The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The white flash of the lightning tore the sky and filled the dark room; Ylaine waited for the darkness to return, then scuttled across the floor.

From the near distance came a crash and a stifled scream.

The rain was sheeting against the cut glass of the windows. This wing of the Academy was so old that its rooms huddled around shared chimneys; that alone had allowed Ylaine to escape when the booted feet kicked in the music room door.

Kaelyn and Pyrniale had been there too, their breath thudding from them as leather-clad men rushed forth and stabbed at the girls with stave-butts. Kaelyn’s lyre had spun across the floor from suddenly nerveless fingers, but Ylaine had dodged the blows aimed at her, dodged the eldritch-cold rod in the hands of the one-eyed thug and leapt into the fire.

And through the fire and into the empty classroom beyond.

Now she clutched a long knife and huddled in yet another chimney. Panic rose up in her throat as she heard shouts in some of the adjacent classrooms, and distant cries for help. It sounded like all of the students were being rounded up, all through the school.

Slowly, the impossible truth dawned on her: The whole academy must be under assault.

Nhalmea. For twenty generations, a hallowed place of learning for princesses, duchesses and baronesses, noble-born daughters destined for greater things. Nestled among desolate peaks in the realm of Ganadar, it stood like a war fortress, its wind-blasted stone walls rooted deep in the mountainside, its ancient spires thrusting like barbed lances against the sky. Sheltered within, far away from the hardships of the world, the best and brightest teachers of the Nine Kingdoms imparted knowledge and wisdom to their diligent charges, sharing the hard-earned lessons of age and experience.

Suddenly, it had become a place of fear and the shouts of rough men. Ylaine shivered in the dark, not from fear alone. Ganadar was a northern country, and spring was only now arriving; this night’s storm, a week before, might have been snow.

She stilled her breath as search parties continued to raid classrooms nearby. Not all girls remained in the dormitories at night; the yearlings did — had to — but although it was against the rules most eyes were averted if the older students returned to the instruction buildings after evensup for study, or practice, or clandestine games of chance.

Or other things.

Ylaine’s fingers tightened around the knife-hilt, tears blurring her vision. She’d smiled and bid fond farewells to Ekiale and Idusa only an hour ago, pretending with a hidden smile not to notice the mutual longing in their eyes. The pair fancied the East tower for stargazing and other pleasures, but Ylaine had no way of knowing if they had escaped the raiding parties.

She blinked and stared at the blade in her hand. Stupid girl, she lamented under her breath. She was no warrior-maiden, trained by the Academy’s swordmasters. What use could she be to friends who now fought for their freedom? What use was a well-borne noble daughter, fated for marriage and rule over a modest patch of land? She’d been sent to the Academy by her parents for manners and learning; those lessons would not save anyone now.

The tears came freely, Ylaine’s thoughts returning to the evening music so roughly interrupted. Of all her friends at the Academy, Kaelyn was closest to her heart, not in the way Ekiale and Idusa and some other girls were, but as sisters. The two had been yearlings together, shared a room in the dormitories, and spent hours together in study or leisure. There were no secrets between them, not even Ylaine’s wish that she could trade a life of responsibilities for the elation of song and performance, something her parents would never understand.

It didn’t matter that Ylaine did not possess a true gift for music; what the eldest, ever-serious Pyrniale deemed study, she suffered gladly, out of love and devotion for the art. It mattered even less that Kaelyn was a commoner, handpicked for her skills and sent by patrons to study at the famed Academy. Ylaine felt admiration rather than jealousy; the shy, quiet girl with the thick auburn braids spoke with the voice of a goddess, and one day she would be a bard.

Would have been a bard.

In a heartbeat, Ylaine’s grief boiled into rage. Who were these raiders? How had they scaled the Academy’s steep battlements? Better guarded than the Wall of Ulume, and as impregnable as Nahor’s High Keep—so the Headmaster had said. It was a haven for the daughters of kings, perhaps the only safe place of refuge now that the Dark Queen Sauriann warred openly in the South.

She couldn’t stay in this room, waiting to get caught. The invaders could not possibly have taken the entire Academy; there would still be guards in the residences. Guards and teachers of arms.

The lightning flashed and Ylaine turned. The storm was close enough that the thunder masked her sudden shriek.

No. Stop. Calm.

It was Isleif, one of the third year students, hanging upside-down in the chimney.

She had a knife in her teeth.

“Y’aine,” she whispered urgently. “Come wit’ me. We ha’e a sa’e ‘oom.”

She withdrew upwards. Ylaine, breathing a deep sigh of relief, tucked her knife into her sash, and followed.

The soot coated her but was not slippery; the ancient designers of these halls had built well and despite the storm no water trickled in. Up one story, through another darkened pair of rooms — one of which Ylaine had studied map lore in, only last year — and up again. The next floor was as dark, but here Isleif stepped out of the chimney. Ylaine scuttled out after her.

Two other students waited for them there, crouched in the darkness: Dwynneth and Orivale.

They were armed. Not with the unwieldy kitchen knives clutched by Ylaine and Isleif, but with real weapons, swords.

Ylaine’s heart warmed a touch, and she almost felt sorry for the would-be kidnappers. Dwynneth was daughter to a line of warrior queens, a fair-skinned and strong-hewed native of this cold land, niece to the noble Nyssa of Ganadar. Orivale was perhaps even higher borne, a granddaughter of the king of Nahor, land of the Nahoi’i, the battle maidens.

The two were strong, quick, deadly, and the firmest of friends. As Ylaine and Isleif approached, they simply nodded where they crouched at the legs of a heavy table.

The cloud of despair that hung over Ylaine lifted. Even armed with the strange eldritch rods, no common thugs were a match for-

The door crashed open. Dwynneth and Orivale shot to their feet, their blades at the ready, but the men who entered the room did not rush them.

They threw in a bag.

All four girls dove aside, but the bag exploded, blasting a white smoke over them; Ylaine scrabbled away, towards the window. The men wore kerchiefs, and they came in now, staves at the ready, their tips dripping blue fire.

One of the thugs approached her; Ylaine tried to raise her knife, but her fingers felt boneless, without strength. He laughed coarsely as he swatted it aside, sending it skipping across the floor, and then stabbed her roughly with his stick.

It hurt not as much as she had expected; Ylaine stiffened, then felt herself grow limp.

The other girls scrambled away in the ensuing chaos. Whatever had been in the thrown bag had sapped the strength from Dwynneth’s sword arm, and she was beaten roughly before she too was struck nerveless. Isleif reached a window, but to jump from the high walls would have meant certain death; as she hesitated, one of the thugs pounced and shoved his staff in her back, yanking her by the waist before she could tumble out.

Only Orivale was left, crouching in a corner, teeth bared at the men who came to surround her. She’d held her breath the moment they’d burst into the room, and her reflexes were still sharp.

“Give it up, little whore,” one of them sneered, a thin, blue scar cutting into his chin. “It won’t hurt, much. And the staff I give you later will feel much better. You might even learn to enjoy it, since none of your fellow sluts will be warming your bed anytime soon.”

The men roared with laughter, but Orivale ignored the taunt, her lip twitching in defiance. Blue scar swung his staff at her sword.

She lunged. He cried out, his staff dropping to the floor.

Along with his fingers.

“Bitch!” he roared, as the thugs rushed forth en masse. Orivale’s sword flashed in the dark, and another man gurgled and fell, but then the weapon was struck from her hand and she was wrestled to the ground.

Even then she fought, kicking and screaming. One of the men howled in pain, putting a hand over his gouged left eye, while another barely held on to her foot before it slipped away and smashed into his face.

More of the thugs fell on top of her, hands reaching for eldritch staffs dropped or lost in the scuffle, but Blue scar merely stood, hatred burning fierce as he clutched a bloody fist against his chest.

Staves thrust in, and Orivale’s captors relaxed.

None of the others saw Blue scar pull a dirk from his belt. Ylaine moaned as she lay on the floor a short distance away, but no one heard.

Blue scar stepped forward, teeth bared, and swung his blade. There were shouts among the men, followed by a long, stunned silence.

Ylaine closed her eyes, unable to bear the horror. Orivale gave a soft gurgle and was still.

“What’s going on in here?” another voice shouted. Ylaine opened an eye to see a towering figure silhouetted in the doorway. “Curack, what are you... fuck! Oth’s balls! You’ve killed her!”

He strode swiftly into the room and struck Blue scar across the face. “You fool!”

“My fingers, Ragan! She cut off my fingers!”

The leader ignored the whining and stared at the still figure of the girl in the corner, and the dead and wounded thugs at her feet. “Oth’s balls,” he muttered. He shook his head, then stabbed his fingers at the other girls. “Bind the rest of them. We have what we came for. We must leave before the sleep enchantment over the rest of the school dispels.”

One of the men came for Ylaine, but all she could manage to do was turn her head away. The movement was enough— she felt the stave-butt strike her in the ribs, then all was black.

She woke to whimpering and pain.

Her arms were bound behind her. They burned with the ache of it, but she could move her fingers a little. Enough to discover that her ropes were fastened to a chain.

Isleif was slumped against her, likewise bound. As Ylaine’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized that some fifteen of her fellow students were here, in what appeared to be a large tent. A dim light shone in around them from the cracks where canvas wall met ground.

Orivale is dead.

The thought interrupted Ylaine’s scrutiny, filled her heart with sorrow. She bit her lip to stifle the sob. If she started to cry, she would not be able to stop.

She tried hard to concentrate on the faces. The light was very dim, but Dwynneth lay next to her on her left, slumped into the tent wall. Beyond her was Calaris, a yearling, who returned her look with fearful eyes. Then there was Idusa, unconscious and with a dark black line on her forehead that was probably blood.

Her heart leapt as soon as she recognized Pyrniale, her lips pressed tightly and her gaze staring at the wall opposite, but she couldn’t find Kaelyn among the prisoners. Try as she might, the girls on the far end the tent were too distant to make out.

A dark thought entered her mind. Who knew what these brigands intended to do with them. Maybe it was better if Kaelyn.. if she’d been—

Dwynneth stirred.

They were all bound in the same fashion, arms wrapped tightly behind their backs, wrists tied to a heavy chain which circled the inside of the tent. Dwynneth tried to sit up, failed, and opened her eyes. Ylaine watched in silence as emotions that mirrored her own ran across Dwynneth’s face.

Her eyes filled with tears.

Ylaine leaned her head against Dwynneth’s shoulder, while Dwynneth tried sat stiffly, trying to keep a brave face, but Ylaine could feel her silent sobs.

Isleif stirred as well.

“Who,” came a voice in the darkness, cracking only little, “is here?”

“I am,” someone replied.

“Names, please. This is Yasha.”

“Dreida.”

“Isleif,” Isleif said next to her.

“Ekiale.”

“Idusa.”

“Jirillan.”

“Kaelyn.”

Kaelyn! The crushing uncertainty lifted from Ylaine’s chest, and she looked at Dwynneth with newfound courage. There would be no surrender, not to these thugs, and not to despair.

The daughters of queens never surrendered.

“Ylaine.”

“Dwynneth.”

There were twelve of them. Ylaine knew them all; third and fourth years, save only Mirribeth, a second year, and poor Calaris. Some of the girls had been taken from the residences, and they were the lucky ones; whatever they had been doing had been interrupted by a deep, irresistible sleep. Yasha had succumbed as she was stirring a broth, Jirillan as she constructed a motion machine in her room.

Only the girls who had been in the instruction halls had been taken by force, and Orivale was the only known casualty.

No one knew why they, and only they, had been taken. There were almost two hundred students at the Academy, some more highborn, some more talented. Who had chosen them? For what purpose?

“We cannot have traveled far,” Yasha said. “We’ve been tied in this tent for some time, and laden horses move slowly. Already the Governess must be seeking us, organizing search parties.”

“What do we do, Yasha? How do we escape?”

Yasha’s voice was slow as she considered. “If we resist, more of us may get hurt. The Academy is well equipped to fight bandits. We should stay calm and wait until we are rescued.”

“We can’t do that,” Isleif hissed hotly. “These men came with a plan and sorcery at their disposal. They may have murdered the Academy guards in their sleep. We cannot count on being rescued.”

“I want to be free as well,” Yasha said. “But escaping together will be hard. And no one should be left behind.”

She didn’t mention any of the others by name. Mirribeth sniffled.

Ylaine’s shoulders burned. She wondered where she fell, as an asset or a liability. Yasha, Isleif, Ekiale—they were strong. Resourceful. Mirribeth, Idusa, Pyrniale, Calaris... would Ylaine be like them? Would she slow the group down, or keep them moving?

“I don’t care about escape,” Dwynneth growled next to her. “I want to see these dogs gutted.”

No one had a response to that.

“Listen,” Kaelyn whispered. “Horses. Arriving.”

The staccato thump of hooves rose. They had been able to hear the men outside, talking in low voices, moving around. The crackle of a campfire. As the new horses rode in, none of the voices were raised in greeting.

In fact, they stilled.

All of the captives strained to hear. It sounded like two horses, two riders.

“You,” one of them said—a woman—“and you. Unload these. We shall see the captives.”

Steps, and then the tent flap was thrown open, blinding them in torchlight. Squinting through one eye, Ylaine tried to make out the new arrivals.

The first one in was a woman, probably the speaker. Mud-spattered boots, leather pants, homespun cloak. Her skin was the nut-brown of a woodswoman, but a sword hung at her side and she held herself as one trained in its proper use.

A ranger. From what realm?

Then, behind her, entered the second woman.

Ylaine’s was not the only gasp.

She was beautiful, tall and proud, her thick red hair bound in a single long plait down her back. But it was not her beauty that struck them.

She was dressed in tight black leather, bound in it, with stitching the color of blood. Her arms were bare to the shoulder, and on her fine neck was a thick black collar. Her eyes were a pale green, and held no emotion at all.

The two women stood in the entrance and studied each captive in turn. When the emerald eyes settled on Ylaine, she felt a cold shiver, as if part of her soul was withering away. She sat there, almost riveted, fighting a strange urge to keep staring.

Without a word, the new arrivals turned and left. The tent flap dropped and left the captives in darkness again.

“Who are they?” Isleif breathed, trying to keep the worry out of her voice.

“I don’t know.”

“That woman in black...”

“So... blank. Like she wasn’t there.”

“I couldn’t look away... just wanted to keep staring.”

“I know her.”

The whispering ceased. Heads turned towards Pyrniale’s voice in the dark.

“She... she is — was — a Nahoi’i. One of the guards. Her name is Redewyn.”

“The Nahoi’i don’t look like that!”

Mirribeth’s voice was full of fear and denial, but the other girls exchanged worried looks. In these times of war, bleak rumors traveled swiftly. Even to the isolated stronghold of Nhalmea Academy.

Ylaine had heard the stories, though knew not what could be believed. In the aftermath of Eriondor’s fall, the Nahoi’i—bravest and most fearsome in the Realm of Nahor—made their stand against Sauriann’s legions, but dark and powerful magicks had sealed their fate before the battle had even begun. In the aftermath, the high guard and the Princess herself were enslaved—each bound into thralldom, reborn into servants of the evil Queen. Only a small contingent of warrior-maidens had escaped, leading rangers and peasants North, to the safety of Eriondor Keep.

At this point the rumors got worse, hinting of treachery and strange rituals... of innocent souls seduced and corrupted in the shadowed heart of the Keep. The last of the Nahoi’i had apparently succumbed to dark lusts. Now all were said to worship at Sauriann’s feet.

Pyrniale swallowed, speaking for all of them. “I thought... I hoped the rumors were not true...”

The tent flap flew open again. One of the bandits stood in the entrance.

“Okay, princesses, on your feet. It’s time for your jewelry.”

Several of the men entered. They took hold of the girls and pulled them up. Dwynneth tried to knee the thug who lifted her by the shoulders, but they were all hampered, tied loosely at the ankles. All she got for her trouble was a cuff across the jaw and a rude laugh.

The first bandit was unlocking the end of the chain. He lifted it up and began unthreading it from their bonds.

“Out of the tent, princesses,” he sneered. “The ladies want to have a better look at you.”

Single file, as they were let off the chain, the girls were escorted out of the tent.

The ground was still muddy from the rain. Ylaine blinked and looked up as rough hands seized her shoulders.

She was looking at the newly arrived pair. The ranger and the... former Nahoi’i. They were standing, looking coolly at her. Ylaine stiffened with the urge to flee but the man behind her held her in place, his rough hands grasping her neck.

“She’s weak,” the ranger finally said, tossing her head.

The man thrust her roughly towards Idusa and Jirillan. They stood together, bound hand and foot. The men laughed as Idusa sniffled back tears.

One by one, the girls were sorted into two groups, under the watchful eyes of the ranger. Kaelyn was pushed over to join her and Idusa. Across from them, Yasha joined Dwynneth.

Ekiale was next. She ignored the ranger and took a step towards Idusa’s group, but was rudely yanked back. Three of the men held her fast, in spite of her struggles.

“Some spirit in this one,” the ranger observed.

Ekiale looked grief-stricken, staring across the small clearing directly at Idusa. When she refused to move, the men seized her hands and feet, dragging her towards Dwynneth and Yasha.

Pyrniale emerged from the tent, blinking in the light. She was grabbed, held for examination. She looked past the ranger-woman.

“Redewyn of the Nahoi’i?” she asked plaintively.

The ranger looked at her companion.

“Redewyn—aye. But the Nahoi’i are no more. I am Sauri’i,” came the woman in black’s curt reply.

She gestured at Pyrniale, who was thrust over to join Ylaine. Isleif was sent in the other group a moment later.

Ylaine frowned, remembering fragments of the ancient legends studied back at the Academy. The Sauri’i were Warrior-witches, servants of the Dark Queen. They had been banished centuries ago, defeated and slaughtered to the last in the Great Cleansing. Now this Nahoi’i claimed to be one of them?

She looked around, searching for hope and answers. They were in a small hollow, surrounded by tall pines. The naked flanks of a mountainside were barely visible. She couldn’t see the rest of it, but they could not be very far from the Academy at all.

Please, let them be rescued.

Then, the sorting was done. Two groups of captives stood surrounded by armed ruffians, the two women in the center, considering them.

Ylaine’s heart rattled in her chest.

“There are too many,” the ranger said.

Too many?

“Ragan.” She turned to the bandit leader. “You were sent to bring five. Why are there twelve?”

“Um. Your... ladyship.” He licked his lips.

To her surprise, Ylaine realized that the towering, unshaven leader of the bandit gang was afraid.

“We, um, we had to fetch some of the girls out of the other building, see? And we figured, ladyship, that you might want more...?”

The ranger merely frowned. “Where is Orivale of Nahor?”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. He mumbled something too low for Ylaine to hear.

“Dead,” the ranger echoed. She frowned. “These were not your orders, Ragan.”

“I’m sorry, your ladyship, but Curack-”

“It does not matter that she is dead,” dark Redewyn said, and there was that in her voice which silenced the man instantly.

All eyes shifted towards her.

“It does not matter that you killed the most important of the girls you were sent to fetch,” she said, stepping forward. “It does not matter that you brought more captives than we instructed you to. It does not matter that your men are unworthy of the air they breathe, or that you are a fool.”

The bandit fell to his knees in the mud.

The Sauri’i turned, and Ylaine gasped.

Her eyes were jet black.

“It only matters,” she said, and her voice charged with fire, “that you disobeyed.”

Ylaine blinked. The Sauri’i had moved, suddenly. Her hand was raised now, like a salute, grasping a long, naked blade.

The bandit’s head rolled off his neck.

The small camp was silent as his body slumped to the ground.

Redewyn stood still, while the eyes of the bandits grew wide with fear. Ylaine tried to keep calm as each of the ruffians reached for weapons hung around their belts—knives, swords, hand axes. They gripped the handles in trembling fists.

She caught a glimpse of the other huddled group of girls, saw Dwynneth and Yasha already tensing, ready to move. If the bandits rushed forth to avenge their slain leader, there would be a chance to escape in the ensuing chaos.

She swallowed, looking down at her chained ankle, then back at Redewyn. The Sauri’i’s sword was still raised high, but she had closed her eyes, and was whispering something unintelligible. Her ranger companion was by her side, unperturbed by the threat of the bandits surrounding them.

Mirribeth was the first to gasp as one the men shoved a knife into his own throat.

Anguished expressions were etched in the faces of the bandits, as if they struggled madly against some unseen force. All were seized by sudden, suicidal madness. Fear grew into terror, their eyes wide and unbelieving. None could resist the crazed impulse of self-murder.

They grunted and moaned — some pleaded — as their quivering hands rose slowly, then struck with lethal swiftness.

Bodies fell in the mud one by one around the girls. Ylaine stifled a scream as one of them slumped right at her feet.

In the space of mere heartbeats, the whole band—near twenty men – had fallen.

Ylaine saw swift movement to her right, snapped out of her stupor as Yasha hissed, “Now!”

She’d barely taken one step when she froze, along with everyone. Redewyn was speaking in a clear voice, filled with strange harmonies.

The girls blanched and stood rooted in place while the guttural syllables echoed around them. Though Ylaine had never heard it before, she recognized the black speech.

She nearly fainted, but the hopeful relief of oblivion did not come. She wanted so much to escape she felt like she might break free from her chains in the mad run towards the forest, but her legs refused to obey. The other girls stood beside her, as helpless as she; all anyone could do was stand and listen, while Redewyn’s evil chant filled the night air.

Then, the Sauri’i gestured intricately towards each of the groups, her fingers flowing in the graceful art of spellcraft. She was casting some kind of enchantment over them... binding them. Ylaine looked down to the dead bandit slumped at her feet, his hand still gripping the knife hilt protruding from his chest, his expression of disbelief warped into a horrid death-mask...

From the corner of her eyes, pale green wisps rose from the crumpled bodies. The bandits had become sacrifices, their deaths provender for the sorcery Ylaine could feel wrapping itself around her limbs.

She prayed to the Goddesses as she fought the rising panic in her chest.

Then, abruptly, Redewyn ceased her chanting. The unholy words still rang in Ylaine’s ears, and she felt a tingling sensation, as unearthly energies swirled about. A strange shiver ran through her, and there were muted gasps all around, but no sound of snapping branches, not even the jingle of chains.

All had been snared by the dark spell. They stood in the clearing like muted statues.

Redewyn looked upon them with glittering eyes.

Ylaine’s urge to escape slipped away. She labored hard to keep her focus, to remember the horror she felt moments before. Her hands were limp by her sides; her back was now straight, her shoulders stiff, her muscles taut. She’d gone rigid in the wake of the casting, but felt oddly comfortable as she stood, poised like a slavegirl awaiting her master’s pleasure.

That made her head swirl a little more. Goddesses, what’s happening... to me...?

Redewyn’s blood-red lips curved into wickedness.

“Worry not, young maidens. Yours will not be the fate of the unworthy servants at your feet. They chose to disobey, and paid the price with their worthless lives.

“The enchantment I have cast upon you is different, fleeting but amply sufficient for the task at hand. Rejoice that our Blessed Queen will soon choose a special path for each of you.”

All around, there was silence. Some of the girls nodded like drowsy sentries, perhaps already yielding to the darkness that beckoned. Mirribeth and Calaris, full of trembling moments before, now stood with dazed smiles, oblivious to the coolness of the night. Their white silken robes flowed in the gentle breeze.

Ylaine’s thoughts of resistance sank into a deep fog. The panic ebbed, replaced by a dreamy impulse to go along with everything Redewyn suggested. She frowned a little, trying to remember why she wanted to struggle, but smiled instead when she didn’t quite manage.

She wanted to listen to Redewyn now. The spell made her listen.

It felt right to listen.

Kaelyn whispered something behind Ylaine, disrupting warm thoughts of submission. The two girls had huddled together during the sorting, but Ylaine stood fast now, caught in Redewyn’s enchantment, far too obedient to turn her head. Kaelyn was leaning gently against her, perhaps to steady herself.

The sound of Kaelyn’s voice was pleasant and familiar, but Ylaine frowned nonetheless. For some reason, her friend was beseeching the Goddesses for strength and deliverance; she trembled out of fear at what was happening.

Ylaine felt the oddest twinge of regret. Kaelyn was resisting. She fought the spell that would make her obedient.

That would make all of them obedient.

Beyond the regret was confusion. A tiny part of Ylaine wanted to cheer Kaelyn on, wanted to voice encouragement and help her friend remember why she needed to flee. Hadn’t she wanted to flee a moment ago?

A warm shiver ran up her spine. Maybe she needed to whisper back, bidding Kaelyn not to resist. Her friend was already swayed by the strange magicks; she would be too disoriented to resist. She trusted Ylaine, wouldn’t doubt Ylaine...

The shiver softened Ylaine’s thoughts as it seeped inside her. She knew she could make Kaelyn surrender before her friend even realized what she was surrendering to, but right now Redewyn’s voice owned her, and it alone told her what to think.

All of them waited to be told what to think.

Ylaine would wait.

The trance was sweet eternity.

Ylaine drifted in the broken chasm of her own memories. She felt Kaelyn’s fingers resting gently on the arch of her shoulder, and recalled a warm night in the Academy’s empty performance hall when those very fingers plucked chords from a Great Harp. Kaelyn had been singing too, the aching magnificence of her voice as frail and evanescent as candlelight. Ylaine might have been jealous, had she not been moved to tears by the hymn.

But now it felt as if she was remembering someone else’s dream. The spell owned her thoughts, but not Kaelyn’s. If she didn’t speak soon, her friend would break free.

A different voice broke the night’s silence, a cold challenge that snapped all of them out of trance for a half-breath.

“None of us shall bow to Sauriann. Ash’tha Fehl Mah.”

Dwynneth. She’d found the strength to defy the sorceress, and spat the last words in the Noble Tongue — the ancient challenge, spoken by Knights of Heliann when facing foes on the battlefield. Though she’d struggled to utter the words, fire blazed hot in Dwynneth eyes.

There was a ripple amongst the two groups. Whispers (whispers!) as the girls tried to rouse themselves from their waking sleep. Ylaine felt Kaleyn’s fingers tense against her flesh.

Redewyn’s smile did not waver.

“Such strength and valor, Dwynneth of Ganadar. You will make a powerful and valued servant to the Dark Queen, once you have embraced Her Truth.”

She motioned to the ranger, who left the girls and made for the horses nearby.

Ylaine shook her head to clear it, and looked up as Resh’ta, the Bloodmoon, arose from behind the vanishing stormclouds. The portent felt dark and ominous, but the fog that obscured her thoughts did not give her time to wonder why.

The ranger returned with a saddle bag, which she placed gently at Redewyn’s feet. The Sauri’i knelt and reached inside it, taking out a number of strange-looking artifacts.

Ylaine’s eyes were drawn to the black leather and shining silver in the moonlight.

Collars and bracelets.

Redewyn held up one of the collars for all the girls to see. The stitched black leather band was wrapped around her fingers, and it bore a blood-red ruby, shining with quiet luminescence. The mark of Sauriann was carved upon it, and there was no mistaking the lavish make of the ornament.

“This,” said Redewyn, “will be the Dark Queen’s gift to the strong-willed among you. Once fastened around your neck, all dreams of escape will vanish. You shall become slaves with no thoughts but obedience. You shall remain entranced as long as you wear it. The enchantments are powerful, and will overwhelm the strongest resolve.”

She paused, as if to savor the moment.

“Nearly all who have worn these, who have relished in the fulfillment of our Dark Queen’s dreams and lusts, have remained devoted to Her even after the collars had been removed. A month hence, when you all kneel before Her Obsidian Throne, the need to bind some of you with greater magicks will be quite unnecessary.”

Kaelyn drew a short, hissing breath, but Ylaine paid her no heed. Redewyn’s words made her head swim and her skin flush. The desire to feel the leather, stretching tightly around her neck was sudden and overwhelming. She craved for the honor of wearing Sauriann’s mark.

But she could only watch as Redewyn reached out and, with blood-red nails, beckoned Dwynneth closer.

The warrior maiden stepped forth, her limbs stiff with effort as she resisted. The fire had not gone out of her eyes, even if her struggle proved hopeless. When she stood before Redewyn, the Sauri’i smiled and leaned forth to whisper something into her ear.

Defiance vanished like a snuffed candle, and Dwynneth’s expression became smooth and docile, her back stiffening with anticipation. She was a full head taller than Redewyn, her long golden hair braided in the Nordheim fashion, her skin unblemished by the dim sun of her wintry homelands. Her tunic, dirtied and torn during the raid, barely hid the swell of her breasts, but it was the taut, muscled legs that drew Ylaine’s hungry stare.

Her pulse began to race as her eyes lingered and caressed the firmness of Dwynneth’s flesh. The spell stirred something within Ylaine, a longing she’d never felt before. The shiver of lust was a divine revelation, awakening her to new paths of surrender; her eyes fluttered like butterfly wings, and she found herself yielding to this new pleasure with relish.

It mattered not that she’d been bewitched thus, only that she enjoyed seeing her friend now dazed and helpless, waiting for Redewyn’s next whisper with something approaching rapture. Ylaine wanted to know the depths of such obedience, and wondered how deeper her trance would be if a defiant warrior-maiden like Dwynneth had yielded so readily.

She could not loathe Dwynneth for resisting. If anything, her strong will had made her worthy of Redewyn’s gift. The collar would forge that will anew... would make her so much more obedient.

Around her, some of the other girls gave faint whimpers, though it was hard to tell if they were struggling or yielding. Kaelyn still muttered prayers, though her words slurred now that Dwynneth awaited the bonding of her mind and soul. Only Yasha still seemed able to fight the seductive trance.

The whimpers ceased as Redewyn’s hands rose ceremoniously above Dwynneth’s slack shoulders, and fastened the leather collar tightly around her neck.

The ruby flared as Redewyn stepped back, and there was a soft, audible gasp from Dwynneth.

It glowed a deep blood red as Dwynneth blinked above it.

“I.. I... ooooh Goddesses—”

Elation rose up in her voice. Her head tilted back, her lips half-open, quivering, trying to give voice to the dark pleasure that was now coursing through her. The ruby glowed like a hot coal at her neck, throbbing, while she swooned back and forth on her feet. Then, with a shudder, she went completely rigid and was still.

With a circling gesture of the finger, Redewyn motioned her to turn around.

Dwynneth obeyed at once, facing her fellow students.

Yasha visibly flinched when she saw her friend smile.

The change in Dwynneth was unmistakable. She held her chin high, showing off the collar, proud to display her owner’s mark. The tension in her shoulders was gone. Her hands clasped her thighs as she arched her back a little, thrusting her breasts forth in brazen fashion; her smile became amused when Yasha looked away in shame.

She purred as Redewyn drew close behind her, and ran a suggestive finger up and down the length of her naked arm.

“Struggle as you may, girls, there is no hope of resisting the power of this enchantment. Dwynneth is utterly spellbound. Isn’t it so, my dearest?”

Dwynneth answered breathlessly, “It is as you say, Mistress.”

Yasha sobbed.

“The collar marks you as one of Sauriann’s servants,” Redewyn continued.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“It teaches obedience. It rewards with pleasure.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“It opens your mind to Sauriann’s Immortal, All-seeing Eye.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“It has turned you into an instrument of Her will.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“The Dark lust courses through you. It reshapes your thoughts. Your greatest desire is to kneel in submission before Her.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“As long as the collar is fastened around your neck, you will remain entranced. You will remain obedient.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

“Your soon-to-be slave-sisters don’t yet know this pleasure, but with you help they soon will, won’t they?”

Dwynneth’s eyes drifted back and forth covetously between the girls. The way she licked her lips made Ylaine’s knees quiver.

“Mmmm... Yes, Mistress.”

Redewyn laughed—a cold, cruel laugh—and slid a possessive hand around Dwynneth’s waist. She nuzzled the maiden’s neck, stealing amused glances at the entranced girls. “Tell me, dear slut, whom should we now bring into the fold?”

Dwynneth melted slowly in Redewyn’s arms, and replied with a dreamy sigh.

“Yasha should be next, Mistress.”

“Tell me why.”

“She is brave and skilled in arms. Her strength of will is unmatched. She spoke of escape earlier in the tent, and would lead the others into flight at the first opportunity. She would gladly die in an instant to save any one of us.”

Dwynneth’s eyes almost glowed. “She will serve S... Sauriann well.” Just saying the name set her lip trembling.

Redewyn kissed the collar on her neck approvingly. “Fetch her, then. Bring her before me.”

Dwynneth obeyed, her bare feet brushing wild grass aside as she came for Yasha. She put a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder. Yasha flinched, her lips bloodless and tightly drawn; the betrayal was like a knife-stab, but there was sadness rather than anger in her eyes.

Dwynneth had not been strong enough. Maybe she would be.

But hope faded, the spellfog sapping her resolve before she could hold on to it. Soon she was too dazed to resist, and gasped as Dwynneth caressed her. The slave-maiden had no trouble leading her friend forth, holding her close, as if enticing a lover back to her bed with the whispered promise of tongue-pleasure.

Redewyn’s eyes narrowed in interest as she watched. “Aaah... The famed daughter of Wynna of Anselheim – who continues to defy Sauriann even when Queen Allisùn herself has fallen.”

Yasha blinked slowly, recognizing the name. Frowning.

“Warriors from all over your realm have flocked to your mother’s banner, my dear. They stage raids upon orc parties from hideouts far into the Hills of Ereth, and vanish before they can be caught. She has become a symbol of hope and resistance.

“But now that we have you, dear Yasha, this will change...”

Ylaine swooned in the throes of delicious musings, imagining the pleasure that would come in the wake of seduction and betrayal. But a darker pleasure now seeped between her legs as Dwynneth slipped behind Yasha, steadying her friend by the shoulders.

Redewyn held up the leather band, gently raising Yasha’s chin with her finger. The bewitched girl meekly offered herself, unable to resist.

The collar tightened on her skin. The ruby pulsed like an evil red eye.

Yasha, free daughter of Anselheim, gave a brief, sharp cry. Shook where she stood.

Then smiled.

Five of the girls were now bound into service of the Dark Queen. Dwynneth and Yasha stood on either side of Redewyn, guarding her flanks like obedient hounds.

Isleif, Dreida and Ekiale stood in a line, facing the girls yet to be chosen.

Ylaine watched them, envious.

Isleif, one of the brightest pupils at Nhalmea, had been taken after Yasha, her dreams of one day becoming High Arbiter vanishing as the sorceress ensnared her mind.

Then it had been Dreida’s turn, the soft-spoken priestess-adept praying for deliverance as she was brought forth; her smile of sheer lust in the instant of surrender had seemed oddly fitting, for one so pious.

Ekiale had been last, so lost in her own trance she’d taken to the mind-binding with relish. She seemed not to care for Idusa’s sobs as she swept down to accept the jeweled gift on her knees, but now that she stood with the other collared girls, her gaze settled with deeper, darker longing upon her lover.

Ylaine marveled at the sight of them – all five girls, waiting patiently for Redewyn’s orders, their rubied collars pulsing in soft harmony. They were slave-sisters now. Pleasure girls. Warriors of shadow, as depraved and wicked as the witch that had enslaved them.

The Sauri’i stepped back, looked meaningfully at her ranger companion. There were no collars left, but she held out her hand for one of the tiny bracelets. Then she motioned at the closest of the remaining girls—Mirribeth—who promptly marched forth, shoulders trembling.

“Our journey will be long. The five who now serve our Dark Queen will follow without question, but the rest of you require some attention. Since your minds are soft, lesser magicks are sufficient to insure your obedience, until such time as you can be properly welcomed into slavery.”

Ylaine moaned, wishing against reason for a leash of leather around her throat.

Redewyn held the shining silver band in front of Mirribeth’s eyes. “The bloodstone on this bracelet is smaller than those on the jeweled collars, but it too bears the mark of Sauriann. Though it will not entrance you completely, it will render you sufficiently docile and obedient.” She swung it lightly back and forth. “Isn’t that so?”

Mirribeth nodded slowly, her eyes unfocused. “Docile... and... obedient.”

“You will not think of flight or escape. You will follow your slave-sisters and obey my commands.”

“Obey... you...”

“At night, you will open your mind to the Black Dream, and the Purpose that will soon rule your every thought.”

“Rule... my... every... thought...”

“You will not take the bracelet off. It will remain on your wrist, leaving you charmed and compliant. Whenever you drift away from the others, you will return more aroused and obedient than before.”

Ylaine’s eyes widened as she watched Mirribeth’s hand twitch by her side. It moved, and...

She’s... touching herself.

Mirribeth, far too gone to repeat Redewyn’s words, whimpered instead. Her knees shook as she began riding two of her fingers.

Redewyn whispered, and Mirribeth held out her other hand. An instant later, the silver bracelet hung around her wrist, and she came, collapsing on her knees.

Ylaine wanted to join her. Wanted to kneel. Wanted a bracelet. Her mind raced, her heart pounded. Soon she wouldn’t know fear or worry. There would be a silver band looped around her wrist and no thought or belief in her heart save the Will of Sauriann.

One by one the others were called. Kaelyn. Pyrniale. Idusa and Calaris. All of the rest. Some struggled against the nightmare they didn’t want to escape. Others sighed in dreamy contentment as they held out their hands and received their Blessed Gifts.

At last, Ylaine was alone.

Silence had fallen in the clearing. No more sobs or whispers. No more cries of lust, filling the night. Resh’ta ascended, bathing the forest in crimson light. Redewyn’s hair shone like a crown of fire as she stood in a semi circle of enslaved princesses who now tasted the pleasure of obedience.

She held out the remaining bracelet, and beckoned Ylaine forth. “Time to join your sisters.”

Ylaine closed her eyes as she stepped forward. The cold silver brushed against the inside of her palm, like a snake, winding its way up her arm...