First Draft: A Game of Silk and Shadows (Part One, Unfinished) (Patreon)

I suppose in some ways this short stort is an abject failure.  I took it on as an experiment in writing short fiction.  I wanted to see whether I could actually write a proper short story - something in the 10k to 20k range - with a proper beginning, middle and end.  Well, this is now sitting at 15k word and is--optimistically?--about half way done. So I'm calling this part one, with an eye on making it a two-parter.

On the other hand... well, I've had a lot of fun writing it, and hopefully you've enjoyed reading it.  I think there's a lot of potential here to expand it into a novel-length work... but maybe not right now.  In the meantime, I'll have to consider a different idea for shaping into a single, short story of appropriate length.

Here is the current version of the (unfinished) first draft.  I didn't quite get to the end of the scene as I'd hoped, but I think I'll have to shift it to the backburner for now, maybe adding to it when I find the time, and return my attention to Constant. We'll see.

Anyway, let me know what you think!  As always, remember it's in first-draft form, so liable to change, and in this case... unfinished.

Enjoy!

***

A Game of Silk and Shadows

(Working Title)

By Fakeminsk

(fakeminsk@gmail.com)

(patreon.com/fakeminsk)

Chapter One

One: The Old King’s Death

News of the old king’s death spread swiftly across Sangriferia.

In the gambling dens and weather-battered taverns of Fishtown, rough men cashed in bets on the monarch’s demise. In the halls of Houses great and small, lords plotted and prepared for war. The so-called barbarian kings of the Northern Reaches summoned councillors to their wind-swept longhouses to decide whether the death of this weak monarch was an opportunity to exploit. And in the glimmering darkness of the candlelit Obsidian Halls, the veiled virgins of the Twilight Lady began the sonorous week-long dirge that would carry the dead king to the afterlife.

But it was to the capitol that the news spread fastest, where the fashionable ladies of the Crimson Court stood, as still and sculpted as ornate columns in the opulent chambers of power. Only a year ago—but no, not even a year, not so long as that—fashion had followed the example of Princess Elowen and her unbridled spirit: long hair fell freely and the most daring women abandoned dresses and skirts in favour of clothes in the style of the princess’s riding breeches and masculine tunics. But with her tragic and scandalous death—the inevitable outcome of a father’s inability to restrain his daughter, some whispered—the liberated fashion died, as did the deviant habit of women in trousers.

Her mother, the young Queen Kalia favoured dresses, in the style of her homeland across the Stardrop Seas, elegant and free flowing, flattering to her boyish figure, tight in the waist but fluttering and shimmering like butterfly wings as she flew and danced through the many-chambered quarters of the capitol. Briefly, following her daughter’s death, the parties became ever more lavish and vibrant and wild, the desperate reaching for life that follows death. But it was in her ever-more tightly braided hair and the ever-darkening clothes she wore that her grief expressed itself, the wasting grief that eventually consumed her a short six months later.

With both Princess and Queen gone, who to dictate the female fashions of Sanguinna, the capitol, the so-called Castle of Blood sprawled across the high, flat expanse of Blood’s Rest overlooking the sea and city below? Strong-willed, striking yet distant, it was the Lady Teneira of House Malveil who took charge. During the funeral of the Queen, some doubt remained as to whose influence would reign supreme, as the ladies of the great houses vied, subtly yet fiercely, for dominance, through the cunning cut of a veil, the design of a dress, the drop and colour and texture of a skirt or daring flash of a patterned stocking.

All doubts were firmly dispelled at the Festival of the Sisters the following week. Teneira’s main rival, the Lady Timora, had yet to show her face following her debasement that evening.

Gone, then, the ruinous liberty of the Princess’s masculine attire. Some say her preference in footwear endured, in the form of delicately heeled shoes and boots, no longer designed for locking into stirrups but rather for showcasing the skilful sway of a woman’s slow walk.

(Or perhaps, some said, always men, for hooking a woman’s thighs around her lovers’ torso, for the aristocratic sluts of the Court to grip as they knelt, arms behind their back, and serviced their men.)

Gone too those loose and flowing dresses of the Queen, so well suited to wild dances and rushed walks along gardens and courtyards and gleeful chases through sun-dappled meadows.  Instead, it was the memory of her grief that endured. The tight weave of her hair and the dark, heavy fabrics she wore at the end: both inspired the fierce constriction of the fashion that followed. Under Lady Teneira’s knowing smirk and baleful eyes, crushingly restrictive dresses once again seized women in their silken grasp, restricting them to the shallowest breaths and mincing gait as they hobbled in their towering shoes. Weighed down by jewellery, the heavy dangling earrings and gilt chain belts, decorated most meticulously with cosmetics, breathless in the tight grip of corsetry, the ladies of the Crimson Court became like finely sculpted figurines, poised, positioned and painted, shaped into the exquisite form that the Lady Teneira presented so naturally.

And so when the news of the old King’s death reach Lady Aubriella, it was not shock and horror alone that left her breathless.

“My lady?” Her handmaiden, the always attentive Maya, held Aubriella by the elbow. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. As a servant, she was dressed far less severely, and moved with enviable freedom. With her simple grey tunic and mousy-brown hair, she all but disappeared into the background when not directly addressed.

Together, they withdrew to one of the secluded alcoves of the Whispering Gallery. The curved walls were carved with reliefs of the great figures of the past: Talgart Atrebar, the Brave, who drove off the heathen barbarians who once skulked along the shores of the Aelgis river that now ran beneath the capitol; Aelasandra Lannorin, the Pure, whose divine visions brought the Seven Sisters; Alaric McAlasdair, the Ravenshield who seized the North. Above them all, Sangrifiera, the Sister of Sacrifice whose death brought peace, the lost Goddess after whom the Kingdom and capital city took its name.

In passing the great carved and painted history of the kingdom’s founding, Lady Aubriella’s hand, as always, reached out to brush the figure of the Ravenshield. Glittering nails, long and shaped, lingered over the bearded, fierce figure of Alaric. She felt the carved detail of the hero’s strong features beneath her graceful touch, the wide jaw and clenched muscles. He raised his massive axe, Kral, in defiance against the massed enemy hordes of the North.

Aubriella sighed, and then grimaced, her painted lips forming a worried pout. The Whispering Gallery was named for the way sound travelled along the curved walls, and people at opposite ends of the expansive chamber could hear each other’s voice. The sound of her complaint was undignified; ladies didn’t sigh, unless with pleasure; or complain, unless with desire. It wouldn’t do for other courtiers to hear.

Fortunately, the main vaulting chamber was largely empty, though the many alcoves were not. The Whispering Gallery was also named for courtiers’ tendency to use its many private nooks—from which sound most certainly did not travel—to whisper and plot in private. More nobles fell to whispered plans formed in the alcoves of the Gallery in a single year, it was said, than in a century of open combat.

With her handmaiden guiding her by the elbow, she retreated towards the nearest alcove. Aubriella glided rather than walked, her many months of training and punishment smoothing—reshaping—her stride into one that was slow and sinuous. The tightness of her dress, coiled in shimmering swaths of fabric down to her calves without vent or slit, allowed only the daintiest of steps. Every move appeared affected and deliberate, somehow both coquettish and demure. A lady, at least under current fashion, never rushed, even if she wanted to.

Fortunately, the nearest retreat was empty, quiet and dark, one of many quiet recesses that lined the central gallery. Along this side of the Whispering Gallery—the women’s side—ten archways led to small chapels dedicated to either one of the Sisters, or to the Twilight Lady in one of her three incarnations. The other side of the Gallery was for the men and therefore dedicated to the Old Gods, or the New. So it was that Aubriella took refuge under the auspices of the Sister of Submission, Untera.

Even there, in quiet and seclusion, she knew better than to give in to the grief and anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. As a lady it was a duty—an honour, even—to beautify the halls of the Crimson Court. As a woman she must always present her best self; as a girl, to know her place and obey; and as the youngest and only unmarried child of House Malveil she carried the reputation of her adopted family on her slender shoulders.

Such unworthy shoulders, she was often reminded; a shame to the family; a clumsy, inelegant fool, a stupid girl, weak and soft, and so very stubborn and slow in learning the finer skills of feminine aristocracy.

“My lady?”

And there was Maya, of course.  Without her handmaiden, Aubriella knew she would be lost. Maya, so quick to spot any infractions; Maya, so eager to report her failings to House Mistress Castigen. Maya, who delighted in dressing her Lady, in pulling corset lacing savagely tight and then slowly and sensuously sliding stockings up her slender legs before attaching them tautly to the dangling tabs. But also, Maya who deftly deflected the most inappropriate insinuations (or outright lewdness, or aggressive advances) of privileged men and young courtiers, who guided her unfailingly through the labyrinthian back passages of the ancient palace, and who helped the inexperienced Aubriella manoeuvre the intrigues of court.

“I need—” To breathe, Aubriella wanted to say, to take in great gasps of air; but bound tightly in her corset this was impossible. To sit, to relieve the agony of burning calves and instep, but though the alcove was generously lined with padded seats, this too was impossible. A lady—especially one under Castigen’s tutelage—did not sit. Rather the opposite: it was an indicator of dignity and class, of aristocratic demeanour, to bear the challenge to its extremity. The greatest ladies were those who wore their corset the tightest, who walked with confidence in the most precarious of shoes. They did not sit—or kneel, or lie—unless at the bequest of their better, or a man or in the privacy of their own chambers.

Yet she felt the all-too familiar panic seize her, one brought on by both the constriction of her clothing and by the restrictions of her position. Aubriella’s hands fluttered at her side. She felt she might faint. A sudden, insane desire seized her—a need gripping her with all the unyielding insistence of the corset around her waist: to rip off these clothes, tear away the restrictive garments, kick off the shoes and scream, howl and rage through the whispering halls.  I never agreed to this, she wanted to say, this wasn’t part of the deal.

An impossibility, of course: the corset was locked, the shoes’ lacing too intricate and unreachable in her current dress, the bodice tightly tied off behind her back. There was no escape, from either the fashions of Court or her role as a Lady. And the price to pay for such—insanity, for such disobedience—the punishment: Aubriella shuddered.

She shuddered and so she reached for the Litany of Submission. It was inscribed in heavy gilt letting over the silvered oval mirror mounted on the wall of the alcove. Untera, Sister of Submission: this was her chapel, and she invited its occupants to gaze upon themselves and yield. Even without the written reminder, Aubriella knew the litany well. It had been drilled into her as part of her training prior to joining the court.

“With downcast eyes, demure under your dominion,” she began, and the words felt heavy and her tongue thick despite months of practice. She’d little to do with the Sisters before joining House Malveil – at most, a prudent prayer to the Sister of Slaughter in passing. But never the other sisters. “I surrender to you.”

In the mirror, Aubriella saw herself and even after all these months she marvelled at what she had become. Another sparkling jewel for the Garland Crown, the embodiment of social etiquette and feminine decorum, beautiful and alluring; a flirtatious, vapid tease; a pretty, painted face; a frivolous, weak, useless girl. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her side, the long, sharp nails digging into the soft skin, and with fists clenched Aubriella squeezed her eyes shut and fought back tears.

“The litany, my lady.” Maya’s came from far away. “In submission,” the handmaiden began. “I find strength.”

“In submission, I find strength,” Aubriella repeated.

“In obedience—”

“Freedom,” she finished.

Down the ash-slurry cobblestones of Sooton Road, where artisans and craftsmen hammered and carved and wrought their wares, Aubriella knew what men thought of aristocratic women. A woman of court was a decorated vase for every flower with a prickly thorn, said the potters. A pot for every brush, to the painters; a bin for every nail to the carpenters. Along the high-walled barracks of The Walk, soldiers joked of scabbards oiled for every blade: dagger or rapier, broadsword or bastard.

“My weakness is my strength,” Aubriella continued, and with speaking her tongue loosened and the words flowed more freely. “Through surrender, I assert my true nature; my nature is manifest in the truths of the gentle grace that guides me to my place.”

The words were taught to every girl from their earliest years. From the expansive fields of the southern reaches, where warm winds and gentle rains coaxed rich golden harvests from the land to the storm-battered port cities and fishing villages nestled in the rocky crags of the West, girls—but especially those of noble heritage or aristocratic aspirations—were taught from an early age their place. Only in the wild North, where both men and women remained too proud and fierce to submit did women spurn the Sister’s words.

Aubriella continued the litany. Maya nodded in approval and remained silent as her mistress continued the recitation on her own, finishing and repeating the words with growing confidence. Her gentle murmur filled the small space with the melody of her lilting voice. With each repetition she felt her earlier panic subside. The words quashed her thoughts and fears.

Orlando, she thought. My King. This wasn’t—your protection—I can’t—like soap bubbles over a bath, her fears rose and popped and faded. Only the mantra remained, the litany, and as her fear and resentment subsided it was replaced by a desire—the terrible wanting—need, even—to submit, to surrender; to achieve the promised strength that might finally bring the peace and tranquillity for which she desperately yearned.

And for the first time since taking on the role of adopted daughter, she felt the first brush of newfound calm sweep over her, like one walking slowly through the trailing wisps of a morning fog. Surrender, yield, submit and obey – words once difficult now dripped like honey from her lips and she felt a pleasant tingle deep in her belly, a spreading warmth beneath the steel boning and metal clasps and straps and buckles and lace and ribbons that contained her. Docile, passive and meek; submission and compliance: Aubriella completed the litany a fourth and final time and closed her eyes and sighed.

A presence moved within the Chapel. The presence entered her, settled within her: it brought a comforting stillness.

A deep breath, and Aubriella gazed upon herself in the mirror.

She was beautiful.

Her eyes were a loamy, deep hazel, flecked with green as vibrant as the fertile hills of her homeland after the snows thawed and the rivers ran gorged with meltwaters. Large and expressive in the dimness of the room, there was something—haunted, in those eyes, anger or sadness yet lurked behind her new-found composure. Many had commented on those eyes in recent months, mostly men, holding her hand and speaking of her beauty with great earnestness, of the jewels buried in the rich earth of her gaze, of gardens veiled behind the thickness of fluttering lashes.

And they were right to do so, she realised: her eyes were beautiful and deep and deserving of praise. Especially considering the effort she made to highlight them, the effort of taming her heavy brows, the recently acquired skills with cosmetics, the feathering of browns and greens on the eyelids, the touch of bronze, the careful line of the pencil along the lids—Aubriella felt for the first-time genuine pride in her newfound artistry.

The same for her lips, full and skilfully painted in the dark reds popular in court, a rich velvety burgundy that contrasted with the natural paleness of her skin. Her nose, thin with a little upturn. High cheekbones and a wide forehead. A narrow, weak chin; she smiled, wryly.

But it was her namesake, the lush and luxurious reddish-brown hair that cascaded over her shoulder and down her back, that demanded attention. Jealousy, from other women of the Court, especially those forced to rely on the nob-thatcher—the wig-maker—to fill out their threadbare scalp to meet the demands of fashion. In a court following Lady Teneira’s preference for the tight coils of elaborately woven braids, Aubriella enjoyed the freedom to wear her hair loose and full.

She watched her reflection pull long nails through thick tresses below the glittering hair net adorning her scalp and understood why. She’d cursed her hair and the effort needed to maintain it, the hundred daily strokes to subdue it, and the constant distraction of it tickling her cheeks and neck, the way it fell across her eyes, the demand for her constant attention. But in a Court filled with fiercely tamed and rigid women, her hair burst free like wildfire. Every unconscious poke, prod and sweep back of her hair drew the admiring gaze of men—and the ire of women.

Long, heavy, dangling earrings reached nearly to her shoulders and though she once found the weight nearly unbearable, they now felt comfortable, the tug at her lobes a constant reminder of her place. The large, square-cut emeralds twirled slowly, surrounded by clusters of tiny, sparkling diamonds, all set in gold burnished to a bright gleam. Around her neck, a heavy pendant decorated with another gleaming stone, a conspicuous display of wealth nestled between her breasts.

Her breasts. For so long now she’d blushed with shame and embarrassment at their size, at how swiftly they’d grown and then the way corsetry and other female trickery exhibited the fullness of her cleavage. But beyond the shame she suddenly found—pride, pleasure even, in her curves. Why deny the reality of what she saw? Her tits were gorgeous and—she bit her lip and flushed—they felt good, when touched. She felt her nipples tighten, her hand drifting upwards, the gentle warmth in her belly slowly creeping along her neck; and the reality of her femininity—the reality that men gazed upon her tits with lust and desired her and that their heavy, strong hands—to submit to that touch—could bring—what harm in yielding, after so many months of resisting…?

A warning throb below stilled her hand and thoughts.

“I suppose,” Maya mused, her voice cutting through Aubriella’s distraction. “With the old king dead, there won’t be any further objection to your marriage.”

Aubriella shook her head. Submission to her fate, acceptance of the sacrifice she’d made those many months ago, yes, maybe; but this—to marry—a man!—of Lord Edmund Malveil’s choosing….?

“Surely Lord Malveil has greater concerns than the marriage prospects of an insignificant girl,” Aubriella whispered. “The King is dead.” And then stopped, and swallowed, and felt an almost overwhelming grief seize her by the throat. The King was dead. King Orlando—dead. Her King; her friend, once.

Maya shrugged. “Dead, and every house lord, minor and major with pretentions for the Garland Crown will be plotting their little plots and to what end? The throne is Edmund’s. Has been for years.”

“The support of the East rises and falls with the sun.” Aubriella repeated the well-known proverb. “And the Western houses won’t abide a king with daughters tied to southern thrones.”

“And what of the North?” Her smirk was unbefitting a servant. “Where does the North’s loyalty lie?”

“With the stone and the snow,” she answered, softly and to herself. “With wind and wyrd.” Then, because a lady didn’t say such things, she answered louder, “The McAlasdairs won’t stand for it. Angus can’t accept Malveil’s claim. The minor houses would rebel.”

“Lord McAlasdair, lady,” Maya corrected. “Earl of the North. Remember your place.”

Aubriella clenched her hands tightly together to stop their fluttering and nodded.

“My Lady Aubriella?” A voice, at the entrance to the chapel; a male presence standing just outside the threshold, a servant shadowed by the lights of the Whispering Gallery. “Lord Malveil requests your presence.”

She knew the request was anything but. She dismissed the servant with a graceful nod of the head and took a moment to compose herself. The peace she felt following her recital of the litany remained incomplete. For the first time, she felt able to suppress certain instincts and accept her place as a young girl, her role as a lady, and her position within House Malveil. But her anxiety over the future remained, as well as grief over the death of the king.

Aubriella turned to leave. Her reflection flashed in a second mirror placed opposite the first. Her image multiplied and cast itself backwards into an infinity of echoed selves. And it seemed that across the many versions of herself she glimpsed some that reminded her of who she used to be—and many, who she might yet be: an adornment to a great man’s arm; a decorative addition to a House; the demure bride; the servile wife; even the tired and devoted mother. Her breath caught in her throat. Yet she also glimpsed other selves—few and hard to discern among the man—that somehow exuded a greater strength—reminding her of a past best forgotten—and in reflection the inscribed words of the litany appeared changed, though blurred. But it was nothing more than a trick of flickering candles and darkness and when she paused and looked again she saw nothing more than a dim and ordinary reflection.

“Not yet,” Maya murmured at her side. “You are not ready.”

Aubriella looked at her quizzically.

“The Sisters are slow to reveal themselves,” Maya added, as though it explained anything.

Aubriella looked to her handmaiden, and back to the mirror, and felt a sudden gulf between them, as though teetering at the edge of a chasm she’d hardly known existed. Swallowing against her fear, Aubriella nodded and with Maya at her side began the long, torturous walk to her Lord’s chambers.

Two: The Axe of the North

“Leave us.”

With a wave of his hand, Edmund Malveil, Earl of the South, Lord of House Malveil, dismissed the servants and sycophants, courtiers and councillors, lords and ladies that littered his hall. The guards were last leave, hesitating at the door.

“Leave!” he shouted. “Do you think I have anything to fear from—her?”

The pudgy finger indicated Lady Aubriella, standing with hands clasped before her and eyes demurely downcast. She stood at the bottom of the wide stone risers leading to her Lord’s seat. She could not have mounted the stairs to stand level with him even had she wanted or dared to, the tightness of her dress and the precariousness of her shoes making each step an exquisite challenge.

House Malveil’s halls at the capitol were lavish with conspicuous wealth accumulated over three generations of royal favour. Rich tapestries covered the walls, elaborate depictions of the House’s glorious past. Gold glistened in the dancing light from a dozen heavy braziers, and the bright fire burned in the jewels adorning Edmund’s crown, sceptre and rings. Crown and sceptre lay piled on a table near Edmund’s throne, discarded and ignored on a heap of fur-lined cloaks and richly embroidered clothing.

In contrast to the rich opulence, the Lord of House Malveil slouched in his heavy seat, a corpulent, slovenly man, unshaven and dishevelled, dressed in the full trapping of wealth worn with absolute disregard. Once, he’d been regarded as a handsome man, a powerful man: tall, strong and fearsome, with dark eyes and a perpetual smirk. A tapestry triptych portrayed him at the front of the King’s armies at the Battle of Trath Hill, steeped in blood and slaughter; carving a path through his enemy; and the final encounter with Lady Jahara, single-handedly defeating the heretical acolyte and fallen mother—a tale as fanciful as it was glorious, securing his house’s dominance for another generation.

But those days were far behind him. Now, Edmund drew a sharp contrast with the surrounding fashionable trappings. His sister, the Lady Teneira Malveil, dictated the fashions of Court and the decorations of his hall, but she exerted little influence over him and he often seemed to derive a perverse, almost childish pleasure in ignoring her efforts at cultivating style and sophistication.

Above all else, he exuded boredom—a dangerous, cunning ennui that found diversion in games played for their own sake. He exerted power because power existed to be exerted; for no greater reason than that.

They were alone now. Earl Edmund Malveil slouched chin in palm and drummed the armrest with his fingers. Heavy rings glinted with the rhythmic movement. He stared down at the demure girl, his adopted daughter Aubriella, who remained standing with eyes fixed on the floor. Her handmaiden also remained. It never occurred to him to dismiss the servant; she was ubiquitous at her mistress’s side, and he almost instantly forgot her presence.

He’d once diverted himself and taken pleasure in watching Aubriella’s gradual acquiescence to her role, her struggle and shame, the slow but inexorably erosion of her former stubbornness and submersion under layers of silks and lace, weighed down by jewellery and the constant, grinding minutiae of her life at Court. To see her there so tightly ensconced in femininity should have brought him exquisite joy, but it had been nearly a year now and instead he felt only the first stirrings of the old boredom. Yes; boredom, even though he had planned for and anticipated this very day for the past year. There was little pleasure for Edmund in bringing a plot to fruition, not when its completion meant the utter defeat of his rival. He felt instead a rather strange sort of sadness; a familiar feeling, for this was hardly the first foe he’d destroyed.

“House Mistress Castigan reports you are doing well.” He watched the girl carefully, judging her reaction. “You make a very pretty bauble for the Crimson Court.”

Aubriella bobbed her head. “Lady Castigan is too kind, my lord,” she murmured. She had yet to meet his gaze.

“How so?”

“I remain a clumsy fool,” she said. “A silly and stupid girl.”

Her response sparked his interest. Her previous—antagonism and seething resentment was absent; what had changed?

“True,” he conceded. “And yet I am plagued by courtiers expressing their interest,” he added. “They extol at length your charms and beauty: the sparkle of your eyes and the divine glow of your face and the fiery radiance of your hair. They speak of the sweetness of your breath, the allure of your full lips and the hope of a honeyed kiss.” He barked with laughter. “And your tits; yes, they speak of your full, snowy-white tits and your tight ass and the promise of a wet aristocratic cunt beneath those tight dresses.”

Aubriella remained silent.

“In other words, these men desire marriage, adopted daughter.” Edmund leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath his weight. “What think you of that, hmm? Of marriage?”

Finally, Aubriella raised her eyes. Auburn curls tumbling back over her shoulder. Earrings twirled and between the emerald flare of gemstones, she stared up at her lord and in her eyes burned hatred and fury and shame and fear. But the flush of emotions was quickly suppressed. A flutter of the eyes and her placid calm resumed, but the flash was enough to briefly excite Edmund.

She opened her mouth, closed it, and swallowed nervously. Her hand fluttered at her side before smoothing down the font of her dress. “It is an honour,” she finally said, “One I have never dreamed of.”

“Never?” Edmund sneered. “I’m sure. Well. Think on it now, girl, it’s why we brought you into the family. The men are lining up.  They want to fuck you, Aubriella, spread your legs and plant their seed in your belly and secure an alliance with House Malveil.”

He watched her shiver and took some delight in that, as he did in the thought of the girl perched in her towering shoes and bent over some insignificant minor lord’s table with her ass in the air, dress hiked up around her waist and legs spread and trembling in anticipation. Or on her knees, face impaled on the man’s cock, moaning with indignity and need.

“After all, the king is dead, and the vultures are circling. Like—” He paused, as though in remembrance of old words. “Like flies to shit.”

Aubriella’s eyes dropped.

“Isn’t that what you used to say? Hmm?”

Again, she remained silent.

“Answer me!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Yes, my lord,” he mimicked, in a little girl’s voice.

But what she said next took him surprise. Her tone was gentle—tired and a little sad, but entirely absent of her old anger. “How can you hate me so much?” she asked.

Her question angered him. It angered Edmund because he read in the question an implied power over him, a power he no longer held over her. To be able to provoke hatred, love, or any strong emotion within another was to have power over them, he knew, and he felt the diminishing of his own influence over this girl.

And all the possible answers rushed forward from deep within and filled him with old anger and resentment. He could say: because before, your presence was a constant reminder of what I used to be. Or: because of my wife and the whispers that once filled the Court. Or: because your stubbornness and stupidity and blindness would have ruined us all, your love for that fool of a dead king would have destroyed this kingdom and denied me what is rightfully mine.

Or perhaps even: but I don’t hate you and never have; that this is not hate; this is power and the nature of power is to be grasped and used or it is lost.  Once, you had this power; you failed to use it; and now you are mine.

But instead, he said, “because you insulted me,” which was also true—the pettiest and therefore most true of his reasons. “Behind my back and to my face.  You were so full of yourself, so high and mighty, above us all and looking down at the Court, at courtiers, at the nobility and at men—at men like me.

“You mocked me—openly!—and made a mockery of the games we played, believing yourself better as though there was greater honour in the open blade than the veiled knife. Perhaps you should have paid more attention and learned to play.” He laughed, an ugly sound from the back of his throat. “If you’d played the game better perhaps it would be you, sitting comfortably in this high chair and me in bonds of silk below.” His mockery died on the tongue, the idea of him—in her position—perched and pinioned by fashions of his sister’s choosing an impossibility, a hideous farce. He could never consent to such a fate; not as the fool below had.

“Weak, you called us.” He sneered at the girl. “Soft, you called us.” With elbows on both knees, he leaned forward in his seat, fingers interlaced over the bulge of his belly. He gestured with a single, ring-laden finger. “Who’s soft now, Aubriella?”

“I am,” she whispered.

“Show me.”

Her eyes widened. He saw a terrible dread there, the fear of humiliation, and it briefly excited him. But her fear faded quickly, sinking beneath the same placid calm she’d carried with her into his hall. She stared back at him and he stared back at her and then slowly she raised her hand and brought it to her chest. Her fingers slid within the low neckline of her dress and curled into the softness of the flesh she found there. Under the watchful eyes of her lord, Aubriella pawed at her own breasts.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Softness,” she said.

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Close your eyes,” he ordered. “And keep at it, girl. I want to hear you.” He allowed himself a moment of pleasure, watching Aubriella grope herself. Her mouth parted and she sagged slightly, a quiet moan escaping her lips.

But the pleasure was fleeting and because her question still annoyed him, Edmund diverted from the script he’d long planned for this encounter. He reached down by the side of his seat. He retrieved an axe where it lay affixed, one of a pair mounted on either side of his throne. Unlike many of the weapons lining the walls of the hall, this one wasn’t ornamental. It was an ugly, brutal thing: a simple wooden shaft with a metal ball, dull iron and pitted at one end. The other end was edged and jagged and hooked. It was a weapon designed to kill rather than decorate.

Edmund hefted the weapon. It was heavy but weighted for throwing. Below, Aubriella continued to pleasure herself at his command. How long, he briefly wondered, would she keep at it? But her debasement already bored him. With a grunt, he tossed the weapon. It fell with a loud clatter at her feet.

The young woman’s eyes flew open.

“Take it,” Edmund ordered.

With some difficulty, Aubriella retrieved the weapon. The precarious height of her shoes and the tightness of her dress made bending or kneeling difficult. Slowly, and with exquisite grace born of incessant training and practice, she reached for the axe. She wiggled within her dress and bent slightly at the knees but mostly from the waist, with her ass high in the air. Heavy breasts hung pendulously, nearly slipping free of her bodice, and jewellery spun and sparkled as her hair cascaded nearly to the stone floor.

Her fingers curled around the shaft. Their delicate paleness and vividly painted nails drew a sharp contrast with the dark wood and cold metal. With just as much care she straightened, and stood, with the axe held loosely in her hand.

Edmund could see the strain in her slender arms and shoulders, yet she carried the weapon with ease and comfort. Weapon in hand, she seemed to visibly relax. Her entire posture changed and despite the cripplingly long and shaped nails that were the fashion of Court, the weapon somehow sat easily in her grip. When she looked up at him, he felt a delicious thrill of danger.

“You thought us weak, once,” he said. His mocking smile was gone.

From behind her veil of auburn hair, glimmering with its decorative net of precious stones, Aubriella considered the axe.

“Who’s weak now?”

She looked up at him. With wide eyes she contemplated the distance between them and the weight of the weapon in her hands. He thought he saw her tremble with the desire she must feel. Edmund watched her judge the distance between them and evaluate the weight of the weapon and her grip tightened slightly and—

Eith a dull knell against the stone floor, the axe dropped to the floor.

“I am,” she murmured.

“Good girl,” he said, and felt both elated and disappointed. He gestured at the weapon on the floor. “That axe belonged to our great rival,” he added. “It belonged to Duncan McAlasdair, the Axe of the North.” And he shifted his great bulk back into his chair, rubbing at an unshaven cheek with one hand. Edmund sighed. “And what happened to the Axe, I wonder, hmm, girl? Can you tell me that?”

Her gaze dropped once again and she hid behind the lustrous fall of her hair. “He is dead,” she said.

“Dead?” he repeated.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And how did he die?”

“In service to his King,” she answered. “Doing his duty.”

“He died a failure,” Edmund spat. “And a traitor.”

Aubriella flinched but remained silent.

“Castigan’s taught you well, hasn’t she?” Edmund said and laughed, though the girl’s newfound composure continued to annoy him. “Tell me, girl: where’s that celebrated pride and arrogance now, hmm? The stubbornness? The anger?”

Her lips moved in response, too quiet to hear. He leaned forward. “What’s that? Speak up, girl!”

“… my true nature," she murmured at the threshold of his understanding. "My nature is manifest in the truths of the gentle grace that guides me to my place.”

“Enough prattle!” He growled in the back of his throat. He recognized the litany, of course, and had heard its women’s words on their lips often enough. And though her apparent submission made his plans all the easier, there remained something unnerving in Aubriella’s newfound capitulation to her role.

“Undress,” he ordered.

Aubriella started.  “My lord?”

“You heard me,” he barked.

This, too, had never been part of his script, the orchestration of his foe’s final debasement. Edmund had seen her naked often, from her initial imprisonment in the dungeons below these very Halls, to the days of her training, blindfolded and broken, in the dimly lit and cloyingly scented back rooms of the pleasure dens of Petal Street.

She gaped at him for a moment, lips forming a very pretty painted ‘O’ of dismay. She looked around for an ally and found only her handmaiden Maya once again at her side. But the handmaiden remained impassive and offered nothing. A slow flush blossomed across her chest and crept up Aubriella’s neck.

“My lord, it is—” She struggled to find the word to adequately express her feeling. “Improper.”

“For a merchant to inspect his wares?” Edmund sneered.

“I am— more than goods to trade.”

“As you are mine,” he answered. “I give you to my friends. You are an unmarried woman; my daughter; you are chattel.”

“But—”

“Do as I say!” he roared, his voice echoing across the chambers. Spittle flew and he heaved himself to his feet, gesturing imperiously at the girl below. The door to the hall flew open; a guard stood at the threshold, sword half-drawn from its scabbard: “OUT!” Edmund thundered, and the door slammed shut once more.

He spun back to Aubriella. “Undress! Or I’ll undress you myself.”

Aubriella, aristocratic lady of the court and his adopted daughter, flushed and trembled with must have been the effort of suppressing her rage and humiliation. And yet she submitted, eyed dropping away from her lord’s mocking, angry glare.

Edmund licked his lips and watched with keen interest. With the handmaiden’s help, off came the long, tight dress, an undertaking of no small effort. But once the laces were untied and the garment loosened and carefully tugged down the girl’s hourglass form, Aubriella was finally able to step free of it and then she stood before her lord in corset and stockings, heels and panties.

She glittered with the reflected light like a brilliant ornament, the multitude embroidered gemstones in her undergarments and hair casting back the light of the braziers. Her cheeks and lips gleamed, and her whole body flushed red with shame as she shivered in her partial nakedness.

He took an unexpectedly fierce pleasure in seeing her diminutive form and womanly curves. He knew little of such things, but the corset seized the girl around the waist like a vice; he could only imagine its discomfort, or the annoyance of suspenders and stockings, the difficulty in affixing them and the distracting tug that must accompany every move. Some part of him wondered how she endured it, the constant grip, the enforced assiduousness of every gesture and step and the incessant petty details that now comprised her life, one so different than before.

Next, the handmaiden loosened the long laces of the shoes that wound up Aubriella's calves to just below the knee. Again, Edmund marvelled at this pulling back of the veil, the revelation of feminine mysteries to which he’d never paid attention—with scorn, of course, and mockery, yet he couldn’t deny a grudging recognition of his rival’s mastery of such foolishness. To even stand in such precarious, fluting things, the tapering heel and high arch and tall platform; not just stand yet alone walk—impossible; yet hidden behind the shifting hems of their dresses, the women of the court manoeuvred in them daily. As did Aubriella, Edmund thought, and smiled.

With great care, Aubriella stepped down from her tall footwear. Then the stockings, which the handmaiden gently rolled down her mistress’s legs.

Maya stopped at that and stood next to Aubriella. Both girls stared at the floor in silence, as though in shared suffering under the oppressive glare of the man standing over them.

“Well?” He licked his lips, swallowed and pointed. “The rest of it!” he demanded.

Maya glanced up, as though ashamed to meet his gaze—or rather, ashamed by his demand rather than by her position. But her voice was clear and cool when she answered. “Lady Castigan has instructed the Lady Aubriella’s corset should not be removed without her express consent.”

“Am I Lord of this House, or she?” he roared. “Remove it!”

“It is locked, my Lord.”

“Then unlock it!” In a rage that took him by surprise, he reached down the other side of his throne. He yanked the second axe, the twin to the one that remained at Aubriella’s feet, free from its mount and brandished it at the girls. “Or must I come down there and slice her free myself?”

With unnerving, impassive confidence, the servant stared back at him before giving a little shrug and returning to her mistress. She retrieved a tiny key from a hidden pocket and with it released a lock that secured the panel over the concealed laces. A few minutes more, and she loosened her mistress’s corset and assisted her in releasing the busk closures. The corset opened and fell away and was carefully laid out on the stone floor over Aubriella’s dress, a colourful swath of embroidered steel and lace.

Aubriella sagged and nearly swooned with her release. She took a deep, shuddering breath and caressed her sides. Maya gently moved her arms over her head and undid and removed the simply cotton shift worn beneath the corset, so that when Aubriella finally straightened and turned back towards her lord, she stood naked but for the final silky scrap of lacy fabric preserving her modesty. Her large, rounded breasts hung free, and the scented oils from her morning bath gave her pale skin a luminous sheen in the firelight.

One hand drifted to conceal the delicate panties, the other trying in vain to cover her fulsome chest. Again, Edmund marvelled at—and took dark pleasure in—the extent of her transformation, at how her body had moulded itself to the enforced curves of her corsetry and retained that shape even when released from it.

“All of it,” Edmund ordered.

Maya went to draw the panties down but Aubriella looked at her and shook her head. Staring up at the man standing high above her, she slowly slid the underwear down her lithe legs and stepped free, kicking the scrap of silk aside with a flick of her foot.

They stood like that for a moment, a frozen tableau of two young women and the man standing over them.

“And so there it is, finally.” Edmund broke the silence. “The so-called Axe of the North.”

The 'Axe of the North' was tightly wrapped in a filigree prison of finely woven filaments, a steelsilk sleeve as delicate as it was strong, tautly restrained between her smooth thighs and tied back between her ass cheeks to gold chain that encircled her narrowed waist. Within it, Edmund could she her cock, impressive in girth and length, semi-engorged with denial and humiliation, but painfully constrained. Castigan has explained to Edmund that the web and spiral of wire-thin threads promised pain rather than pleasure should its contents swell too large. The final humiliation was an intricate lacing of decorative bows and pretty decorations adorning the masculine organ.

"So tell me, girl—” Edmund stopped and laughed, though with little humour. “Enough of this. So tell me—Duncan—once Earl of the North, the Lord McAlasdair and sovereign of all that house’s territories and holdings; yes, do tell me, so-called Axe of the North—my soft and weak adopted daughter—what shall I do with you?”

Standing naked but for the cage around her penis, Edmund’s emasculated foe remained silent. Edmund walked towards her—towards him; it pleased him to think of Duncan, now, this foe, his conquered enemy; there was greater pleasure to be derived from flaunting his victory over the man than some insignificant girl.

“How do I marry off a girl with—that—between her thighs?" he mused as he descended the stone steps separating them. He still held the axe in his hand, and its flat edge bumped against his thigh. “What man is going to want to marry a girl with more meat between her legs than he, hmm? What do I do with you?”

Duncan continued to watch him in silence and in shame. He hugged his naked frame with slender arms and dropped his eyes to the floor. He hid behind the fall of auburn hair.

“Perhaps I could sell you to one of the pleasure palaces of Petal Street,” Edmund said. “A girl of your beauty would fetch a good price. They’d find a use for your defect, I imagine.”

Duncan gasped, looking up with eyes wide in horror. Edmund saw in those eyes the memory of the time spent in those soft-cushioned rooms. Lady Castigan’s training and punishment early into Duncan’s transformation had done a lot to break the man’s initial resistance. Edmund recollected his own visit with great pleasure, the sight of his rival kneeling before him, blindfolding, tightly bound, tits on display, mouth open, wet and inviting….

Duncan’s arms drew tighter around his slight frame in fear.  “No—you swore an oath!”

“Still, seems a waste,” Edmund continued, ignoring her. “And I suppose Castigan would be furious. Though angering that bitch and reminding her of her place could be reason enough…?” He pretended to seriously contemplate the idea and forced a grin at his enemy’s fear.

Finally, he shook his head as though dismissing the idea. “Nevertheless,” he continued. “No. I am sure there are better uses for you. Marriage seems most prudent. It is why we needed another daughter, after all.” Though a year distant, Edmund still felt a certain—regret—at the loss, at the necessary sacrifice of a valuable pawn. “Following your failure to safeguard the original, hmm, Duncan?”

It amused him to see that the shame and regret of his supposed failure still haunted his defeated rival.

“It was—”

“Your duty,” Edmund chided.  He descended the final step and stood before Duncan. He towered over the other—man—now: free of those ridiculous shoes, and with his once formidable height and build melted away, Duncan’s diminutive form barely reached Edmund’s shoulders. The larger man took Duncan’s chin between his thick fingers and forced those beautiful eyes up to meet his. He gazed into those deep, green and earth-brown eyes behind their full, feminine lashes, framed in precisely painted colours, and sought the tightly bound, furiously raving man that he knew must lurk behind the doe-like placidity. “And failing in one oath,” he added, and brushed the back of his beefy hand across his cheek, “You accepted another.”

“But not this,” Duncan whispered. “Never—"

“And so to marriage,” he continued, “as must any dutiful daughter.” From cheek to neck: he shifted his grip and held Duncan firmly by the neck and forced her head this way and that, as though inspecting for damages. “But then, to whom, hmm?

“After all, I imagine there are more than a few Lords, both lesser and great, who would love nothing more than to have the great Duncan McAlasdair as their subservient bride?” Edmund’s smile was cold and calculating, as his thick fingers roughly pushed through Duncan’s tresses. The earrings he wore, and the pendant; they were familiar to him, though he couldn’t recall why. Relics of the household, he suspected, heirlooms of the past. Castigan would have chosen them for reasons beyond him, some petty veiled code, the irrelevant language of female fashion.  “As their personal plaything, hmm, don’t you think?

“Would you enjoy that, Duncan? A lifetime of mincing about in dresses servicing the needs of an Ancaster or a Mallas or a Pollox? Imagine the pleasure Lord Allan Togruk would take in your debasement? The joy that old, fat sadist would derive from your suffering? What would he have you do, I wonder? Can you imagine what he would make you wear, the bindings, the torture, the humiliation?”

“You swore an oath,” Duncan whispered.

Edmund’s touch slid down the slender form, caressing sloping shoulders and skin as smooth as that of any Petal Street prostitute.  He relished the way Duncan trembled beneath his touch. “As did you,” he said, and grabbed the man’s breasts. His grip was rough, and he pinched the nipple and enjoyed the way his victim whimpered. “An oath, hmm? Before the Old Gods and the New, in the full knowledge of everything that entailed.”

“Not—” Edmund twisted the nipple between his fingers, and Duncan gasped in pain, knees buckling, and moaned and swayed and squeezed his eyes shut as though to escape his predicament. “This; I never—”

“Thought it would lead to this?” Suddenly bored, Edmund shoved the man away. Duncan stumbled and fell the ground and clapped his small hands to his large breasts. “No, I don’t imagine you did. You were never much of a thinker, were you, hmm? Good with an axe; not so good with a brain.”

Shaking his head in mock disappointment, Edmund turned his back on his former enemy. “And yet, as much pleasure as it might bring me to know of your girlish suffering under some minor ally, it still seems a waste of a valuable resources. You should thank me, really: as Aubriella, you don’t need much a brain. You are, after all, a very pretty girl.

“The promise of marriage to the right family could help secure their support for the Throne,” he mused, as though this decision hadn’t been made a year ago. He turned to face Duncan, who remained crumpled to the floor with a look of resignation on his pretty face.

“But as I said—who would marry you when you have—that?” He pointed at the place between Duncan’s smooth thighs. “Hmm? Not with that; no.”

Beautiful eyes widened with realisation. “Please, no,” Duncan moaned. “Not again,” he said, and trembled with must have been remembered pain.

“But your transformation is so nearly complete, Duncan.” Edmund smiled. “Removing that final vestige of the past is doing you a favour! The pain should be mercifully brief—there’s so little that remains, after all.”

Duncan whimpered. “But it’s all I have left, all that remains of—”

Edmund sneered. “Of—what?”

Duncan stared up at him. Vivid, fertile eyes, deep and rich and yet, Edmund realised, unchanged from his previous life—longer lashes and cosmetics and naturally wider expressions may give those eyes their feminine expression, but they had always been beautiful.

Duncan sagged, shoulders slumping, releasing a defeated sigh.

“Of—nothing.”

Edmund smile was a thin line of triumph. “Precisely. And so must it be. A sweet, tight, wet nothing between those thighs. And as for marriage—”

And here he paused for dramatic effect. His smile grew, and he felt a wicked thrill of anticipation race through him. This was his moment: the moment in which the North fell, the McAlasdairs crumbled, and the throne became his.

“I can think of no better marriage than to Angus McAlasdair, Earl of the North and sovereign of its lands.”

His moment of triumph did not go as intended.

One second, Duncan was on the floor, an utterly defeated enemy, soft and weak and pathetic, a mewling helpless, naked girl entirely at his mercy. And the next—

Duncan was behind him. A sharp blow to the back of Edmund’s legs dropped him. His knees hit the stone floor and he gasped with pain. He flailed out with his arm—still holding the axe—there was a sharp, sudden pain at the elbow—then numbness—and the weapon dropped.

It was in Duncan’s hand before it hit the ground; but then, it had always been his, Edmund remembered, the weapon had always belonged to the Axe of the North.

One sharp blade was at his neck. Edmund tensed as Duncan pressed up against him. He felt the knee in his lower back and the pillowy softness of naked breasts pushing into the thick meat of his shoulder. He felt the cold metal sleeve poking into his thigh, and a sharp prick at his crotch: the second axe was at his groin, the barbed hooked end digging into his scrotum.

He had forgotten: forgotten what it meant to be the Axe of the North, the almost supernatural speed with which the greatest warriors of those brutal lands carried themselves. It had been too long—he had come to believe the jealous lies of Court and the casual dismissal of the stories that trickled south. Edmund had suppressed his own memories of battles long ago alongside his once friend and brother—now rival—now daughter—the way Duncan moved, the elegant dance of carnage as he flitted among his enemies and the heavy hewing of the axe, the spout of blood, the cries of agony, and his exultant songs of slaughter. One man in a generation earned the title Duncan bore; and he had never passed it on to a successor.

It had been a mistake to strip his foe of clothing, Edmund realised, a foolish indulgence to give in to his desire to see Duncan humbled and naked. Released from the tight dress that limited his stride, the corset that constricted and the shoes that crippled, the Axe once again danced and promised vengeance.

“Perhaps you’d like to join me, Edmund,” Duncan purred. “In having a wet slit of your own?”

And it excited him, the female nakedness pressed up against him; it excited him, the edge at his neck, the blade at his cock. This close, the scent of bath oils and floral perfumes wounds its floral tendrils around him and Edmund grew hard and his breathing laboured.

But he dared not move. Erotic or not, Edmund had no intention of dying and knew Duncan would not hesitate to cut his throat if called out or struggled. Olds Gods and New, but the man had reason enough to cut him down.

But for his oath, of course.

“Just like old times, hmm, Duncan?”

Duncan’s breath was hot on his cheek. “We were brothers, Edmund,” Duncan hissed. Even in anger and betrayal, his voice remained lilting and melodic. Auburn tresses tickled Edmund’s cheeks as his enemy spoke. “At Trath.” Edmund felt his gaze drawn towards the tapestry, the triptych of his glory at the Battle, guided by the gentle insistence of the blades at neck and groin. “Why don’t you tell me, you fat fucking slug, what you see there.”

“Glory,” Edmund answered without hesitation.

“Lies,” Duncan spat. “That battle was won by me.” His grip on Edmund tightened, the blades drawing closer; a bead of blood blossomed like a flowering bud and trickled down his neck. “Then, like now, by my sacrifice.”

Edmund chuckled, though he felt only disgust at the memories Duncan provoked. “You were always quick to give yourself over to—a cause.”

“For the good of the people,” Duncan said. “Out of loyalty to the King.”

Edmund laughed, a grim sound. “Serve your king, then. For I will be King, soon; the Garland Crown will be mine and House Malveil will rule for generations.”

Silence, then. “You would marry me to my own brother and provoke the fury and disgust of the Gods,” Duncan said, and his little girl’s voice was appalled.

“I would marry you to your brother and forge an alliance between our families that will bring unity to the kingdom and peace to the land for generations.”

“The people would not stand for a union steeped in sin.”

“What sin? The people know only Aubriella, adopted daughter of House Malveil.”

“The House Lords of the North would rebel.”

“The House Lords of the North will abide by your brother’s decision when your own sacred rituals reveal that Aubriella is a true daughter of the North, and that fine, worthy Northern blood flows through her veins.”

Edmund felt no hesitation in Duncan, no weakening, and the threatening blades did not waver. Yet he also felt his foe’s laboured breathing and confusion.

“The Gods would destroy us. The taint of incest would be the undoing of the House.”

At that, Edmund did laugh—a genuine laugh—at Duncan’s foolish adherence to old ways. “Still a fool, hmm, Duncan?” he said. “And such arrogance! The Gods have greater concerns than a man fucking and planting his seed in his own transformed brother. The Gods do not care, Duncan.”

“Those of the North do.”

Idiotic Northern exceptionalism, Edmund thought, and realised he was once again growing bored—bored despite the threat of death, bored by this pointless discussion with his foe. “So be it, then. Throw the kingdom into chaos. Provoke a war between the Earls of the Compass. Destroy everything your beloved King Orlando built and—kill me.” Edmund grimaced. “But for the love of the Gods, enough of this idiotic prattle.”

A long pause, and he felt Duncan’s grip tighten around him and for a terrifyingly exciting moment, Edmund thought he might actually do it: kill him; and he felt the cold pangs of genuine fear for the first time in years.

Duncan girl’s voice was loud in his ear. “Even after everything you’ve done to me, taken from me—that small and weak and naked, I still beat you. I have you at my mercy; can  gut you like a fish, slit your fat slug belly from scrotum to throat and let the filth spill out onto the floor.” Both blades pushed closer to the soft, fat, yielding flesh beneath and in that moment Edmund realised—he’s going to kill me; I’m going to die; and his innards clenched with fear and—

“Your oath, my lady.” The girl stood before him: Maya, the handmaiden, with her attention fixed on Duncan.

“Yes,” Edmund repeated, voice high and shrill. “Your oath!”

“Not to you, you stupid man!” Maya said, and her voice rang like a bell in his ears, and when she turned on him her eyes flared and his blood ran cold. Then her focus returned to Duncan, and she spoke gently. “To Untera,” she said. “To the Sister.”

“Listen to her, Duncan!” Edmund pleaded.

A long pause, a heavy weight before Duncan withdrew the axes from neck and groin. He gave a sniff. “You’ve shat yourself, Eddy.”

Edmund groaned and heaved himself to his knees and clapped a hand to his neck and felt the blood there. And before him he saw—Aubriella, his daughter; not Duncan, his foe; even as she trembled and fell back and her eyes widened at the realisation of what she’d just done, and what she’d just given up.

With a final, primal scream, she spun and flung first one axe, and the next, at his throne. With a dull thud, both weapons embedded themselves deep within the thick wood, directly where Edmund’s head would rest when sitting.

And then with a final shudder, the girl stood meek and submissive before him once more, eyes downcast. “My name is Aubriella,” she said.

Three: You, But Not

How did it feel, Duncan?

Castigan knew what she was doing, didn’t she, that cruel bitch, when she had you bound in your first corset and from that point on you always felt its steel grip at your ribs, leaving you always just very slightly breathless, on the edge of fainting, contained and that little bit easier to control. Month by month it grew tighter and did you even notice? As your body moulded itself to its new shape, flesh flowing to fill new and increasingly feminine dimensions?

The corset Edmund had your loyal handmaiden remove was not the same as the first corset you wore. Frankly, few born and bred women of the court could have worn it.

Lady Castigan could have, of course.

So I suppose it’s no wonder you reacted the way you did once all the feminine trappings she’d carefully wrapped you in over the past year were stripped away. It felt—good—didn’t it, to be free once again, even if naked? Naked and free, though with your dick pulled back between your legs and those great big, beautiful breasts hanging off your chest? Naked, in front of your enemy, in front of the very man who stole everything from you, your House, your authority, your might and masculinity.

And you cast her off so easily: threw Aubriella aside the moment you had an axe in your hand and how did it feel—how did it feel?—to do what so few born women ever do? Shuck off—everything—not just the clothes but everything—like a snake slithering free of its old jewelled skin, leaving behind the fragile, too-tight husk—discarding every rule and obligation that restrains her, infuriates her, crushes her into subservience to a man, to filth like Edmund.

But you aren’t a woman, are you Duncan? Or there’s definitely some woman in you, now, how could there not be? But you feel the bonds of silk and lace because they’re so new and alien to you. You’ve only felt the ever-tightening grip for the past year; and what’s a year? Most women of the court were born into bondage, grew up in bondage, and live in bondage. They no longer need a man’s voice and a man’s hand guiding them anymore, because that man is always with them. Father, brother, husband, son, loveer: always there in their head, watching them; they hear him, always. They don’t feel those bonds of silk and lace as you do because they’ve always worn them, because it’s part of who they are. Perhaps one day, you too will grow so fond of your pretty fetters that you no longer notice them.

But for now, you feel it. You feel the pinch at your nipples and lace at your thighs and the silk at your waist. Wound around feet and legs, wrists and arms, they hold you as tightly as any rope or chain. Tighter in some ways, I suppose. If only you could see yourself right now, Duncan, as you squirm, breasts straining, and moan around the thing between your lips. It truly is a sight.

What else could you expect? This outcome was inevitable. The best possible outcome, considering; what better could you have hoped for, leaving Earl Edmund Malveil, you lord and master, standing humiliated in his own shit?

And so: Duncan, you have willing subsumed yourself into Aubriella once more. This time, in the full understanding of what it must entail: your final transformation; your eventual marriage; that inevitable moment in which you must spread your legs and receive a man’s seed—your brother’s seed—in your belly. Motherhood, even; surely you thought that far ahead. As you lie there in physical suffering, these inevitabilities torment you and your mind curls around each possibility like a wounded animal.

And to think you could have avoided it all, simply by doing what has always come so naturally to you: killing your enemy.

Why didn’t you do it, Duncan, once Earl of the Compass, Axe of the North?

You had your enemy at your mercy and a blade at his throat, at his manhood, ready to carve the fat and filth from his living carcass. The desire for revenge burned. In some inchoate form you felt the past year churn within you, a violent maelstrom of suffered humiliation. The kaleidoscope of indignities forced upon your flesh fuelled your rage, and your rage made you strong, as it always has, made you fast—you revelled, didn’t you, in that moment of manifest power in which weapon and body moved as one and your whirled across the stone floor of Edmund’s halls.

Did you relive the slaughters of the past in that moment? The Battle of Trath Hill, or perhaps your many campaigns against the barbarians of the North: you rode those memories of blood and carnage like a wave bringing your enemy to his knees.

Imagine if Edmund had followed Castigan’s instructions and left you corseted, pinioned in your dress, perched on those shoes! What would have done then, Duncan?

Nothing, of course.

But then, what did your little display of martial prowess actually achieve? Also nothing. And to listen to Edmund, that’s what you’ll receive, soon: your own nothing, a void between your legs.

It’s not a nothing, of course. Such idiocy. What you still perceive as a nothingness can be a cradle of life—a source of such pleasure as you’ve never known—yet you would dismiss it as a hollowness in need of filling. This is fear, Duncan—a male fear of nothing—and fear makes you stupid.

‘You shat yourself, Eddy.” A good line to be sure. I’m sure it felt good saying it. Witty, maybe. And a pleasure, humiliating Edmund like that, passing some of your own shame back to him. And seeing the fear in his eyes—yes, the fear; you took pleasure in his fear.  Before, Edmund thought you soft and weak, an utterly defeated foe. Now he knows you remain a threat and the touch of your blade at his neck must stay with him always.

Not so great with a brain, Edmund said. He wasn’t wrong. Being totally at the mercy of an enemy is one thing; being at the mercy of an enemy who fears you—well. At some level you must’ve realised what would follow. That little tantrum, throwing those axes at his seat: were you raging against what was to come, or in protest at the life you were willingly giving up?

In some ways you really are as tightly bound as any born woman, aren’t you Duncan, by your own intractable masculine delusion of self-importance, your Northern stubbornness, your honour, your oath. Though now you’re bound in a very different way, a very tangible and physical way, of course. No need to speak in the abstract, in metaphors when you’ve got—well, everything’s Castigan’s done to you following yesterday’s performance.

‘My name is Aubriella,’ you said. A reassertion of the identity they’d forced onto you this past year, indicating your willing submission to Edmund’s plans. But when he first stripped you naked, it was Aubriella he took away, because she wasn’t you, not yet, despite everything they’d done and those superficial trappings peeled away so easily.

Oh, she’s part of you; how could she not be after a year under Castigan’s delicate tutelage? After a year dressed as her, talking as her, living as her in the shadowed halls of the Crimson Court. The torture of your transformation indelibly branded something female into you, beyond the breasts and curves and long hair; and the training that followed – there is no shame in losing some part of the man you once were following a week in a Petal Street brothel.

Yet all it took was an instant with a weapon in hand and all the old violent instincts returned.

No wonder then that Edmund was filled with rage as her stood there, blood welling between fingers clutching at his neck, reeking of his own shit. You humiliated him in his own seat of power. His fury threatened to overwhelm his reason. He staggered towards you with fists raised. Instinctively, he knew you remained the same threat as before. Everyone knows the stories steeped in blood that surround the Axe of the North: more than just a title, a weapon incarnated in flesh.

But he saw only Aubriella. He heard only her soft voice, and the rage and anger transferred from you—a man he dared not strike—to her—a woman who ought to know her place—who’d dared humiliate him. Such audacity could not go unpunished.

His meaty fist knocked you to the floor. You tasted blood.  You went to rise; his fist took you again and you dropped back to the floor, nose streaming snot and blood and you breathed out bubbles and breathed in grit and dirt from the stone beneath your palms. You squeezed your eyes shut as pain exploded in your side. His foot took you in the ribs. More than once. Something cracked or popped. You wheezed and wrapped yourself around the pain—but you did not cry out. Then he took you by that luxurious mane of hair and hauled you to your feet and his fingers curled around your neck….

In his rage, Edmund would have strangled Aubriella to death or pummelled her to a bloody pulp. You would not have been the first girl, young and beautiful and dead, carried out of his hall.

But then, you aren’t just any pretty girl, are you? Even for Edmund, guards dragging the battered corpse of his own adopted daughter out of his hall would be scandalous. Especially one under the protection of Lady Castigan! All his pretty plans wrapped up in your marriage balanced against the bile of his anger: pride versus ambition. Fortunately for you, I suppose—though it is a strange sort of fortune to be fair—Edmund has always been a very ambitious man.

You submitted to his fists and kicks. You neither cowered nor begged for mercy; nor did you lash out in self-defence. You could have still killed him, even then, naked and unarmed as you were, unmanned. But you didn’t, believing yourself ready to die at Edmund’s feet rather than be the catalyst for the chaos that must follow his death. This was yet another sacrifice, and how very noble of you, Duncan, how honourable of you to take the beating with barely a whimper.

You felt—manly—even with your tits flopping about as he shook your slight frame. Edmund squeezed his fingers tighter around your neck. Your hazel eyes met his without flinching.  Even then you believed yourself stronger than him and in that moment he believed it as well.

You feel somewhat less manly now, tied up and suffering in silent darkness. Now you whimper and wish you’d done differently. Regret undermines the nobility of your sacrifice. You regret the fatalism that made you passive.

It was Maya who saved you, Maya the handmaiden who intervened with the brute clutching you by the throat.

“My lord,” she murmured and somehow her quiet voice cut through the man’s rage.

He hesitated. “Go way, girl.”

“She is Castigan’s,” she said. “Hers to train and hers to punish.”

Edmund scowled, but the brief pause was a bright sliver of reason cutting through the anger and humiliation clouding his mind. Like you, he imagined the chaos that must follow the fulfilment of his rage. With your death, the collapse of any possible alliance with the North; without the North, the support of the West fades; and only a fool places their trust in the East. And there was also his vow, of course, sacred and stained with blood, made before the old king himself, an oath made to the oldest Gods in the oldest ways. Not that Edmund cared much for oaths and vows and blood, nor concerned himself much for the old ways and old powers. New Gods walked the Earth now and his faith was with them.

Still, there was no need to take unnecessary risks.

So Edmund flung you to the floor. You hit the ground face first, tits squashed flat and bruised by the impact, forehead cracking against the stone. He retreated. His rage dissipated, replaced almost instantly by a sullen lassitude and a return of the old boredom. He dropped heavily onto the stone steps below his throne.

“Take her,” he grunted, gesturing with one hand. “Get some clothes on the bitch and get her out of my sight.”

You were half-senseless from the beating and strangling. Exhaustion and pain overtook you. You did not struggle as your humble handmaiden lifted and dressed you. She took a simple shift and pinned it around your slender frame, and wrapped you in a heavy, fur-lined cloak. Supporting your walk, she led you out of Edmund’s hall. You clutched your side where Edmund’s boot took you, fearing a broken rib. One eye was already swelled shut and the dimly lit passages a blur as you limped along with Maya. The speed of your progress was an irony not entirely lost on you, even then: battered and bruised, you still moved far faster than when healthy and fully ensconced in Aubriella’s skirts and shoes.

The torturous walk to safety that night remains dream-like. The handmaiden took you along unfamiliar ways, dimly-lit halls filled with dust and cobwebs. You met no one on the long walk that night. Occasionally she whispered and a door would open, or with a hidden touch of some concealed panel cause a passage to reveal itself. Traveling along these secret and shadowed ways, you glimpsed unfamiliar places deep within the labyrinthian depths of the ancient capitol.

An ornate stone statue depicting a trio of cloaked and veiled women, arms raised high in supplication, water flowing from eyes, hands and mouth into the deep pool at their feet. A vaulting, torch-lined chamber, lined with racks of glittering weapons spaced between cold and empty barrack beds. A small, circular room in which dozens of candles flickered and danced around a twisting metal pedestal holding a singular tome, thick as your hand is long, barred shut and chained to its base. A body-length mirror set in wide decorative wooden frame carved with intricate details: the glass was clouded yet it seemed you glimpsed—yourself? as a man? as a queen?—within its surface as your handmaiden pulled you hurriedly past.

These sights and others made their impression upon you as you limped these silent and secret paths. You stumbled often, breath burning ever hotter in your chest but at your handmaiden’s urging you kept placing one foot before the other. Her whispering voice sustained you, rhythmic, insistent, drawing you along.

(Now, as you squirm in your bondage, that same whispering voice, those half-remembered glimpses of forgotten places, continue to haunt you.)

At last, you emerged into a small earth-and-stone walled chamber, the floor covered in old straw smelling powerfully of damp. A cellar; a second strong pair of hands supported you as you stumbled up a pair of creaking wooden stairs.

Darkness took you, briefly. You blinked and when you woke found yourself sprawled naked—but for the sheath pinning your cock back between your legs, of course—in a comfortable chair in a warm room lit by a dancing fire.

Two figures stood by the fire, their silhouette casting long, flickering shadows in your direction.

The first, short and whip-thin, gleamed in a sleek dress made of strips of leather so thin as to be nearly translucent. The leather was stained black and oiled and polished until it shone like a wet veil of shadows stretched taut across her form. Woven into a spiral sheath accentuating the dramatic curves induced by fierce corseting, she projected a threatening energy, like a coiled whip tensed and ready to snap.  Her skin was very pale and very smooth, and a faint webwork of purpled veins reached up her neck and across the top of her long, narrow hands. Each slender finger was tipped in talon-like nails, painted and shaped; and her raven hair, streaked with grey, was wound in a single, heavy braid reaching nearly to her knees, the winding leather thong binding it tightly decorated with bright metal spikes.

Whereas the woman projected a compact, restrained energy, a terrifying robustness wrapped in leather and silk, the man suggested an almost comical frailty. He seemed impossibly tall and thin, as though his spine must snap under his own weight. His scalp was dotted with stray patches of white fuzz and brown age spots. Long, skeletal fingers of one hand lay lightly in the palm of the other, fingers heavy with thick, jewelled rings, and the nail of each index finger as long, shaped and painted as the woman’s. His eyes perched atop a hawkish nose over sunken cheeks, and were sunken and very dark under eyebrows so thin and pale as to be nearly invisible. He wore a simple rough robe, the cowl thrown back, and his head inclined towards the woman as he listened intently to her whispered words.

Lady Castigan; and her presence snapped you to full wakefulness. Your instinctive fear would’ve been reserved entirely for her had it not been for the other figure: Master Tobrik, Flesh-shaper of House Melveil. You knew, better than most, that his weak and frail appearance belied a terrible capacity for inflicting pain.

Instantly aware of your waking, both turned towards you.

“Aubriella,” Castigan said, her voice sharp.

“Lady,” you began, and instincts honed over the past year drove you to leap to your feet—or at least try before gasping in pain and collapsing back into the chair.

“Foolish girl,” she tutted, flowing towards you. Even in pain you marvelled at the ease and grace with which she moved, feeling—surely not envy?—at her approach. Beneath the long tight sheath, her feet were doubtlessly invisibly perched in shoes well beyond your ability to wear and navigate, yet she moved with a mannered sultriness that somehow bordered on the terrifying. More than anything, she made you think of the spider’s graceful glide along its web approaching trapped prey.

“I—” You swallowed as your voice failed you, but then you often found yourself voiceless around her. Strong emotion gripped you, and it took you a moment to realise you felt—ashamed, like a child who has disappointed its mother, as though you had somehow failed her. You blinked against a totally unexpected feeling of tears.

She pressed a solitary finger to your lips. “Quiet.” Her voice was a soft purr curling around your shame as she pursed thin lips painted blood red. Her fingers coiled around your chin, the edge of long fingernails sharp again the tender skin of your cheeks.  You shivered at her touch, so gentle yet poignant, in both fear and with yearning, and despite everything—exhaustion and pain and shame—you felt your cock stir in its prison, and nearly whimpered with lust and the anticipation of pain.

Almost tenderly, she moved your head to one side, then the other, examining the damage to your face.  “Disappointing.” The edge of her eyes creased, the corner of her lips turned very slightly downwards, and your bowels ran cold. “I taught you better than this, Aubriella.”

“He—hit me,” you protested weakly.

“And you provoked him.” Her fingers tightened around your chin and you winced in pain.

“He stripped me—”

“You enticed him.” She shook her head slightly, and the shadow of her braid lashed the far wall. “Too strongly.” Her hand closed around your chin again, palm against your neck, and she shoved your head back into the chair, dismissively. “Though the foolish man should have known better.”

Injustice and outrage warred with your fear of this woman. “Edmund…”

“Lord Malveil to you!” Castigan snapped, and her hand whipped out and caught you across the face. Already bruised and sore, pain flared anew and you saw stars and tasted blood once more. “Remember your place, Aubriella.” She towered over you now, a dark silhouette against the crimson flames behind. “I will not be embarrassed by—some silly, stupid little girl—by you; you will not waste a year of my time and effort. Did my training mean nothing to you?” One long, curved fingernail held you beneath the chin and the slightest press there raised your eyes to her. “You are no good to anyone—to me—if you are dead; my gifts are not for the foolish who would see themselves killed.”

You spoke around the taste of blood. “I am… sorry, my lady,” you said, and you meant it, you truly did it, looking up at her with anguish swelling inside.

“Yes, you are,” she said, and now her lips curved upwards in the slightest hint of a chilling smile. “And yes, you will be, Aubriella.”

You couldn’t help yourself; you trembled with fear. “Please, my Lady, it wasn’t my fault.”

“Yes, it was,” she said. “In a world of men, women are always at fault. I would have expected you more than anyone to understand this.” Sounding mildly disappointed, she stepped away from you, gliding back towards the fire. “Really, Aubriella. I had thought us beyond the need for punishment.”

You went to protest, remembered yourself, and fighting back tears answered, “Yes, my Lady.”

She paused by the fire. Looking at you over her shoulder, she stood like a statue of polished ebony cast against the leaping flames. Her voice—softened is perhaps too strong a word; she remained coldly disappointed in you, underscored by an unexpectedly passionate warmth. “The Sister visited her blessing on you,” she said. “Yet you squandered it. You will learn to submit, as all women must.” She sighed. “A moment of freedom, and what did you do with it? Violence.”

“I—”Throat dry, you swallowed. “I forgot myself, my lady.”

Her smile is heard than seen. “Indeed,” she said. “But whom did you forget: Aubriella or Duncan?”

You have no response to this, especially as Master Tobrik shuffles forward at this point. You flinch back in your seat. Ostensibly, this skeletal man—this monster—is a doctor, appointed by the College to House Malveil; you know him only as a harbinger of pain, as the Flesh-shaper that stripped your strength away, visited agony upon you and moulded you into your current form.

So when he reaches out for you with his bony hand, you flinch—you draw back into your chair with an intake of breath.

“Sit still, girl,” Castigan snapped.

A deep breath, and you stilled yourself, though you couldn’t suppress a final shudder as the horrible man’s fingers caress your cheek.

“Yes. Yes, you remember the pain, yes?” His voice is dry and wheezy as his fingers slides over the damage he finds: the black-and-yellow bruises, the split skin, the swelling. His touch is dry and cool. “Pain for beauty, yes?” He grinned, a too-familiar rictus smile that stabs fear into you belly. The pads of his fingers sweep across your nose. “Broken.” He sounds disappointed, even slightly cross. “A waste. Really, Aubriella, after all my hard work, yes? My artistry? You must take better care of yourself.”

You swallowed against bitter indignation and swore—not for the first time—that some day Master Tobrik would come to know the artistry of the Axe of the North.

“Stand, girl,” he ordered, fingers curled into your shoulders. With eyes on Lady Castigan, standing by the fire and observing in silence, you stood. His touch swept across your body and you shivered as he paddled at your breasts, your sides and buttocks and finally, with a groan and creek, knelt and examined you thighs, calves and feet. You flushed with indignation at this man’s exploration of your body but submitted to his study.

Finally, with a sigh and another creek and groan, he stood. “Sit,” he said. Still watching your mistress, you lowered yourself into the seat, back straight, chest out, primly sitting as you’ve been taught despite the pain burning in your side.

Master Tobrik nodded in approval. “Such damage to my work,” he said, speaking over his shoulder to Lady Castigan. “Her nose is broken. Contusion across her face. Broken ribs. Two, yes? And punctured lung. Possible concussion.” His eyes glitter deep in their sockets as he looks over you, briefly touching each damaged feature. He signalled his displeasure with a click of the tongue.

“She’s lucky to be alive,” Lady Castigan said. “Can you fix her—quickly? I need her whole; first, to punish; then to prepare, as per Lord Malveil’s orders.” Though you quailed within at the thought of punishment, you also wondered at the disdain that dripped from her voice as she spoke Edmund’s name. “Time is of the essence.”

“Fix, yes?” His smile chilled you. “Quickly, yes?” Deft fingers danced across the rings adorning his finger before stopping at the middle finger: the ring was a thick band of white gold topped my multi-faceted ruby. A twist and the heavy gem flipped back and from beneath he poured a thin stream of whitish powder into the palm of his hand. He rubbed this powder into his hand and reached for you again.

You flinched, again, in memory of past pains.

“Ah, you remember, do you, little one? Yes?” He shook his head. “This is different.”

And when he touched you this time it was different. First, a growing warmth as he held his palm to your cheek. His eyes were open but distant. From somewhere deep in his throat his voice rumbled; a familiar, sonorous rhythm you associate with pain but this time it is different—the timbre, deeper—and then, unexpectedly—cooling relief.

The pain faded beneath his palm and then you watched in shock as a bruise formed on the man’s face in the same place as yours. The skin purpled and swelled—and broke, and bled. He seemed oblivious to the wound as his hand moved to cover your nose and then you heard a sharp crack. The hawkish bridge of Tobrik’s nose collapsed. Your breathing eased.

Master Tobrik neither grunted nor flinched. His hand continued to slide over the damages inflicted by Edmund’s fists. Where his touch travelled, pain faded and exhaustion lifted. He touched your side. He pressed down, harder. You felt your rib, shift; a sharp, stabbing burn in your flank. The warmth beneath his palm nearly burned, this time and then—a loud crack, and another; this time, he flinched, his side twitching beneath the loose folds of his robes; and he grimaced, though only for a moment, before the same placid, distant look overtook him.

For some time his hands roamed across your body, at first brushing across the surface but then with gentle pressure, and eventually kneading your flesh, the warmth of his touch penetrating deeply. Then he was with you again. He smiled, and there was unexpected warmth to his smile. “Better, yes?” His face was battered and bruised, the lip split, the nose crooked, a patchwork of purple and yellow reaching from the left temple across his nose to his wrinkled neck. “Better than better? A gift, yes?” his whispered.  He stood—soundlessly—and gazed down on you fondly.

You looked up at him in wonder. He stepped away—sagged—and Lady Castigan was there, supporting him. “Easy, Aster,” she murmured, and you’d never heard her sound so—caring; soft, even.

He gently pushed her away. “She is yours, yes? Whole. Physically, at least. Punish her as you must. I….” He swayed, and with Lady Castigan’s help sank into a chair near the fire. “I will rest. Yes.”

And when Lady Castigan turned to you, her gaze was cold and angry. “He suffers for your stupidity,” she said. “Stand.”

You jumped to your feet. You marvelled at the vigour you felt, the energy. You felt strong and powerful and… rested. Yes, you felt rested in a way you could hardly remember, as though the exhaustion of the past year has been drained away from you. Seeing Tobrik in his chair, eyes closed, you supposed it had been.  Your wounds, your tiredness, transferred to him.

But there was no time to consider this new version of Master Tobrik: the compassionate healer as opposed to the bringer of pain, the monstrous flesh-shaper. (There would be time late, of course, during your punishment.) For now, Castigan descended on you.

“Move, you stupid girl,” he ordered, ushering you into a antechamber. It was a lady’s closet, filled with clothes appropriate for court (and some that were not), and under her instruction you took on the apparel of Aubriella once more. Layer by layer, you felt this other self, the female identity forced upon you over the past year, reassert herself.

It was the corset that nearly undid you. You nearly balked as Castigan approached with the hateful undergarment open and unlaced. She saw the fear in your eyes, the resentment.

“You hate it, don’t you?” she asked, holding up the corset. It shimmered in the light, a dark crimson inlaid with silver thread in a dizzying pattern. Silk tabs hung from its bottom edge, and the metal busk glinted. Even unlaced, you could see the dramatic curves the hidden boning promised.

You hesitate, unsure how to respond.

“Speak,” she commanded. “Truthfully.”

And you nodded, of course, because—it was the truth: you despised everything the hateful clothing promised. More than anything, the dressed or skirts, shoes or jewellery, the corset represented everything you hated about this feminine existence forced upon you. Tight, restrictive, heavy and strangling, somehow both delicate and frivolous and heavy and oppressive. Without it, you felt—free; squeezed in its intractable grip, a prisoner robbed of agency.

To finish:

-a discussion about corsets

-punishment; objectification

-memories of punishment

-memories of how it all started.