invisible, in the spice-laden air. Light applause rose like a warm rain around her. From the shadows, other spectators had slipped in, handpicked. Depraved nobles, fallen artists, fetishist patrons. All eager to admire the results of her transformation.
Not that of a warrior. Not that of fallen nobility. No. The transformation of a magnificent creature into a sensory slave.
Aisling, hanging like a flower in full bloom, breathed in short, jerky gasps. Her face was taut, every muscle contracted by the inner struggle.
The crystal wand returned, sliding along her arch, caressing the fine skin of her wings, brushing the curve of her hip.
Her body’s reactions escaped her will. Her toes curled, her wings quivered, her belly contracted in waves.
She heard stifled laughter. Murmurs. Bets.
— Look at her feet... her wings... everything dances at the slightest breath.
— How long before she gives in, do you think?
A silent tear rolled down Aisling’s cheek. Not from pain, but from humiliation. From the injustice of feeling her own body betray her so quickly, so fully.
Then, the true torture began as the Collector signaled. Two servants approached, anonymous, masked as they carried feather fans.
Slow and synchronized, they began to sweep Aisling’s bare skin from bottom to top, from feet to wings, from wings to the hollows of her hips.
A colossal shiver ran through her.nHer legs tensed. Her toes arched. A small, almost unreal laugh, choked, escaped her lips.
The room held its breath.
Aisling closed her eyes, fighting with all her might against the reaction that threatened to blossom in her belly.
The Collector approached further. He spoke at last. In a soft, almost caressing voice.
— Let her feel.
The feathers slowed. Pressed. Explored.
Her body vibrated in place, caught between spasms of pleasure and stifled cries of rage.
Each time a feather brushed the sole of her foot or the translucent membrane of her wings, her lower abdomen contracted painfully.
Her sex throbbed. Her nipples hardened under the cold air of the room. An insidious fire rose within her, fueled by shame, by constant stimulation, by the absolute impossibility of escape.
The Collector snapped his fingers. The feathers stopped instantly. Aisling remained suspended, panting. He let a silence pass.
Then, addressing the assembly:
— True art... is not forcing submission. It is cultivating it... until it blooms.
A laugh of approval ran through the audience.
The Collector circled her, contemplating his creation.
— We will have a bloom tonight.
The fans returned. But this time, faster. More intensely. They targeted her feet. Her wings. Her lower abdomen.
Aisling moaned, pulled at her bonds. Her breath quickened. Her back arched.
Her mouth opened despite herself, parted in a halting sigh. Her eyes rolled back slightly, misty with tears. The first note of pleasure rose from her throat. Pure. Broken. Vibrant.
The ahegao appeared on her face: the mouth slightly open, the tongue barely visible, the eyes bright and dull at the same time.
The audience exploded with contained ecstasy. The Collector smiled, satisfied.
Suspended, offered, radiant with shame and mixed pleasure, Aisling had reached what the Collector called the perfect state.
Every time her senses were pushed beyond the limit, every time the stimulation overflowed her conscious control, the ahegao resurfaced.
A reflex. A humiliating rictus of ecstasy, programmed into her flesh. A mask of shameless enjoyment that she hated more than anything in the world.
The stone under her fingers, in the present moment, became rough, cutting.
Aisling gasped suddenly, brought back to reality as if she had been plunged into an icy bath.
She staggered, swallowing a sudden nausea.
Around her, the escape continued. Erynn, her gaze hard, advanced while clutching her sword to her oppressed chest. Selka, her face taut, stifled her nervous giggles by gritting her teeth.
Aisling breathed in sharply, forcing the putrid air of Slaver’s Bay into her lungs.
For weeks, since her capture, they had trained and modified her feet, her wings, her nerves. Ointments, creams, magical products.
They had reshaped them as one sculpts an object of covetousness.
Every contact, every breath, every rub had become a trap, a source of shameful pleasure that she could no longer ignore.
She was no longer the bastard of the fairy queen. She was no longer the simple daughter of her human father. She was a sensory slave.
A living toy, forged to react, to expose her weaknesses to the eyes of those who knew where to touch. Her own body had become her cruelest enemy.
And she hated the Collector for that.
With a burning, black, absolute hatred. Not only for what he had made of her. But for what he had planted within her. This flaw. This vile crack.
This memory was engraved in her flesh, in her feet, in her wings, in her face marked by the humiliating rictus of the ahegao.
Aisling clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug into the palms of her hands.
She would never be free. Even if she fled Slaver’s Bay. Even if she crossed the Vale. Even if she survived.
She would always bear the invisible mark of her master. And that thought, more than any other, made her shiver with a mix of icy rage and burning shame.
Aisling, still trembling, resumed her run, swallowing the acid of shame and hatred. Ahead, the shifting shadow of the docks gave way to a narrower alley, saturated with the smell of rotten fish and rusted iron.
Erynn gritted her teeth, moving forward as a scout. Her heart pounded against her bruised ribs. Her torn shirt clung to her burning skin, the rough fabric mercilessly rubbing against her taut breasts, reviving the memory of intrusive hands and mocking gazes.
Her booted feet struck the uneven stone of the docks in fierce impulses. Her torn slave shirt clung to her heavy chest, mercilessly rubbing her nipples hardened by the heat and the escape.
Her dark brown hair, hastily tied in a low ponytail, left damp strands escaping, sticking to her taut neck. Her face, sharply cut, bore the hardness of fatigue and rage: her steel-green eyes burned with cold determination, fixed on the path ahead.
The flickering light of dying lanterns highlighted the golden color of her skin, streaked in places with old scars, memories engraved from the battles she had fought when she was the leader of her mercenary company, and others, fresher, inflicted by the harshness of Slaver’s Bay.
Her body, massive yet provocatively feminine, rolled with effort: her heavy breasts shaken with each step, her muscles taut under her moist skin, her full hips swaying in a wild rhythm dictated by the escape. Every part of her was forged by war... and slowly, methodically, profaned by captivity. Her master had never sought to break her body. He had wanted to tame it.
A guard emerged from the shadows, a club raised. Erynn reacted on pure instinct.
A sidestep. A lightning knee to the man's stomach who doubled over, gasping.
Without hesitation, she finished him with a precise, sharp backhand sword strike to the throat.
The guard collapsed in a stifled gurgle.
She stood frozen for a moment, the sword trembling in her hand. The tension in her chest. The sticky heat under the shirt. The sensation of the rough fabric against her hardened nipples.
A flash of memory pierced her mind. The cold stone under her knees. Her master's raspy voice. Her arms twisted behind her back. The burning shame of her own body betraying her will.
Erynn clenched her jaws so hard that her teeth grated. Not now. Not here.
But already, the past was engulfing her.
The room was an abyss of raw stone and silence. No natural light, no escape.
Only the sickening scent of tanned leather, dried sweat, and worn steel filled the air, heavy and sticky. The floor, under her bare feet, was rough, scratching the skin hardened by months of humiliation.
Before her, her master awaited. He was a true colossus, tall, massive, sculpted by war and past battles.
His bare torso, streaked with old scars, seemed to defy the dim light. His arms, two masses of tanned muscles, rested calmly along his body, but his eyes... His eyes shone with a glacial certainty: that of absolute domination.
Erynn stood straight. Or tried to. Her low ponytail, hastily tied, let dark, sweat-soaked strands escape.
Her steel-green gaze, hard and bright, met the man's. She refused to be afraid, she had never been afraid.
He let out a chuckle that translated into a deep, vibrant sound.
— Come, little war bitch. Show me what you're worth.
Erynn's rage exploded, and with a raw scream, she lunged forward.
Fists clenched, knees raised. Each blow was delivered with the rage of betrayals endured, of her scattered troop, of her trampled honor.
She struck. Again. Again.
Her body taut with hatred, her muscles rolling under her golden skin, her bare feet scraping the stone in furious lunges. But the man blocked. He absorbed her blows without flinching. His hard torso took each impact, shaking Erynn's pride with every blow.
Then he retaliated, gripping Erynn by the waist and shoulder with powerful hands, securing a solid hold. In a flash, she found herself pinned to the ground.
Her stomach slammed against the rough stone. Her heavy breasts, crushed under her own weight, tore a groan of pain from her.
Her arms were twisted behind her back, immobilized in a brutal hold. Her hips were gripped, her legs spread with a knee press, pinned like prey under a predator's paw. The cold stone bit into her bare skin, her breath became wheezing.
But he did not hit her. Not a single blow. Instead, she felt his hands, large, calloused, brutal.
They slid slowly, with sadistic mastery, over her contracted flanks, following the taut curve of her hips, stopping on her breasts compressed against the ground.
He seized them with terrifying firmness, kneading them as one claims possession.
A shudder ran through Erynn, monstrous, uncontrollable. She screamed, struggled, spat insults. But her body, that traitorous infamy, shivered under his fingers, a victim of the slight aphrodisiac she had unknowingly drunk before the confrontation.
Her nipples hardened abruptly against the damp shirt, stinging with shame under the rough fabric. She bit her lip until it bled.
Her master's raspy voice, warm, venomous, slid into her ear.
— Your body already knows who it belongs to.
It was not the last time. Every day, he would start again.
The ritual never varied: he would provoke her, push her to explode with rage, to fight with all the pride she had left. Every day, Erynn responded with the same raw hatred, screaming her rage, pounding her fists, launching her knees, lacerating the air with cries and blows.
And every day, he would crush her.
Not with blows. With his mass. With his monstrous calm. He would absorb her assaults without flinching, then, invariably, turn her around. He would pin her to the ground with the same contemptuous ease. Face against the stone, arms twisted, chest crushed, hips immobilized under his knee.
And always, after defeat, came the same reward, its effects amplified by the drinks she unknowingly consumed. His hands, brutal and sure, slid along her taut back, explored the moist flesh of her flanks, kneaded her heavy breasts until they quivered against her will.
At first, Erynn struggled like a wild beast, screamed, bit the air, swearing she would kill him, gouge out his eyes. But with repetition, something more terrible happened.
Her body began to learn, to recognize, and even to anticipate. With each fall, each crushing against the stone, her nipples hardened faster under the soaked shirt. With each pressure of his hand on her stomach or hips, her lower abdomen tightened, heated, vibrating with unspeakable shame.
She felt it coming, hated it, but could not stop it. The cold floor against her bare skin, the weight of the man on her back, the calloused hand closed on her flanks — these had become signals that her body interpreted.
One day, the fracture became irreversible.
She had attacked with a ferocity greater than ever, her body hotter than usual. She had struck, bitten, kicked. She had given it her all. And he had overturned her, as always.
The rough stone scraped her bare knees, her breasts slammed brutally against the ground. The pain was sharp, brutal. But before her mind could even formulate a curse, her body... reacted.
Her hips arched under him. Not to free herself. Not to fight. But to seek his contact.
A raw moan rose from her throat, half-plea, half-groan. She felt her master smile against her taut neck. His laughter was low, almost tender. A laugh of total victory.
And he murmured, his deep voice resonating against her burning skin:
— You see, you were never a warrior. You were just a female without a master.
That day, something had broken.
And, little by little, insidiously, something else had grown in its place. She had continued to struggle, of course. To scream, to scratch, to howl her rage. But with each new defeat, her body responded a little faster. A little stronger.
The contact of the cold stone under her chest. The weight of her master on her back. The brutal pressure of his hands on her hips, on her flanks. All of this became... familiar, comforting, worse still: desirable.
Under the effects of the mild elixirs she unknowingly drank, and from being pinned, mastered, tamed, her body had learned a truth she could never have accepted consciously. Her defeats in the face of the one who called himself a true male, an alpha, caused her a new excitement.
As soon as she was pinned to the ground, pressed against a wall, or even struck and corrected sometimes, her lower abdomen heated up. Her heavy breasts tensed under the slightest brutal rub, her nipples pointed shamefully against the rough fabric of her slave shirt, and her hips arched, unconsciously seeking the weight, the domination, the contact. And she even felt a kind of perverse attraction growing within her a little more.
She could struggle with all her might, scream until she lost her breath, bite, scratch, swear. It no longer mattered.
The shock of the ground under her feet brought her abruptly back to the present. Erynn staggered, her chest burning under the rough shirt. The sensation of the coarse fabric against her hard nipples was a torment in itself, reviving the memories her mind desperately wanted to bury.
Her boots scraped the stone of the docks, the moist pain in her belly pulsing in rhythm with her panting escape. She gripped her sword until she felt the metal bite into her palm. No, she would never again be the creature he had wanted to create. Even if her body screamed otherwise. Even if every fiber of her being shamefully demanded to be defeated.
Selka leaped from one stone to another, her small, nervous feet encased in too-stiff stolen boots. With each landing, the damp leather creaked, creaked again, betraying her electric agitation. The escape was a dull pounding in her temples.
Under the tension of the escape, her slim, supple legs seemed lighter than air, leaping from one foothold to another with feverish, fragile vivacity. Around her tanned face, her light chestnut hair, disheveled by sweat and wind, beat in wild strands, living flames refusing to die.
Her large, bright golden eyes fluttered in the shadows, capturing every sound, every glint of light, with the instinct of a born thief in the alleys. Even now, even in the heart of fear, Selka vibrated with a wild, dazzling energy. A frayed ray of sunlight, trapped in the night.
But beneath this indomitable vivacity, something more fragile trembled. A dull nervousness, a memory. When a treacherous splinter grazed the sole of her foot through the worn leather of her boot, a small nervous laugh rose in her throat.
She swallowed it at once, brutally biting her torn sleeve, eyes wide. But already, the memories were stirring.
The sticky sweetness of honey. The stifling heat of incense. The heavy red drapes swaying in the thick air. She was no longer on the docks. She was in the presentation room.
The room was deceptively welcoming. Thick, sumptuous red drapes, enclosing the heavy, sweet heat of an amber and faded flower perfume. Each breath seemed to stick to her throat, envelop her, plunge her into a soft and dangerous torpor.
She was sitting on a low stool, bare feet exposed in polished stocks. Her legs, carefully tied, twitched at times under nervous tension. Every muscle under her tanned skin vibrated with a feverish, compact energy. She was but a taut vine, fine, supple, and yet solid, sculpted by years of escape, climbing, and survival. Her small, nervous body seemed ready to burst at the slightest pressure.
Her feet, tanned, slightly roughened by years of running on the rooftops, still bore the rough marks of the childhood of misery that awaited every orphan. Calloused feet, worn by years of running and pilfering.
A servant approached, dressed in a black tunic, a supple silhouette, gestures as slow as they were calculated. In his hands, a lacquered wooden box, gleaming, housing flasks, balms, small instruments he had just acquired in this specific part of the market. He had often visited the building specialized in particular desires. He knew what his master was looking for:
Not just beauty. Potential. Hidden innocence. The fragile light to slowly deform. He crouched before Selka, a discreet smile playing at the corner of his lips. He brushed her ankles, pretended to tighten a strap. Then, without warning, with his fingertips, he slid over the bare sole of her foot.
The reaction was immediate. Selka jumped. A burst of pure, light, uncontrolled laughter escaped her throat like a soap bubble bursting. Crystalline, innocent, raw. She immediately saw the predatory glint in the servant's gaze and instantly brought a hand to her mouth, her golden eyes wide with confusion, surprise, terror.
The master's villa stretched out like a silent palace. Walls of light marble, drapes of a broken white, tepid fountains scented with orange blossom. The very air seemed heavier, saturated with a lazy and deceptive sweetness. Everything here breathed wealth.
Selka wandered barefoot through the vast, silent space, her small, nervous figure seemingly swallowed by the emptiness. Her tanned feet, once rough from the rooftops and nightly escapes, already sensed the change. They no longer touched raw stone, only soft rugs and embroidered cushions.
Every evening, silent servants attended to her. Without a word or abrupt gesture, they washed her feet in long basins of warm, scented water. They gently rubbed her rough skin, patiently polished her heels, and massaged each toe with floral balms and heady perfumes.
At first, Selka laughed at everything. She found these treatments amusing, splashing the water with her little feet and laughing in clear, carefree giggles. When the servants ran a smooth stone over her heels to remove calluses, she giggled slightly, tickled and unsuspecting. When they anointed her ankles with satiny creams, she sometimes shivered but saw it only as a strange novelty in her new life as a gilded prisoner.
The master did not participate directly. He observed from a distance, seated in a dark wooden armchair with a glass of wine between his slender fingers. His gaze shone with silent satisfaction.
Every evening, after the baths, Selka found the soft cushions of the great summer hall. She sat cross-legged, barefoot on the thick rug, her small, nervous body still dripping with the scented ointments applied by the servants. The master waited for her, always smiling and patient. He welcomed her with a gentle caress on her tousled hair, in a honeyed, almost paternal tone:
— You've done well today, little star.
For Selka, this was not a prison. Not yet. It was a new, shimmering, strange world, made of sweet moisture and endless care. She laughed when he called her "my little star," "my wild sparkle." She laughed when the servants washed her feet again and again, massaged them, and rubbed them with smooth stones until the slightest roughness disappeared. She also laughed—sometimes a little louder—when the hands lingered too long on the arch of her toes, triggering a delicious and nervous shiver. She did not understand; she thought it was a game, a reward.
After all, in the slums where she came from, no one had ever treated her with such gentleness. No one had ever given her warm honey, embroidered cushions, or light clothes smelling of orange blossom. When the master approached, she raised her head like a curious little animal. He rarely touched her himself—just a brush of the hair, a friendly pat on the head, or a slow graze of the nail on the sole of her foot when he corrected her posture or straightened her slightly. And every time his fingers slid over her feet, Selka burst into a crystalline, adorable, incoherent little laugh. No panic, no shame. Just surprise and carelessness.
The master took care of her like a rare flower. He nurtured her light, her spontaneity, her innocence. But beneath his gentle gestures, his calm smile, his bright gaze slowly wove an invisible web.
In the following days, the care subtly changed. There were fewer warm baths for the whole body and more baths for her feet alone. Large basins of polished stone were filled with warm water scented with chamomile, jasmine, and lavender. Herbs were selected not to relax the soul but to soften the skin, amplify nerve sensitivity, open the pores, and make the slightest rubs more vivid.
Selka dipped her little feet in these warm waters, laughing and wiggling her toes with childlike curiosity. She found it funny, though a bit strange. A bit ticklish sometimes when the scented bubbles rose to caress the bare sole of her feet, which had become smooth, tender, and shiny under the ointments.
The servants then massaged her for a long time, with their fingertips. They gently pinched the skin between her toes, smoothed the arch of her feet in long, soft circles, and treated her heels with light, scented creams until every trace of her former life of misery disappeared. Her feet became beautiful, the skin supple, smooth, and shiny under the light of the oil lamps. The plantar arch, once rough, had become a vibrant silk.
And Selka, instead of being wary, welcomed each session with a distracted smile and a natural burst of laughter. She laughed when the fingers slid over her taut skin and when her toes wriggled under too light massages. Sometimes she tried to hold back her laughter, biting her lower lip and blushing, but it was in vain. Her liveliness burst out at the slightest touch, pure, bright, and impossible to stifle.
The master never corrected her harshly. When she burst into nervous laughter, he simply smiled softly and murmured to her:
— Little star... you are so joyful.
And Selka, scarlet, laughed again, unable to understand.
Soon, the master introduced more precise "games." He had her sit on a silk cushion, her feet resting on a low stool. Two masked servants knelt at her feet, always silent and gentle. They used only their fingers, slow and patient, bestowing endless, methodical caresses on the arch of her tensed feet, between her oiled toes, and along her fine ankles.
At first, Selka laughed like a child : loud, clear, pure, and vibrant laughs. She squirmed a little, her nervous legs trembling, but she did not really struggle. She still thought it was a game.
Then the sessions grew longer. The stimulation became finer—sometimes just two fingers slowly sliding over the smooth sole, never pressing, or small feathers brushing the base of her toes or the delicate arch of her feet, which had become so sensitive. Selka still laughed, but louder and sharper. Her laughter, as her feet became more hypersensitive, distorted. It rose in a spiral, becoming faster, more incoherent, and almost singing. She giggled and burst into short, breathless laughs.
She blushed, tears in her eyes, clumsily wiping her mouth with her sleeve. But she did not scream or beg. She laughed, always. The master then stroked her hair and congratulated her softly, as one would a well-trained beast:
— There, little star. You are perfect like this.
And Selka, her cheeks red and her eyes filled with happy and confused tears, smiled weakly, unable to understand what was changing within her.
The evening of the presentation arrived. The room was larger and colder. Silk drapes hung to the floor, and the heady scent of jasmine floated in the air. Selka was brought in, barefoot and light as a feather, her wrists gently tied with satin ribbons. She was gently placed on a low pedestal covered in silk. Her little feet, shiny with warm oil, were placed side by side, clearly visible.
She looked around, confused but not yet worried. A few masked figures, draped in light fabrics, surrounded her. No apparent threat, only gazes. The master gently stroked her hair and said:
— Be brilliant, little star.
She smiled despite herself, a little nervous but warmed by his honeyed tone. Then, without warning, two servants knelt at her feet. Feathers slid over her oiled soles, light and furtive. A burst of laughter erupted in Selka's throat, bright and clear. They returned, again and again, sliding between her hypersensitive toes and dancing over her taut arches. Selka laughed louder.
Her legs quivered, her toes wriggled frantically, and her arms trembled against her satin bonds. She wanted to speak, to ask them to stop. She felt, for the first time, that this was not a game. That it was never meant to be a game. But her mouth, her throat, and her breath no longer responded; instead, laughter burst forth—jagged, shrill, and uncontrollable. Her voice rose in pitch, becoming lighter and more ridiculous:
— Aaaahhh-hiiihihiiiihihiii– pleeehehehease...! Nooo! Huhu-haaah… Nohohohohot fuhuhuhair!
Inform words, absurd pleas, and incoherent outbursts. She called out, stammered, and giggled like a child. Her own body betrayed her; her voice drifted out of control. She felt hot tears streaming down her red cheeks. Spasms of laughter shook her shoulders, her belly, and her taut and desperate feet.
And amid her incoherent outbursts, she heard the master's voice, soft and honeyed:
— What a perfect little star you have become.
Selka understood that she was now just a toy, a source of humiliated laughter, a living spark offered to mockery. She hated what they had made of her. She hated her laughter. She hated her own body, her feet that had become too sensitive, and her throat unable to hold back those sounds of a lost girl.
The rough ground of the docks scratched the soles of her stolen boots. The stifling night heat pressed against her neck again, sticking her light brown strands to her burning skin. Each step seemed like a hammer blow in the suffocating night, each breath wrested a hard-won victory. The sticky air clung to the throats of the three women, sliding into their burning lungs like living tar.
Behind them were the ferocious barking of dogs, the guttural shouts of the slavers, and the torches bouncing in the darkness. Closer, always closer. They should never have been together. They were not meant to be : three slaves, three distinct properties, and three refined trophies for different masters.
But in Slaver’s Bay, everything was bought and sold. And sometimes, the worst creatures formed alliances. The names of their three owners were whispered with respect and fear in the city's parlors, behind the scented drapes, down to the depths of the underworld, and in the hushed lounges where favors more precious than gold were exchanged.
They were all part of this circle, a private alliance of influential notables whose influence secretly extended beyond the pirate city. Merchants, artists, and warriors formed a sticky network that ruled the shadows of Slaver’s Bay, pulling the strings of slaves, arts, political influences, and weapons involved in the various conflicts of seemingly more respectable kingdoms.
When they gathered, it was never innocent. They talked about profits, wove plans, exhibited their conquests, paraded their power, and measured their grip. And sometimes, they bet on what they had broken. It was during one of these infamous meetings, a few months earlier, that the gazes of Selka, Aisling, and Erynn had crossed.
Under the heavy drapes of onyx and silk, amid the low laughter and the overturned wine glasses, the three masters had gathered. Not just to conclude business or address organizational problems, but also to boast of what they had shaped with their own hands.
Aisling, suspended by golden cables with her wings folded against her fragile back, was a silent offering. Her pale skin absorbed the light, and her tensed feet trembled at the slightest breath. Erynn, kneeling among marbled columns with her arms lacerated by fine chains, still held a pose of defiance, even though her bruised breasts and broken breath betrayed the violence of her training. Selka, tiny and tied to a velvet pedestal, laughed at every furtive caress that brushed against her.
They had laughed, raised their glasses in the air, and bet on who would break the last resistance. They bet on who would see their slave bend and lose themselves entirely. And amid the lustful gazes and muffled applause, the three women saw something else—a glimmer of recognition and mutual understanding. An invisible steel thread vibrated under the shame, the rage, and the pain.
It was not a pact, nor a conscious alliance. Just an instinct—a primal need not to sink alone. Their eyes had locked in the scented night, not to cry but to promise each other, without a word, that something of them would remain. Something that no master could ever entirely steal.
Over the weeks, the masters found in their regular meetings a new cruel game. Not content to exhibit their captives each on their own, they took to gathering them in the same space to admire more directly the work of their discipline. The great exhibition halls then filled with mute and chained figures, placed side by side on pedestals, suspended from golden rings, and offered to the greed of a chosen audience.
At each meeting, Aisling, Erynn, and Selka were brought there, constrained to immobility and exposed under the same harsh lights and lustful gazes. At first, they were only scattered presences, separated by fear and shame, focused on their own survival and the painful effort not to collapse under the caresses, touches, and humiliations inflicted for amusement. Each existed in her own bubble of pain and resistance, convinced that any attempt at contact would immediately be broken, punished, and turned against her.
But habit is a slow poison. The masters, confident in their power, became negligent. Their attentions were divided between discussions of alliances, tastings of rare wines, and crude bets on the docility of their captives. And in these interstices of forgetfulness, in these moments when the chains did not quite pull and when the gazes of the jailers slid elsewhere, fragments of humanity returned.
A gaze first, held a little longer than mere chance. A barely audible breath escaped from a dry throat. A discreet twitch of the fingers, stretched to breaking point to brush against another's skin. Tiny, clandestine gestures, but burning with silent rage. With insidious slowness, through exhibitions, public floggings, and humiliating training sessions, a fragile intimacy settled in.
When Aisling was suspended by her wounded wings, her feet exposed to mocking caresses, she felt Erynn's gaze weighing on her, not with pity but with brutal, unshakeable solidarity. When Erynn, crushed to the ground with her face contorted with hatred and humiliation, gritted her teeth under her master's possessive fingers, she heard, amid the coarse laughter, the irregular rhythm of Selka's breath, sitting a little further away, her eyes wide open and shining with tense fear.
And when Selka, with oiled feet and tickled until panic before the laughing notables, burst into uncontrollable laughter, she felt, somewhere in the room, two gazes fixed on her, two souls supporting her without a word.
Little by little, they learned to seize the rare interstices. A head movement dodged at the right moment. A sigh shifted to cover a whisper.
A few words stolen in the shadow of the curtains, a few finger pressures escaped the servants' vigilance.
Fragments of stories, murmured in the stifling heat of the living rooms: a name whispered, a dream from before, an oath to hold on.
Never long enough. Never enough to build a plan.
But enough for an idea to be born in the stifling night of Slaver’s Bay: the idea that they could escape.
Chance, or perhaps a weariness of the tormentors, offered them what should never have happened: a moment of forgetfulness.
The masters, absorbed in a muffled dispute around a parchment stretched on an ivory table, left their toys for a moment out of their greedy gaze.
Not long enough to flee.
Just enough to talk.
Aisling was the first to move. With a sharp, almost disdainful gesture, she gently tugged at the chain that connected her wrist to the wall ring, gauging the distance.
Beside her, Erynn straightened slowly, her muscles taut under her tattered shirt, her steel eyes searching the shadows as if every second of this respite could explode into a trap.
Selka, almost jumped up, her eyes wide open, her breath short, a smile stretching her lips cracked with dryness.
She was the first to whisper, with a bravado air:
— Hey… what are we doing, princesses? Are we dancing?
The laughter that should have accompanied the bravado remained stuck in her throat.
Aisling slowly turned her head towards her, her pale face frozen in an inhuman coldness. Her green gaze seemed to pierce her without emotion.
— Be quiet, you little fool, she hissed, each word as precise as a sharp blade.
Selka lowered her eyes for a moment, her toes nervously contracted against the icy marble floor, but the obstinate smile did not leave her face.
Erynn growled, a raspy note in her tight throat. She spat next to her, a dry spit, more symbolic than real.
— We should plant a blade in their throats while they argue.
Her tone was brutal, acidic, without any illusion. But her fingers trembled slightly on the rusty chain that bound her wrists.
Aisling shook her head slowly. Her icy voice fell like a guillotine:
— And die the next second. Very brilliant.
A tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustling of the curtains and the distant hum of the masters' voices.
Then, in this silence, Aisling spoke again, almost despite herself.
Her voice lower, even sharper:
— There is no escape here. Not in Slaver’s Bay.
Her green eyes, burning with contained rage, met Erynn's, then Selka's. She breathed briefly, as if pronouncing the words physically hurt her.
— But... there is a way out. Maybe.
Erynn frowned, her features hardening even more.
— Speak, quickly.
Selka, half-crouched, swayed on the soles of her bare feet, unable to stay still.
Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought for a moment the masters would hear it.
She opened her mouth to make a joke, to act as if nothing was serious, but she refrained under Aisling's fixed gaze.
The half-fairy leaned a little closer, her ivory face almost unreal under the dim light. Her breath was only a poisoned murmur:
— The Vale of Luthien.
Erynn squinted, her forehead furrowed with a hard line.
— The Vale... she growled, as if the word itself smelled of treachery.
Aisling nodded, a slow, controlled, almost haughty movement despite the urgency.
Selka, vibrating with nervous energy, did a little jump in place, her bound wrists clinking softly.
— I like the name, she whispered feverishly. The Vale of Luthien... it sounds nice.
She laughed a little, a clear burst, purely instinctive, as if by saying it loud enough, she could make the danger non-existent.
— It will always be better than the master's tickles, right?
She giggled nervously, her voice rising to a high pitch she no longer controlled.
Aisling looked at her, impassive. Not a smile. Not a word of comfort. Just a hard, cold look, shining with a silent anger.
When she spoke, her voice fell like a blade.
— We know little, she murmured, her green eyes fixed on Selka without softness. And even that we cannot verify the truth.
She turned her head towards Erynn, then back to Selka.
— Because few people have gone there and returned... And they never really returned.
The silence swallowed them for a moment. Even Selka, who opened her mouth to reply, closed it with a small, sharp sound.
Aisling continued, her tone almost ritual, as if she were reciting an old curse:
— It is said to be an endless garden, where the beauty is so pure that it becomes a weapon. That the trees sing. That the rivers sigh.
She paused for a moment, her fingers clenched on her chain.
Then, lower, raspier:
— It is said that everything that lives there is designed to deceive your senses. That the flowers do not open to bloom... but to swallow.
Erynn growled between clenched teeth:
— Charming.
Aisling did not listen to her.
Her gaze, distant, darkened even more.
— That the grass gently folds around your ankles, holding you in place just long enough for... something else to arrive.
She breathed slowly, fighting a shiver that ran up her neck.
— That even the light of the Vale is not real.
Selka, nervously swinging her legs, shrugged with a bravado air.
— Well... it's still better than Slaver’s Bay.
She displayed a dazzling smile, but her golden eyes shone with a fear she could not hide.
— And if the trees sing... I like music.
Aisling stared at her for a moment, cold, implacable.
Then she closed her eyes for a moment.
— In the Vale, they say there are no limits.
She reopened her eyes.
— No mercy.
A final breath.
— No return.
Erynn tensed like a bow ready to break.
Her chains clinked brutally against the stone.
She shook her head, an expression of raw incredulity twisting her features.
— It's madness, she said softly, her words sharp. You said it yourself. No one really comes back.
She threw a furious glance at Aisling, her steel eyes drilling into the fairy like a blade.
— We don't even know what's in there.
Selka giggled nervously, fiddling with the leather strap on her wrist.
She shook her head with a more bravado smile than ever.
— Well... I prefer a scary magical garden to staying here and being tickled until I cry.
She swayed from one foot to the other, her worn boots creaking against the stone.
Her smile was big, bright, and totally fake.
Aisling, straight, rigid, cold, did not react immediately. She let them speak, vent their fear.
Then, her voice rose, dry, implacable:
— There is no other choice.
Her green eyes burned with a cold, contained rage.
— Here, we are objects, and it's getting worse. There... at least, we will be free.
Erynn clenched her teeth so hard that her jaw seemed to crack. She breathed in through her nose, long, as if to swallow her fury and fear in one go. Then she let her head fall against the stone, in a gruff sigh.
Not agreeing. Not happy. But resigned.
Selka hopped in place, unable to contain her agitation.
She glanced sideways at the masters, still absorbed in their dispute, then back at her companions.
— I... I say we try.
She attempted a dazzling smile.
— It will at least be fun... The master is really starting to scare me.
Her voice trembled slightly, despite all her efforts. Aisling looked at them both, serious.
— It's decided, then.
Their masters, laughing softly in the shadow of the columns, did not suspect that their trophies had just chosen to risk everything. To flee towards an unknown worse than captivity. Towards the Vale of Luthien.
The race resumed, wilder, more brutal. Their breath torn from their raw throats, they threw themselves into the gluey night of Slaver’s Bay, slipping between the filthy alleys, the gutted warehouses, the abandoned markets.
Every step echoed like a death knell in the deserted alleys. The cries of their pursuers swelled behind them, growing with each turn, each glimmer of torchlight brandished near the rotten thatched roofs.
Before them, the docks frayed, the stone cracked, giving way to wastelands where pools of brackish water shimmered under the moon. They ran on, guided by instinct, leaping from one shadow to another, slipping between the carcasses of gutted boats, narrowly avoiding the scattered patrols. The further they got from the rotten heart of Slaver’s Bay, the more the city died under their feet: the buildings collapsed on themselves, the alleys widened into silent fields of rubble.
No one lived here. No one dared. For beyond, at the end of this sterile and cracked land, began the shadow of the Vale. Even the most desperate knew not to build too close. The outskirts, the dead land, everything testified to this ancient fear, woven into the very flesh of the city.
Aisling still forced the pace, her thin legs pounding the dry mud. Selka struggled to keep up, her worn boots catching on the stone, stumbling, but always bouncing back. Erynn growled softly behind them, her sword pressed against her side, ready to sell her skin dearly if necessary. Their shadows fled under the last dying fires of the city, stretching like ghosts towards the unknown.
The wind changed. The air became warmer, heavier, sweet with a strange scent that neither salt nor rot could explain. Aisling felt her heart slow despite herself. Her wings, glued to her sweaty back, quivered with a nervous reflex. There, before them, rose a mist. It crept over the ground, enveloping the last stones, swallowing the earth, slowly rising to veil the stars.
They almost stopped at the same moment, panting, lungs burning, legs trembling. Aisling scanned the horizon with a feverish eye. The knotted trees, the thick undergrowth, the shifting mist, everything seemed made to deter even the maddest. The darkness was no longer natural here, it seemed heavier.
Behind them, the torches drew nearer, the cries of the hunters tore through the night.
Selka slid a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Erynn gripped her sword so tightly that her knuckles whitened. Aisling, her face closed, her gaze hard, took a step forward. No other choice. No other escape.
She turned briefly, meeting the gazes of her companions. A nod. A silent prayer.
Then, without waiting, Aisling crossed the edge. Her boots disappeared into the mist, followed by a nervous flutter of wings. Erynn cursed between her teeth and lunged after her, her back straight, her jaw clenched. Selka took a deep breath, like a child before jumping off a cliff, and leaped after them.
The mist closed behind them, swallowing their escape, muffling their steps, their breaths, their fears. Slaver’s Bay faded behind them like a bad dream. Before them, the Vale stretched out its realm, vast, silent, insatiable.
The docks were a network of rotting beams, narrow alleys, and clandestine markets barely lit by smoky lanterns. Everywhere, slavery was shamelessly displayed: chains clinking softly against bruised ankles, merchants lounging on wicker chairs, whips abandoned against grimy walls. The night was alive with murmurs, flesh trading, coarse laughter, and muffled sobs.
Atop an old building, a lantern swayed slowly, intermittently illuminating a thin figure screaming under blows. Further away, on an abandoned quay, stacked iron cages held huddled bodies, eyes open to the night like condemned beasts.
In this open-air hell, three figures slid together, heavy-footed, half-torn stolen boots pounding the chipped stones. Each step was a struggle, a contained pain.
Aisling led the way, her wings folded nervously against her back. Her boots, too large, flopped with each step, biting into the tender skin of her heels. She gritted her teeth, sweat mingling with grime running down her back.
Erynn ran beside her, her hand clenched around a makeshift sword. Her stolen shirt clung to her irritated breasts, and her stiff boots crushed her feet with every stride. Each movement was a cruel reminder of her bruised body.
Selka brought up the rear, hopping from one foot to the other to avoid feeling the painful pressure of the narrow boots on her hypersensitive feet. She bit her torn sleeve to stifle the nervous whimpers that rose, each impact electrifying her taut nerves.
Behind them, the shouts grew closer: clinking of chains, cracking of whips, mad barking of dogs in pursuit. Torches danced in the shadows like hungry fireflies.
— Faster… Erynn panted through her teeth, glancing quickly behind her.
Aisling nearly slipped, caught by Selka’s abrupt gesture. Their fragile balance teetered for a moment, the boots emitting a strangled creak against the wet stone.
A flash of memory crossed Aisling’s mind: suspended by her wrists, her feet exposed to forced caresses amid coarse laughter. She shook her head, dispelling the vision, and resumed her run.
Their legs were heavy, their lungs on fire, but they still rushed forward, driven by a deep terror.
Selka slipped on a wet board, a nervous giggle muffled by her sleeve. Her feet begged her to stop this torture of too-tight leather with every step.
Erynn felt the fabric scrape against her taut breasts, the pain stabbing her chest with each breath. She gritted her teeth, refusing to slow down.
In their desperate flight, amid the stench of sweat and chains, these memories burst within them like shards of white-hot steel.
The torches danced behind them. The sound of dogs tore through the night.
But their minds, at their wits’ end, plunged despite themselves into these memories of exposure, bargaining, and control. What each of them had endured.
The silhouette of a devastated warehouse loomed before them.
Aisling staggered slightly, her hand brushing the cold stone. Behind her, Erynn groaned softly, clutching her sword to her chest. Selka stumbled, stifling a nervous giggle in her torn sleeve.
They were no longer really there. Their bodies still fled, guided by a raw instinct, but their minds were tipping over.
Tipping into memories, into traumas.
Aisling felt the cold stone under her fingers, and despite herself, everything came back: the perfumed rooms, the polite laughter, and above all... him.
The haze of the escape, the stifling heat of Slaver’s Bay, the shouts behind her… Everything disappeared to plunge back into the past.
She was elsewhere. Motionless.
Suspended in the center of a vast room, her arms outstretched, attached to silk cables stretched from the ceiling. Her wings folded against her back, unable to move. Her bare legs barely quivered, her feet exhibited like the fragile jewels they had become.
The golden light of the chandeliers fell in a diffuse rain upon her, caressing every inch of her diaphanous skin.
Her hair, pale silver and wavy, fell in tangled strands around her lowered face. Her green eyes sparkled with contained rage, golden flecks surfacing under the effort she exerted not to yield. Her skin, almost translucent in its paleness, seemed to absorb the light, tracing delicate shadows on her protruding ribs, on her frail hips.
She was small, slender, almost unreal, betraying her half-fairy origins. Every line of her body sculpted to inspire covetousness and adoration. Her transparent wings, marked by chains and mistreatment, trembled faintly with each nervous spasm.
As for her feet, now living works of art, their skin was so fine, so fragile, that the slightest breath seemed to brush against them. Stripped of all calluses by constant care, they had become instruments of pure receptivity, sensitive to the slightest contact.
The onyx walls reflected her image, multiplied to infinity: a fairy creature, offered, vulnerable, perfect. The room was silent, save for the lazy crackling of a distant flame.
Everything had been meticulously prepared.
She was not simply a prisoner. She was exhibited as a living work of art. A masterpiece.
And amid the shadows that floated at the edges of the room, there was him.
Aisling closed her eyes, trying to deny the moment. That’s when the first shiver ran through her. A touch, so light she thought she had imagined it. A breath of air, perhaps. Then a feather. Fine, soft, insidious.
It slid along the arch of her foot, just under the vault. A nervous spark shot along her nerves, an involuntary spasm shook her ankle.
The restraints tinkled softly. Around her, the shadows murmured in pleasure. Aisling bit her lip, rage bordering on tears.
A second touch, more insistent, teased the tips of her toes. She felt her toes curl, open despite herself like petals forced to offer themselves to the light.
Her breath quickened. Shame rose, sticky, implacable.
The Collector, who was watching, approached, his steps muffled. She did not see him, but she felt he was close.
The beating of her wings, tiny, tried to tear itself from the trap of her bound back. In vain. A note rose in the air: soft, musical, almost mocking.,An instrument of glass was placed against her skin. A fine crystal wand, vibrating, brushed the sole of her foot.
The spasm was immediate. Aisling stifled a gasp, her toes curling in a silent plea.
The murmurs grew louder.
Another touch, along the inner line of her bare thigh. She struggled not to writhe, aware that each jerk, each movement made her more beautiful, more desirable, more fascinating to her torturer.
She gradually became aware of the moisture between her legs, of the tension accumulated in her lower abdomen. A high-pitched moan escaped her, weak and fragile.
She felt the Collector’s smile form, invisible, in the spice-laden air. Light applause rose like a warm rain around her. From the shadows, other spectators had slipped in, handpicked. Depraved nobles, fallen artists, fetishist patrons. All eager to admire the results of her transformation.
Not that of a warrior. Not that of fallen nobility. No. The transformation of a magnificent creature into a sensory slave.
Aisling, hanging like a flower in full bloom, breathed in short, jerky gasps. Her face was taut, every muscle contracted by the inner struggle.
The crystal wand returned, sliding along her arch, caressing the fine skin of her wings, brushing the curve of her hip.
Her body’s reactions escaped her will. Her toes curled, her wings quivered, her belly contracted in waves.
She heard stifled laughter. Murmurs. Bets.
— Look at her feet... her wings... everything dances at the slightest breath.
— How long before she gives in, do you think?
A silent tear rolled down Aisling’s cheek. Not from pain, but from humiliation. From the injustice of feeling her own body betray her so quickly, so fully.
Then, the true torture began as the Collector signaled. Two servants approached, anonymous, masked as they carried feather fans.
Slow and synchronized, they began to sweep Aisling’s bare skin from bottom to top, from feet to wings, from wings to the hollows of her hips.
A colossal shiver ran through her.nHer legs tensed. Her toes arched. A small, almost unreal laugh, choked, escaped her lips.
The room held its breath.
Aisling closed her eyes, fighting with all her might against the reaction that threatened to blossom in her belly.
The Collector approached further. He spoke at last. In a soft, almost caressing voice.
— Let her feel.
The feathers slowed. Pressed. Explored.
Her body vibrated in place, caught between spasms of pleasure and stifled cries of rage.
Each time a feather brushed the sole of her foot or the translucent membrane of her wings, her lower abdomen contracted painfully.
Her sex throbbed. Her nipples hardened under the cold air of the room. An insidious fire rose within her, fueled by shame, by constant stimulation, by the absolute impossibility of escape.
The Collector snapped his fingers. The feathers stopped instantly. Aisling remained suspended, panting. He let a silence pass.
Then, addressing the assembly:
— True art... is not forcing submission. It is cultivating it... until it blooms.
A laugh of approval ran through the audience.
The Collector circled her, contemplating his creation.
— We will have a bloom tonight.
The fans returned. But this time, faster. More intensely. They targeted her feet. Her wings. Her lower abdomen.
Aisling moaned, pulled at her bonds. Her breath quickened. Her back arched.
Her mouth opened despite herself, parted in a halting sigh. Her eyes rolled back slightly, misty with tears. The first note of pleasure rose from her throat. Pure. Broken. Vibrant.
The ahegao appeared on her face: the mouth slightly open, the tongue barely visible, the eyes bright and dull at the same time.
The audience exploded with contained ecstasy. The Collector smiled, satisfied.
Suspended, offered, radiant with shame and mixed pleasure, Aisling had reached what the Collector called the perfect state.
Every time her senses were pushed beyond the limit, every time the stimulation overflowed her conscious control, the ahegao resurfaced.
A reflex. A humiliating rictus of ecstasy, programmed into her flesh. A mask of shameless enjoyment that she hated more than anything in the world.
The stone under her fingers, in the present moment, became rough, cutting.
Aisling gasped suddenly, brought back to reality as if she had been plunged into an icy bath.
She staggered, swallowing a sudden nausea.
Around her, the escape continued. Erynn, her gaze hard, advanced while clutching her sword to her oppressed chest. Selka, her face taut, stifled her nervous giggles by gritting her teeth.
Aisling breathed in sharply, forcing the putrid air of Slaver’s Bay into her lungs.
For weeks, since her capture, they had trained and modified her feet, her wings, her nerves. Ointments, creams, magical products.
They had reshaped them as one sculpts an object of covetousness.
Every contact, every breath, every rub had become a trap, a source of shameful pleasure that she could no longer ignore.
She was no longer the bastard of the fairy queen. She was no longer the simple daughter of her human father. She was a sensory slave.
A living toy, forged to react, to expose her weaknesses to the eyes of those who knew where to touch. Her own body had become her cruelest enemy.
And she hated the Collector for that.
With a burning, black, absolute hatred. Not only for what he had made of her. But for what he had planted within her. This flaw. This vile crack.
This memory was engraved in her flesh, in her feet, in her wings, in her face marked by the humiliating rictus of the ahegao.
Aisling clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug into the palms of her hands.
She would never be free. Even if she fled Slaver’s Bay. Even if she crossed the Vale. Even if she survived.
She would always bear the invisible mark of her master. And that thought, more than any other, made her shiver with a mix of icy rage and burning shame.
Aisling, still trembling, resumed her run, swallowing the acid of shame and hatred. Ahead, the shifting shadow of the docks gave way to a narrower alley, saturated with the smell of rotten fish and rusted iron.
Erynn gritted her teeth, moving forward as a scout. Her heart pounded against her bruised ribs. Her torn shirt clung to her burning skin, the rough fabric mercilessly rubbing against her taut breasts, reviving the memory of intrusive hands and mocking gazes.
Her booted feet struck the uneven stone of the docks in fierce impulses. Her torn slave shirt clung to her heavy chest, mercilessly rubbing her nipples hardened by the heat and the escape.
Her dark brown hair, hastily tied in a low ponytail, left damp strands escaping, sticking to her taut neck. Her face, sharply cut, bore the hardness of fatigue and rage: her steel-green eyes burned with cold determination, fixed on the path ahead.
The flickering light of dying lanterns highlighted the golden color of her skin, streaked in places with old scars, memories engraved from the battles she had fought when she was the leader of her mercenary company, and others, fresher, inflicted by the harshness of Slaver’s Bay.
Her body, massive yet provocatively feminine, rolled with effort: her heavy breasts shaken with each step, her muscles taut under her moist skin, her full hips swaying in a wild rhythm dictated by the escape. Every part of her was forged by war... and slowly, methodically, profaned by captivity. Her master had never sought to break her body. He had wanted to tame it.
A guard emerged from the shadows, a club raised. Erynn reacted on pure instinct.
A sidestep. A lightning knee to the man's stomach who doubled over, gasping.
Without hesitation, she finished him with a precise, sharp backhand sword strike to the throat.
The guard collapsed in a stifled gurgle.
She stood frozen for a moment, the sword trembling in her hand. The tension in her chest. The sticky heat under the shirt. The sensation of the rough fabric against her hardened nipples.
A flash of memory pierced her mind. The cold stone under her knees. Her master's raspy voice. Her arms twisted behind her back. The burning shame of her own body betraying her will.
Erynn clenched her jaws so hard that her teeth grated. Not now. Not here.
But already, the past was engulfing her.
The room was an abyss of raw stone and silence. No natural light, no escape.
Only the sickening scent of tanned leather, dried sweat, and worn steel filled the air, heavy and sticky. The floor, under her bare feet, was rough, scratching the skin hardened by months of humiliation.
Before her, her master awaited. He was a true colossus, tall, massive, sculpted by war and past battles.
His bare torso, streaked with old scars, seemed to defy the dim light. His arms, two masses of tanned muscles, rested calmly along his body, but his eyes... His eyes shone with a glacial certainty: that of absolute domination.
Erynn stood straight. Or tried to. Her low ponytail, hastily tied, let dark, sweat-soaked strands escape.
Her steel-green gaze, hard and bright, met the man's. She refused to be afraid, she had never been afraid.
He let out a chuckle that translated into a deep, vibrant sound.
— Come, little war bitch. Show me what you're worth.
Erynn's rage exploded, and with a raw scream, she lunged forward.
Fists clenched, knees raised. Each blow was delivered with the rage of betrayals endured, of her scattered troop, of her trampled honor.
She struck. Again. Again.
Her body taut with hatred, her muscles rolling under her golden skin, her bare feet scraping the stone in furious lunges. But the man blocked. He absorbed her blows without flinching. His hard torso took each impact, shaking Erynn's pride with every blow.
Then he retaliated, gripping Erynn by the waist and shoulder with powerful hands, securing a solid hold. In a flash, she found herself pinned to the ground.
Her stomach slammed against the rough stone. Her heavy breasts, crushed under her own weight, tore a groan of pain from her.
Her arms were twisted behind her back, immobilized in a brutal hold. Her hips were gripped, her legs spread with a knee press, pinned like prey under a predator's paw. The cold stone bit into her bare skin, her breath became wheezing.
But he did not hit her. Not a single blow. Instead, she felt his hands, large, calloused, brutal.
They slid slowly, with sadistic mastery, over her contracted flanks, following the taut curve of her hips, stopping on her breasts compressed against the ground.
He seized them with terrifying firmness, kneading them as one claims possession.
A shudder ran through Erynn, monstrous, uncontrollable. She screamed, struggled, spat insults. But her body, that traitorous infamy, shivered under his fingers, a victim of the slight aphrodisiac she had unknowingly drunk before the confrontation.
Her nipples hardened abruptly against the damp shirt, stinging with shame under the rough fabric. She bit her lip until it bled.
Her master's raspy voice, warm, venomous, slid into her ear.
— Your body already knows who it belongs to.
It was not the last time. Every day, he would start again.
The ritual never varied: he would provoke her, push her to explode with rage, to fight with all the pride she had left. Every day, Erynn responded with the same raw hatred, screaming her rage, pounding her fists, launching her knees, lacerating the air with cries and blows.
And every day, he would crush her.
Not with blows. With his mass. With his monstrous calm. He would absorb her assaults without flinching, then, invariably, turn her around. He would pin her to the ground with the same contemptuous ease. Face against the stone, arms twisted, chest crushed, hips immobilized under his knee.
And always, after defeat, came the same reward, its effects amplified by the drinks she unknowingly consumed. His hands, brutal and sure, slid along her taut back, explored the moist flesh of her flanks, kneaded her heavy breasts until they quivered against her will.
At first, Erynn struggled like a wild beast, screamed, bit the air, swearing she would kill him, gouge out his eyes. But with repetition, something more terrible happened.
Her body began to learn, to recognize, and even to anticipate. With each fall, each crushing against the stone, her nipples hardened faster under the soaked shirt. With each pressure of his hand on her stomach or hips, her lower abdomen tightened, heated, vibrating with unspeakable shame.
She felt it coming, hated it, but could not stop it. The cold floor against her bare skin, the weight of the man on her back, the calloused hand closed on her flanks — these had become signals that her body interpreted.
One day, the fracture became irreversible.
She had attacked with a ferocity greater than ever, her body hotter than usual. She had struck, bitten, kicked. She had given it her all. And he had overturned her, as always.
The rough stone scraped her bare knees, her breasts slammed brutally against the ground. The pain was sharp, brutal. But before her mind could even formulate a curse, her body... reacted.
Her hips arched under him. Not to free herself. Not to fight. But to seek his contact.
A raw moan rose from her throat, half-plea, half-groan. She felt her master smile against her taut neck. His laughter was low, almost tender. A laugh of total victory.
And he murmured, his deep voice resonating against her burning skin:
— You see, you were never a warrior. You were just a female without a master.
That day, something had broken.
And, little by little, insidiously, something else had grown in its place. She had continued to struggle, of course. To scream, to scratch, to howl her rage. But with each new defeat, her body responded a little faster. A little stronger.
The contact of the cold stone under her chest. The weight of her master on her back. The brutal pressure of his hands on her hips, on her flanks. All of this became... familiar, comforting, worse still: desirable.
Under the effects of the mild elixirs she unknowingly drank, and from being pinned, mastered, tamed, her body had learned a truth she could never have accepted consciously. Her defeats in the face of the one who called himself a true male, an alpha, caused her a new excitement.
As soon as she was pinned to the ground, pressed against a wall, or even struck and corrected sometimes, her lower abdomen heated up. Her heavy breasts tensed under the slightest brutal rub, her nipples pointed shamefully against the rough fabric of her slave shirt, and her hips arched, unconsciously seeking the weight, the domination, the contact. And she even felt a kind of perverse attraction growing within her a little more.
She could struggle with all her might, scream until she lost her breath, bite, scratch, swear. It no longer mattered.
The shock of the ground under her feet brought her abruptly back to the present. Erynn staggered, her chest burning under the rough shirt. The sensation of the coarse fabric against her hard nipples was a torment in itself, reviving the memories her mind desperately wanted to bury.
Her boots scraped the stone of the docks, the moist pain in her belly pulsing in rhythm with her panting escape. She gripped her sword until she felt the metal bite into her palm. No, she would never again be the creature he had wanted to create. Even if her body screamed otherwise. Even if every fiber of her being shamefully demanded to be defeated.
Selka leaped from one stone to another, her small, nervous feet encased in too-stiff stolen boots. With each landing, the damp leather creaked, creaked again, betraying her electric agitation. The escape was a dull pounding in her temples.
Under the tension of the escape, her slim, supple legs seemed lighter than air, leaping from one foothold to another with feverish, fragile vivacity. Around her tanned face, her light chestnut hair, disheveled by sweat and wind, beat in wild strands, living flames refusing to die.
Her large, bright golden eyes fluttered in the shadows, capturing every sound, every glint of light, with the instinct of a born thief in the alleys. Even now, even in the heart of fear, Selka vibrated with a wild, dazzling energy. A frayed ray of sunlight, trapped in the night.
But beneath this indomitable vivacity, something more fragile trembled. A dull nervousness, a memory. When a treacherous splinter grazed the sole of her foot through the worn leather of her boot, a small nervous laugh rose in her throat.
She swallowed it at once, brutally biting her torn sleeve, eyes wide. But already, the memories were stirring.
The sticky sweetness of honey. The stifling heat of incense. The heavy red drapes swaying in the thick air. She was no longer on the docks. She was in the presentation room.
The room was deceptively welcoming. Thick, sumptuous red drapes, enclosing the heavy, sweet heat of an amber and faded flower perfume. Each breath seemed to stick to her throat, envelop her, plunge her into a soft and dangerous torpor.
She was sitting on a low stool, bare feet exposed in polished stocks. Her legs, carefully tied, twitched at times under nervous tension. Every muscle under her tanned skin vibrated with a feverish, compact energy. She was but a taut vine, fine, supple, and yet solid, sculpted by years of escape, climbing, and survival. Her small, nervous body seemed ready to burst at the slightest pressure.
Her feet, tanned, slightly roughened by years of running on the rooftops, still bore the rough marks of the childhood of misery that awaited every orphan. Calloused feet, worn by years of running and pilfering.
A servant approached, dressed in a black tunic, a supple silhouette, gestures as slow as they were calculated. In his hands, a lacquered wooden box, gleaming, housing flasks, balms, small instruments he had just acquired in this specific part of the market. He had often visited the building specialized in particular desires. He knew what his master was looking for:
Not just beauty. Potential. Hidden innocence. The fragile light to slowly deform. He crouched before Selka, a discreet smile playing at the corner of his lips. He brushed her ankles, pretended to tighten a strap. Then, without warning, with his fingertips, he slid over the bare sole of her foot.
The reaction was immediate. Selka jumped. A burst of pure, light, uncontrolled laughter escaped her throat like a soap bubble bursting. Crystalline, innocent, raw. She immediately saw the predatory glint in the servant's gaze and instantly brought a hand to her mouth, her golden eyes wide with confusion, surprise, terror.
The master's villa stretched out like a silent palace. Walls of light marble, drapes of a broken white, tepid fountains scented with orange blossom. The very air seemed heavier, saturated with a lazy and deceptive sweetness. Everything here breathed wealth.
Selka wandered barefoot through the vast, silent space, her small, nervous figure seemingly swallowed by the emptiness. Her tanned feet, once rough from the rooftops and nightly escapes, already sensed the change. They no longer touched raw stone, only soft rugs and embroidered cushions.
Every evening, silent servants attended to her. Without a word or abrupt gesture, they washed her feet in long basins of warm, scented water. They gently rubbed her rough skin, patiently polished her heels, and massaged each toe with floral balms and heady perfumes.
At first, Selka laughed at everything. She found these treatments amusing, splashing the water with her little feet and laughing in clear, carefree giggles. When the servants ran a smooth stone over her heels to remove calluses, she giggled slightly, tickled and unsuspecting. When they anointed her ankles with satiny creams, she sometimes shivered but saw it only as a strange novelty in her new life as a gilded prisoner.
The master did not participate directly. He observed from a distance, seated in a dark wooden armchair with a glass of wine between his slender fingers. His gaze shone with silent satisfaction.
Every evening, after the baths, Selka found the soft cushions of the great summer hall. She sat cross-legged, barefoot on the thick rug, her small, nervous body still dripping with the scented ointments applied by the servants. The master waited for her, always smiling and patient. He welcomed her with a gentle caress on her tousled hair, in a honeyed, almost paternal tone:
— You've done well today, little star.
For Selka, this was not a prison. Not yet. It was a new, shimmering, strange world, made of sweet moisture and endless care. She laughed when he called her "my little star," "my wild sparkle." She laughed when the servants washed her feet again and again, massaged them, and rubbed them with smooth stones until the slightest roughness disappeared. She also laughed—sometimes a little louder—when the hands lingered too long on the arch of her toes, triggering a delicious and nervous shiver. She did not understand; she thought it was a game, a reward.
After all, in the slums where she came from, no one had ever treated her with such gentleness. No one had ever given her warm honey, embroidered cushions, or light clothes smelling of orange blossom. When the master approached, she raised her head like a curious little animal. He rarely touched her himself—just a brush of the hair, a friendly pat on the head, or a slow graze of the nail on the sole of her foot when he corrected her posture or straightened her slightly. And every time his fingers slid over her feet, Selka burst into a crystalline, adorable, incoherent little laugh. No panic, no shame. Just surprise and carelessness.
The master took care of her like a rare flower. He nurtured her light, her spontaneity, her innocence. But beneath his gentle gestures, his calm smile, his bright gaze slowly wove an invisible web.
In the following days, the care subtly changed. There were fewer warm baths for the whole body and more baths for her feet alone. Large basins of polished stone were filled with warm water scented with chamomile, jasmine, and lavender. Herbs were selected not to relax the soul but to soften the skin, amplify nerve sensitivity, open the pores, and make the slightest rubs more vivid.
Selka dipped her little feet in these warm waters, laughing and wiggling her toes with childlike curiosity. She found it funny, though a bit strange. A bit ticklish sometimes when the scented bubbles rose to caress the bare sole of her feet, which had become smooth, tender, and shiny under the ointments.
The servants then massaged her for a long time, with their fingertips. They gently pinched the skin between her toes, smoothed the arch of her feet in long, soft circles, and treated her heels with light, scented creams until every trace of her former life of misery disappeared. Her feet became beautiful, the skin supple, smooth, and shiny under the light of the oil lamps. The plantar arch, once rough, had become a vibrant silk.
And Selka, instead of being wary, welcomed each session with a distracted smile and a natural burst of laughter. She laughed when the fingers slid over her taut skin and when her toes wriggled under too light massages. Sometimes she tried to hold back her laughter, biting her lower lip and blushing, but it was in vain. Her liveliness burst out at the slightest touch, pure, bright, and impossible to stifle.
The master never corrected her harshly. When she burst into nervous laughter, he simply smiled softly and murmured to her:
— Little star... you are so joyful.
And Selka, scarlet, laughed again, unable to understand.
Soon, the master introduced more precise "games." He had her sit on a silk cushion, her feet resting on a low stool. Two masked servants knelt at her feet, always silent and gentle. They used only their fingers, slow and patient, bestowing endless, methodical caresses on the arch of her tensed feet, between her oiled toes, and along her fine ankles.
At first, Selka laughed like a child : loud, clear, pure, and vibrant laughs. She squirmed a little, her nervous legs trembling, but she did not really struggle. She still thought it was a game.
Then the sessions grew longer. The stimulation became finer—sometimes just two fingers slowly sliding over the smooth sole, never pressing, or small feathers brushing the base of her toes or the delicate arch of her feet, which had become so sensitive. Selka still laughed, but louder and sharper. Her laughter, as her feet became more hypersensitive, distorted. It rose in a spiral, becoming faster, more incoherent, and almost singing. She giggled and burst into short, breathless laughs.
She blushed, tears in her eyes, clumsily wiping her mouth with her sleeve. But she did not scream or beg. She laughed, always. The master then stroked her hair and congratulated her softly, as one would a well-trained beast:
— There, little star. You are perfect like this.
And Selka, her cheeks red and her eyes filled with happy and confused tears, smiled weakly, unable to understand what was changing within her.
The evening of the presentation arrived. The room was larger and colder. Silk drapes hung to the floor, and the heady scent of jasmine floated in the air. Selka was brought in, barefoot and light as a feather, her wrists gently tied with satin ribbons. She was gently placed on a low pedestal covered in silk. Her little feet, shiny with warm oil, were placed side by side, clearly visible.
She looked around, confused but not yet worried. A few masked figures, draped in light fabrics, surrounded her. No apparent threat, only gazes. The master gently stroked her hair and said:
— Be brilliant, little star.
She smiled despite herself, a little nervous but warmed by his honeyed tone. Then, without warning, two servants knelt at her feet. Feathers slid over her oiled soles, light and furtive. A burst of laughter erupted in Selka's throat, bright and clear. They returned, again and again, sliding between her hypersensitive toes and dancing over her taut arches. Selka laughed louder.
Her legs quivered, her toes wriggled frantically, and her arms trembled against her satin bonds. She wanted to speak, to ask them to stop. She felt, for the first time, that this was not a game. That it was never meant to be a game. But her mouth, her throat, and her breath no longer responded; instead, laughter burst forth—jagged, shrill, and uncontrollable. Her voice rose in pitch, becoming lighter and more ridiculous:
— Aaaahhh-hiiihihiiiihihiii– pleeehehehease...! Nooo! Huhu-haaah… Nohohohohot fuhuhuhair!
Inform words, absurd pleas, and incoherent outbursts. She called out, stammered, and giggled like a child. Her own body betrayed her; her voice drifted out of control. She felt hot tears streaming down her red cheeks. Spasms of laughter shook her shoulders, her belly, and her taut and desperate feet.
And amid her incoherent outbursts, she heard the master's voice, soft and honeyed:
— What a perfect little star you have become.
Selka understood that she was now just a toy, a source of humiliated laughter, a living spark offered to mockery. She hated what they had made of her. She hated her laughter. She hated her own body, her feet that had become too sensitive, and her throat unable to hold back those sounds of a lost girl.
The rough ground of the docks scratched the soles of her stolen boots. The stifling night heat pressed against her neck again, sticking her light brown strands to her burning skin. Each step seemed like a hammer blow in the suffocating night, each breath wrested a hard-won victory. The sticky air clung to the throats of the three women, sliding into their burning lungs like living tar.
Behind them were the ferocious barking of dogs, the guttural shouts of the slavers, and the torches bouncing in the darkness. Closer, always closer. They should never have been together. They were not meant to be : three slaves, three distinct properties, and three refined trophies for different masters.
But in Slaver’s Bay, everything was bought and sold. And sometimes, the worst creatures formed alliances. The names of their three owners were whispered with respect and fear in the city's parlors, behind the scented drapes, down to the depths of the underworld, and in the hushed lounges where favors more precious than gold were exchanged.
They were all part of this circle, a private alliance of influential notables whose influence secretly extended beyond the pirate city. Merchants, artists, and warriors formed a sticky network that ruled the shadows of Slaver’s Bay, pulling the strings of slaves, arts, political influences, and weapons involved in the various conflicts of seemingly more respectable kingdoms.
When they gathered, it was never innocent. They talked about profits, wove plans, exhibited their conquests, paraded their power, and measured their grip. And sometimes, they bet on what they had broken. It was during one of these infamous meetings, a few months earlier, that the gazes of Selka, Aisling, and Erynn had crossed.
Under the heavy drapes of onyx and silk, amid the low laughter and the overturned wine glasses, the three masters had gathered. Not just to conclude business or address organizational problems, but also to boast of what they had shaped with their own hands.
Aisling, suspended by golden cables with her wings folded against her fragile back, was a silent offering. Her pale skin absorbed the light, and her tensed feet trembled at the slightest breath. Erynn, kneeling among marbled columns with her arms lacerated by fine chains, still held a pose of defiance, even though her bruised breasts and broken breath betrayed the violence of her training. Selka, tiny and tied to a velvet pedestal, laughed at every furtive caress that brushed against her.
They had laughed, raised their glasses in the air, and bet on who would break the last resistance. They bet on who would see their slave bend and lose themselves entirely. And amid the lustful gazes and muffled applause, the three women saw something else—a glimmer of recognition and mutual understanding. An invisible steel thread vibrated under the shame, the rage, and the pain.
It was not a pact, nor a conscious alliance. Just an instinct—a primal need not to sink alone. Their eyes had locked in the scented night, not to cry but to promise each other, without a word, that something of them would remain. Something that no master could ever entirely steal.
Over the weeks, the masters found in their regular meetings a new cruel game. Not content to exhibit their captives each on their own, they took to gathering them in the same space to admire more directly the work of their discipline. The great exhibition halls then filled with mute and chained figures, placed side by side on pedestals, suspended from golden rings, and offered to the greed of a chosen audience.
At each meeting, Aisling, Erynn, and Selka were brought there, constrained to immobility and exposed under the same harsh lights and lustful gazes. At first, they were only scattered presences, separated by fear and shame, focused on their own survival and the painful effort not to collapse under the caresses, touches, and humiliations inflicted for amusement. Each existed in her own bubble of pain and resistance, convinced that any attempt at contact would immediately be broken, punished, and turned against her.
But habit is a slow poison. The masters, confident in their power, became negligent. Their attentions were divided between discussions of alliances, tastings of rare wines, and crude bets on the docility of their captives. And in these interstices of forgetfulness, in these moments when the chains did not quite pull and when the gazes of the jailers slid elsewhere, fragments of humanity returned.
A gaze first, held a little longer than mere chance. A barely audible breath escaped from a dry throat. A discreet twitch of the fingers, stretched to breaking point to brush against another's skin. Tiny, clandestine gestures, but burning with silent rage. With insidious slowness, through exhibitions, public floggings, and humiliating training sessions, a fragile intimacy settled in.
When Aisling was suspended by her wounded wings, her feet exposed to mocking caresses, she felt Erynn's gaze weighing on her, not with pity but with brutal, unshakeable solidarity. When Erynn, crushed to the ground with her face contorted with hatred and humiliation, gritted her teeth under her master's possessive fingers, she heard, amid the coarse laughter, the irregular rhythm of Selka's breath, sitting a little further away, her eyes wide open and shining with tense fear.
And when Selka, with oiled feet and tickled until panic before the laughing notables, burst into uncontrollable laughter, she felt, somewhere in the room, two gazes fixed on her, two souls supporting her without a word.
Little by little, they learned to seize the rare interstices. A head movement dodged at the right moment. A sigh shifted to cover a whisper.
A few words stolen in the shadow of the curtains, a few finger pressures escaped the servants' vigilance.
Fragments of stories, murmured in the stifling heat of the living rooms: a name whispered, a dream from before, an oath to hold on.
Never long enough. Never enough to build a plan.
But enough for an idea to be born in the stifling night of Slaver’s Bay: the idea that they could escape.
Chance, or perhaps a weariness of the tormentors, offered them what should never have happened: a moment of forgetfulness.
The masters, absorbed in a muffled dispute around a parchment stretched on an ivory table, left their toys for a moment out of their greedy gaze.
Not long enough to flee.
Just enough to talk.
Aisling was the first to move. With a sharp, almost disdainful gesture, she gently tugged at the chain that connected her wrist to the wall ring, gauging the distance.
Beside her, Erynn straightened slowly, her muscles taut under her tattered shirt, her steel eyes searching the shadows as if every second of this respite could explode into a trap.
Selka, almost jumped up, her eyes wide open, her breath short, a smile stretching her lips cracked with dryness.
She was the first to whisper, with a bravado air:
— Hey… what are we doing, princesses? Are we dancing?
The laughter that should have accompanied the bravado remained stuck in her throat.
Aisling slowly turned her head towards her, her pale face frozen in an inhuman coldness. Her green gaze seemed to pierce her without emotion.
— Be quiet, you little fool, she hissed, each word as precise as a sharp blade.
Selka lowered her eyes for a moment, her toes nervously contracted against the icy marble floor, but the obstinate smile did not leave her face.
Erynn growled, a raspy note in her tight throat. She spat next to her, a dry spit, more symbolic than real.
— We should plant a blade in their throats while they argue.
Her tone was brutal, acidic, without any illusion. But her fingers trembled slightly on the rusty chain that bound her wrists.
Aisling shook her head slowly. Her icy voice fell like a guillotine:
— And die the next second. Very brilliant.
A tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustling of the curtains and the distant hum of the masters' voices.
Then, in this silence, Aisling spoke again, almost despite herself.
Her voice lower, even sharper:
— There is no escape here. Not in Slaver’s Bay.
Her green eyes, burning with contained rage, met Erynn's, then Selka's. She breathed briefly, as if pronouncing the words physically hurt her.
— But... there is a way out. Maybe.
Erynn frowned, her features hardening even more.
— Speak, quickly.
Selka, half-crouched, swayed on the soles of her bare feet, unable to stay still.
Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought for a moment the masters would hear it.
She opened her mouth to make a joke, to act as if nothing was serious, but she refrained under Aisling's fixed gaze.
The half-fairy leaned a little closer, her ivory face almost unreal under the dim light. Her breath was only a poisoned murmur:
— The Vale of Luthien.
Erynn squinted, her forehead furrowed with a hard line.
— The Vale... she growled, as if the word itself smelled of treachery.
Aisling nodded, a slow, controlled, almost haughty movement despite the urgency.
Selka, vibrating with nervous energy, did a little jump in place, her bound wrists clinking softly.
— I like the name, she whispered feverishly. The Vale of Luthien... it sounds nice.
She laughed a little, a clear burst, purely instinctive, as if by saying it loud enough, she could make the danger non-existent.
— It will always be better than the master's tickles, right?
She giggled nervously, her voice rising to a high pitch she no longer controlled.
Aisling looked at her, impassive. Not a smile. Not a word of comfort. Just a hard, cold look, shining with a silent anger.
When she spoke, her voice fell like a blade.
— We know little, she murmured, her green eyes fixed on Selka without softness. And even that we cannot verify the truth.
She turned her head towards Erynn, then back to Selka.
— Because few people have gone there and returned... And they never really returned.
The silence swallowed them for a moment. Even Selka, who opened her mouth to reply, closed it with a small, sharp sound.
Aisling continued, her tone almost ritual, as if she were reciting an old curse:
— It is said to be an endless garden, where the beauty is so pure that it becomes a weapon. That the trees sing. That the rivers sigh.
She paused for a moment, her fingers clenched on her chain.
Then, lower, raspier:
— It is said that everything that lives there is designed to deceive your senses. That the flowers do not open to bloom... but to swallow.
Erynn growled between clenched teeth:
— Charming.
Aisling did not listen to her.
Her gaze, distant, darkened even more.
— That the grass gently folds around your ankles, holding you in place just long enough for... something else to arrive.
She breathed slowly, fighting a shiver that ran up her neck.
— That even the light of the Vale is not real.
Selka, nervously swinging her legs, shrugged with a bravado air.
— Well... it's still better than Slaver’s Bay.
She displayed a dazzling smile, but her golden eyes shone with a fear she could not hide.
— And if the trees sing... I like music.
Aisling stared at her for a moment, cold, implacable.
Then she closed her eyes for a moment.
— In the Vale, they say there are no limits.
She reopened her eyes.
— No mercy.
A final breath.
— No return.
Erynn tensed like a bow ready to break.
Her chains clinked brutally against the stone.
She shook her head, an expression of raw incredulity twisting her features.
— It's madness, she said softly, her words sharp. You said it yourself. No one really comes back.
She threw a furious glance at Aisling, her steel eyes drilling into the fairy like a blade.
— We don't even know what's in there.
Selka giggled nervously, fiddling with the leather strap on her wrist.
She shook her head with a more bravado smile than ever.
— Well... I prefer a scary magical garden to staying here and being tickled until I cry.
She swayed from one foot to the other, her worn boots creaking against the stone.
Her smile was big, bright, and totally fake.
Aisling, straight, rigid, cold, did not react immediately. She let them speak, vent their fear.
Then, her voice rose, dry, implacable:
— There is no other choice.
Her green eyes burned with a cold, contained rage.
— Here, we are objects, and it's getting worse. There... at least, we will be free.
Erynn clenched her teeth so hard that her jaw seemed to crack. She breathed in through her nose, long, as if to swallow her fury and fear in one go. Then she let her head fall against the stone, in a gruff sigh.
Not agreeing. Not happy. But resigned.
Selka hopped in place, unable to contain her agitation.
She glanced sideways at the masters, still absorbed in their dispute, then back at her companions.
— I... I say we try.
She attempted a dazzling smile.
— It will at least be fun... The master is really starting to scare me.
Her voice trembled slightly, despite all her efforts. Aisling looked at them both, serious.
— It's decided, then.
Their masters, laughing softly in the shadow of the columns, did not suspect that their trophies had just chosen to risk everything. To flee towards an unknown worse than captivity. Towards the Vale of Luthien.
The race resumed, wilder, more brutal. Their breath torn from their raw throats, they threw themselves into the gluey night of Slaver’s Bay, slipping between the filthy alleys, the gutted warehouses, the abandoned markets.
Every step echoed like a death knell in the deserted alleys. The cries of their pursuers swelled behind them, growing with each turn, each glimmer of torchlight brandished near the rotten thatched roofs.
Before them, the docks frayed, the stone cracked, giving way to wastelands where pools of brackish water shimmered under the moon. They ran on, guided by instinct, leaping from one shadow to another, slipping between the carcasses of gutted boats, narrowly avoiding the scattered patrols. The further they got from the rotten heart of Slaver’s Bay, the more the city died under their feet: the buildings collapsed on themselves, the alleys widened into silent fields of rubble.
No one lived here. No one dared. For beyond, at the end of this sterile and cracked land, began the shadow of the Vale. Even the most desperate knew not to build too close. The outskirts, the dead land, everything testified to this ancient fear, woven into the very flesh of the city.
Aisling still forced the pace, her thin legs pounding the dry mud. Selka struggled to keep up, her worn boots catching on the stone, stumbling, but always bouncing back. Erynn growled softly behind them, her sword pressed against her side, ready to sell her skin dearly if necessary. Their shadows fled under the last dying fires of the city, stretching like ghosts towards the unknown.
The wind changed. The air became warmer, heavier, sweet with a strange scent that neither salt nor rot could explain. Aisling felt her heart slow despite herself. Her wings, glued to her sweaty back, quivered with a nervous reflex. There, before them, rose a mist. It crept over the ground, enveloping the last stones, swallowing the earth, slowly rising to veil the stars.
They almost stopped at the same moment, panting, lungs burning, legs trembling. Aisling scanned the horizon with a feverish eye. The knotted trees, the thick undergrowth, the shifting mist, everything seemed made to deter even the maddest. The darkness was no longer natural here, it seemed heavier.
Behind them, the torches drew nearer, the cries of the hunters tore through the night.
Selka slid a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Erynn gripped her sword so tightly that her knuckles whitened. Aisling, her face closed, her gaze hard, took a step forward. No other choice. No other escape.
She turned briefly, meeting the gazes of her companions. A nod. A silent prayer.
Then, without waiting, Aisling crossed the edge. Her boots disappeared into the mist, followed by a nervous flutter of wings. Erynn cursed between her teeth and lunged after her, her back straight, her jaw clenched. Selka took a deep breath, like a child before jumping off a cliff, and leaped after them.
The mist closed behind them, swallowing their escape, muffling their steps, their breaths, their fears. Slaver’s Bay faded behind them like a bad dream. Before them, the Vale stretched out its realm, vast, silent, insatiable.
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