by Rowan Bree
The vast tables are lively with food, drink, and fine nobles being boisterous as fits a celebration such as this. The king is at the far end of the hall at a special table on a dais. His son sits beside him, shy but already red-cheeked from the ale.
As you make your way through the hall, a bare-chested Adonis of a man bumps your tray sending a roasted potato tumbling off it. He catches it in midair and winks at you, placing it back on the tray. You start to thank him but he has already gone.
The tray is getting heavy and you look for somewhere to put it down. There are two tables closest to you, one filled with king’s guards and another whose bench has been pushed back to make room for a centaur to sit at one end. He converses happily with a minotaur and elven woman sitting opposite him.
Serve the guards’ table.
Serve the centaur’s table.
PART III: SOLD INTO SERVITUDE
The prince’s lips are tender against yours as he makes love to you. “You were always meant to be my princess,” he whispers in your ear. His green eyes sparkle under a swath of perfect golden ringlets.
“I love you,” you tell him.
He smiles. His teeth are like shining stars. “I love you too,” he replies.
You pull him closer to feel his toned body against yours. Only moments ago you were dancing at the feast, and now you are in the prince’s private chambers being ravished by the man who will one day be king.
You wake with a moan, your body sweaty and throat parched. You can still feel the prince on top of you though the plush castle bed from your dream has dissolved into the hard wooden deck of the slavers’ wagon.
“Good morning, princess,” the slaver says clamping a hand over your mouth. You try to bring back the last remnants of your dream as he assaults you. It doesn’t work.
“This’ll be a secret between you and me,” he says between thrusts. “My friend out there won’t like that I had a go at the goods after telling him he couldn’t.”
He pulls out and repositions himself against your ass.
You try to yell for him to stop as he thrusts into you but your cries are muffled by his hand. Tears mix with your sweat as an intense, unwanted pleasure sends your body into convulsions.
“So that’s what you like.” The slaver grins, pumping into you harder. Your orgasm continues and you struggle to push him off you, ashamed at being used and even more shocked at your body’s response.
The slaver lets out a groan as he cums.
“Remember, not a word about this.”
He lets go of your mouth and gives you a light slap on the cheek before leaving the wagon.
The slavers bring you to a room under the castle, exchanging you for a sack of gold coins with the guard. The air is stale and stifling hot from bodies. The place must have once been a storeroom that has long since run out of use. There are random bits of dilapidated furniture—a chair here, a bookshelf there—but for the most part the room is void of any character.
You sit on a long wooden bench rubbing your wrists, which are freshly sore from your most recent set of shackles. Other women like you sit, stand, and pace around the room. A couple even sleep noiselessly slumped on the dusty floor. It seems the king is rounding up all people deemed unfit for proper work in preparation for the feast and you were unlucky enough to be part of that number.
“Human sacrifices,” the woman beside you whispers to her neighbor. She has long, unkempt hair that must have been beautiful once. There is a single ringlet of perfect curls still untouched on the back of her head. It brings back memories of your dream and the slaver’s assault.
“Be quiet,” the other woman hisses. “You don’t want to start a panic.”
You turn your head slightly to follow their conversation.
“That’s why we’re here. The king’s religion has gone bad ever since the king’s wife died. I heard he’s trying to bring her back by sacrificing women to appease the gods and pay the price of her life.”
“Then what about all the men?”
The next room over is full of men likewise imprisoned. You hear them on occasion when a fight breaks out or someone decides to try and get the attention of the guards. There is an iron-barred door connecting the two rooms, but someone from the women’s side has long since pushed a wardrobe in front of it. It seems the men were not content to let the women be and needed to be deterred from causing trouble.
“It’s the Dorians,” another woman says from the floor. Her knees are drawn up to her chin and she has deep purple bruises down both legs. “They have a taste for slaves.”
The first woman tuts. “See what I said? Human sacrifices.”
Her friend is not convinced. “The black mages haven’t been around for decades. No one practices human sacrifice anymore, not even the Dorians.”
“You never know.”
You get up and stretch your legs. By now you have heard too many theories to find any of them particularly convincing. But the slavers did say something about Doria and the feast. Perhaps there is truth to what the woman was saying about being made their slaves. But why would they need so many?
As you pass by the wardrobe you hear a voice. It takes you a moment to remember that there is a door behind it.
“Almost there,” the voice says.
There is a violent crack of splintering wood, though the wardrobe appears unharmed from the outside.
“You bloody genius! Now we’ll be able to get at those women. Remember the one with the orange hair? She was rearin’ to go. Just have to get her into the wardrobe.”
The wardrobe door is ajar. You open it a little further and peek inside. It appears the men have removed a large portion of the back. You can see their room beyond the iron bars and the backs of the two men talking. You close the door again before they see you.
A woman notices the strange look on your face. She asks, “You all right?”
Tell her what the men have done.
Don’t say anything.
PART III: THE EARS OF THE CASTLE
The castle is in chaos on account of the feast. You wipe your brow, taking a moment to rest atop a barrel of wine just outside the kitchen entrance. One of the serving girls spots you and hurries towards you with an overflowing platter of roasted vegetables. She shoves it at you before you can protest.
You take the platter and head towards the great hall wishing you could have rested a bit longer. Antoinette assured you that once the main dishes are served your only job will be to stay in the hall refilling goblets of wine and ale as needed. So far, you have barely had a chance to glimpse the king and his guests.
The vast tables are lively with food, drink, and fine nobles being boisterous as fits a celebration such as this. The king is at the far end of the hall at a special table on a dais. His son sits beside him, shy but already red-cheeked from the ale.
As you make your way through the hall, a bare-chested Adonis of a man bumps your tray sending a roasted potato tumbling off it. He catches it in midair and winks at you, placing it back on the tray. You start to thank him but he has already gone.
The tray is getting heavy and you look for somewhere to put it down. There are two tables closest to you, one filled with king’s guards and another whose bench has been pushed back to make room for a centaur to sit at one end. He converses happily with a minotaur and elven woman sitting opposite him.
Serve the guards’ table.
Serve the centaur’s table.
PART III:THE KING’S DARK GUESTS
The guards instruct everyone to line up by the door. You take your place at the very end of the line. There are murmurs amongst the women of human sacrifices. You roll your eyes.
“We’re taking you to get bathed and changed,” one of the guards says. “Stay in line. No talking. No dawdling.”
You follow the line of women through the castle, trying your hardest to keep up so the guards have no reason to hassle you. The woman in front of you st
umbles, her dirty legs tangling in the dragging hem of her dress. One of the guards gives her a severe look but says nothing. You try not to catch his eye.
After being taken from the duke’s quarters, you were brought to a stuffy room with the other women and briefed on your new job. When they first took you they made it seem like you would just be serving wine and food to the king’s special guests from Doria, but it appears that the Dorians have slightly darker tastes. The guards have since made it clear what you will really be—slaves to be enjoyed in any way the guests desire.
No one seems to pay you any mind at the end of the line. You let yourself slow a bit, the space between you and the next woman in line growing. There’s a chance you could sneak away.
Sneak away.
Stay in line.
PART III: THE KING’S GIFT
You step out of the bath, the warm oils making your skin supple and fragrant. You take the silk robe left for you and wrap it around your body. Ever since you agreed to become the king’s gift to his Dorian guests you have been treated like royalty. Tonight is the feast. Guests are already arriving and the king is seated in the great hall to greet them. You can only imagine what the night has in store for you.
A wisp of a handmaiden ushers you into the next room to get ready. She pulls a brush through your hair then helps you into your dress. It is a sleeveless simple cut made of a white, flowy fabric. Around your neck she places a collar of solid silver.
“It’s symbolic,” she says when she notices your slight frown.
You remember what the king said, that it was all your choice. And it was. You go into your role willingly.
Bathed and dressed, you are brought to a luxurious room with tall windows and a full view of the Tyven seaside. The king is waiting there. His cheeks are red from wine.
“You look gorgeous,” he smiles taking your arm. “The Dorians will be here soon.”
As he finishes talking the door opens and a group of robed men enter. There are four of them and they stand in a line facing you, their heads bowed. A fifth men enters after them. He stands in front of them. His robe is much finer than theirs, the starched fabric rigid on his thin frame, and he wears gloves of black lambskin. You can see every detail of the man’s face, from his pointed chin to his petulant pout. His eerie violet eyes are partially obscured by long, silvery hair.
Smile at the Dorian representative.
Recognize Vale.
You tell the woman what the men have done. She takes a peek herself, and upon opening the wardrobe door she is met with a cacophony of wolf whistles. The other women perk up at this noise.
“What’s going on?” the woman who had been talking about human sacrifices asks.
“N—nothing,” the one at the wardrobe stutters. But it is already too late. Word spreads fast and soon everyone in the room knows about the opening in the back of the wardrobe. You can hear the men on the other side yelling to get your attention as the women glance uneasily at the closed door. Some appear scared or annoyed, while others are curious. Finally one of the women gets up from her place on the floor and enters the wardrobe.
A slightly older woman near you sucks in a disapproving breath. The men’s jeers and lewd noises can be heard from next door. When the woman finally leaves the wardrobe, clothes rumpled and hair a mess, another is already waiting to take her place. It seems the men aren’t the only ones with an itch that needs scratching.
The older woman turns to you.
“This is all your fault. If you hadn’t told everyone, these women wouldn’t be debasing themselves.”
“It’s their choice, isn’t it?” you say, getting defensive.
“It’s against the king’s religion. These whores have lost their way,” the woman starts and you know you are in for trouble. The king’s religion is known to have very stifling views on sexuality, even though the king himself has a loose reputation with women. The woman must be a member of the church. But then why would she be locked up in here?
“You must be punished,” she says.
With no warning you find yourself being tossed into the wardrobe by a group of women. They ignore your pleas for mercy.
You push at the wardrobe door with all your might but the women hold it closed from the other side. The men greet you with greedy looks. There are three of them crowding the other side of the barred doors. One of them snatches at you and barely misses.
“Come closer,” he teases.
Go closer.
Stay away.
You keep the men’s mischief a secret, knowing it would lead to nothing but trouble. You sit back down and hope that someone will come to tell you what the hell is going on.
Eventually a group of guards comes to the room. They instruct everyone to line up by the door. You take your place at the very end of the line. There are more murmurs amongst the women of human sacrifices. You roll your eyes.
“We’re taking you to get bathed and changed,” one of the guards says. “Stay in line. No talking. No dawdling.”
You follow the line of women out of the room, wondering what is waiting for you. It’s hard for some of the women to follow orders, but the guards put them back in their place. No one seems to pay you any mind at the end of the line, however. There’s a chance you could sneak away.
Sneak away.
Stay in line.
You tell the woman what the men have done. She takes a peek herself, and upon opening the wardrobe door she is met with a cacophony of wolf whistles. The other women perk up at this noise.
“What’s going on?” the woman who had been talking about human sacrifices asks.
“N—nothing,” the one at the wardrobe stutters. But it is already too late. Word spreads fast and soon everyone in the room knows about the opening in the back of the wardrobe. You can hear the men on the other side yelling to get your attention as the women glance uneasily at the closed door. Some appear scared or annoyed, while others are curious. Finally one of the women gets up from her place on the floor and enters the wardrobe.
A slightly older woman near you sucks in a disapproving breath. The men’s jeers and lewd noises can be heard from next door. When the woman finally leaves the wardrobe, clothes rumpled and hair a mess, another is already waiting to take her place. It seems the men aren’t the only ones with an itch that needs scratching.
The older woman turns to you.
“This is all your fault. If you hadn’t told everyone, these women wouldn’t be debasing themselves.”
“It’s their choice, isn’t it?” you say, getting defensive.
“It’s against the king’s religion. These whores have lost their way,” the woman starts and you know you are in for trouble. The king’s religion is known to have very stifling views on sexuality, even though the king himself has a loose reputation with women. The woman must be a member of the church. But then why would she be locked up in here?
“You must be punished,” she says.
With no warning you find yourself being tossed into the wardrobe by a group of women. They ignore your pleas for mercy.
You push at the wardrobe door with all your might but the women hold it closed from the other side. The men greet you with greedy looks. There are three of them crowding the other side of the barred doors. One of them snatches at you and barely misses.
“Come closer,” he teases.
Go closer.
Stay away.
You tell the woman what the men have done. She takes a peek herself, and upon opening the wardrobe door she is met with a cacophony of wolf whistles. The other women perk up at this noise.
“What’s going on?” the woman who had been talking about human sacrifices asks.
“N—nothing,” the one at the wardrobe stutters. But it is already too late. Word spreads fast and soon everyone in the room knows about the opening in the back of the wardrobe. You can hear the men on the other side yelling to get your attention as the women glance uneasi
ly at the closed door. Some appear scared or annoyed, while others are curious. Finally one of the women gets up from her place on the floor and enters the wardrobe.
A slightly older woman near you sucks in a disapproving breath. The men’s jeers and lewd noises can be heard from next door. When the woman finally leaves the wardrobe, clothes rumpled and hair a mess, another is already waiting to take her place. It seems the men aren’t the only ones with an itch that needs scratching.
The older woman turns to you.
“This is all your fault. If you hadn’t told everyone, these women wouldn’t be debasing themselves.”
“It’s their choice, isn’t it?” you say, getting defensive.
“Of course you’d say so, dressed like that. It’s against the king’s religion. These whores have lost their way.”
The king’s religion is known to have very stifling views on sexuality, even though the king himself has a loose reputation with women. The woman must be a member of the church. But then why would she be locked up in here?
“Whores must be punished,” she says.
With no warning you find yourself being tossed into the wardrobe by a group of women. They ignore your pleas for mercy.