Eryshae

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Serene Liri

Serene stirred before the sun.

The warmth beneath the velvet covers clung to her bare skin, and the scent of cedarwood and clove lingered on the pillows. For a moment, she did not move; eyes still closed, body curled where it had fit so easily beside his.

Durnan's arm lay draped over her, heavy and still. He slept like stone after a storm; utterly at ease, but bearing the residue of power just spent. His breath warmed the nape of her neck. She shifted slightly, and the cool kiss of metal touched her wrists.

Delicate silver chains bound them, locked at the joints with quiet finality. Matching shackles circled her ankles, and around her throat rested a sleek silver collar, forged in the same style; simple, beautiful, and unbreakable by ordinary means. No sigils. No crest. Just intention.

She did not try to remove them. Instead, Liri slowly slipped from beneath the blankets, the chains whispering across her skin. Durnan stirred but did not wake. She padded softly toward the hearth, wrapped herself in a dark velvet robe, and stood before the embers as the chill of the morning kissed her ankles and collar.

There would be meetings later. A war of words to shape behind the curve of a teacup. But this morning; this house; belonged to her and Durnan alone.

He would wake soon. And when he did, she would let him kiss her neck where the collar sat. She would let him pull her back into the warmth of the bed and ask her questions with his mouth and hands instead of courtly riddles. She would let herself forget, for a moment, the weight of doctrine and duty. They had a few hours yet. The meeting with Chief Corven could wait.

The fire had barely begun to catch when she heard the rustle of bedsheets behind her. "Liri," came Durnan's voice; low, rough from sleep, but unmistakably commanding. She turned slowly. His eyes were already on her, golden in the early gloom, his bare chest rising as he sat up against the carved headboard.

"Come back," he said, voice quieter now, but no less certain. She obeyed. The velvet robe whispered from her shoulders, falling in a pool at her feet before she slid beneath the covers and into his gravity. He reached for her, but not to embrace.

His fingers found the chain at her right wrist. With slow deliberation, he guided her arm upward toward the carved post of the bed and clipped the cuff's lock into a waiting ring embedded in the wood. A matching ring at the opposite post awaited her left.

Liri gave no protest. She met his gaze; serene, impassive; as he guided her second wrist into place, chaining her arms wide. The tension of the silver chains shimmered faintly in the dim light, framing her in an elegant restraint.

He took in the sight of her; her breath steady, her eyes sharp despite the submissive posture. The collar glinted at her throat. "You look better like this," Durnan murmured, brushing a hand along her jaw. "Not for the court. Not for the Cardinals. Just for me."

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. He leaned down, letting his lips hover just above hers. "You'll leave soon," he murmured. "But not yet." Then he kissed her; deep, slow, claiming; and the chains sang softly against the wood.

Durnan lingered in the kiss until he felt her breath hitch; not from surprise, but from the familiar pull between defiance and surrender that lived behind her steady facade. He drew back slowly, letting her taste him on the parting.

Still above her, his gaze swept down the line of her neck to the collar; its metal snug against her skin, a perfect match to the shackles at her wrists and ankles. The contrast between her regal poise and the cold steel restraining her was a sight that stirred something dangerous in him. His hand slid down her torso, slow and possessive, until it came to rest just above her navel.

"You speak like a Cardinal," he said, fingers tracing idle circles along her stomach. "But your body always tells the truth." Liri's eyes narrowed, though her expression remained unreadable. "You think chains make you clever?"

"No," he murmured. "The cleverness is in knowing you could melt them if you wished; and still, you don't." His fingers wrapped around one of the shackles at her ankle, thumb brushing over the lock. "Because this… this is how you like it now. When it's just us."

Her silence gave him his answer. Durnan rose briefly, crossing to the washbasin to rinse his hands, then returned with a soft cloth and a small vial of oil. He sat on the edge of the bed and poured a few drops into his palm, warming it between his hands. Carefully, he began to massage her calves, then her ankles; slow, attentive, like a ritual rather than a courtesy.

"I won't keep you long," he said, softer now. "You'll see Corven. You'll make your plans. But when you return tonight…" His fingers pressed into the arch of her foot. "These chains stay on. You understand?" A flicker passed through her; just a twitch of her brow, the faintest part of a nod. But it was enough.

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Durnan leaned over her once more, brushing her temple with his lips. "You may lead the faithful, Liri. But in this room, you kneel for me." He stood then, gathering his coat and weapons, leaving her still bound, the firelight licking at the edges of the room.

"I'll send someone with food," he said at the door, pausing. "Don't strain the chains. They're more ceremonial than functional." And then he was gone, leaving her in silence; chained, still, and completely in control of her surrender.

Time passed slowly within the quiet hush of the chamber, measured only by the flicker of firelight against the stone walls and the faint creak of chain links shifting with each of Serene's shallow breaths. The shackles around her wrists and ankles had grown warm from her skin, but the weight of them still marked her; Durnan's presence lingered in every cool ring of steel, in the tautness of restraint, in the memory of his touch.

A soft knock echoed, barely more than a courtesy, before the door creaked open. Victoria stepped in, her eyes cool and unreadable. She wore the standard black-and-white uniform of a housemaid: crisp white apron over a black dress, sleeves rolled to the forearms, the hem brushing neatly at her calves. Her dark hair was tied back in a low braid, functional and unadorned.

She carried a tray in one hand and a folded bundle of cloth in the other. "Master Durnan asked me to help you dress," she said, her voice calm and even as she approached the bed. She set the tray and clothes on a small table near the hearth, then turned to Serene without hesitation. "But first; let's get these off."

Victoria knelt beside the bed, producing a key from her apron pocket. One by one, the locks on Serene's shackles clicked open, the cuffs sliding away from wrists and ankles now reddened by their long confinement. The chains gave a soft clink as they were gathered and quietly set aside. Yet the collar remained. Neither woman acknowledged it, though Serene felt it; more present than ever now that her limbs were free.

Though the cuffs no longer bit cruelly, the collar around her neck remained. She felt it as soon as her mind cleared enough to think; the subtle pressure when she swallowed, the faint scrape of metal against her skin when she tilted her head. Unlike the restraints at her limbs, it had not been removed. It remained with quiet purpose, a symbol of ownership as much as control.

"You'll need your strength," Victoria added as she rose, moving to uncover the tray. A warm, comforting aroma filled the air; spiced root vegetables, a delicate cut of roasted venison, fresh bread still steaming, and a glass of mulled wine rich with cloves and honey.

"And these," she said, unfolding the garments Master Durnan had chosen. A deep red blouse of soft, clinging fabric with a neckline that dipped low enough to suggest; but not expose. A fitted black corset embroidered with silver thread that shimmered darkly in the light. High-waisted velvet breeches that hugged the hips and tapered smoothly to the ankle. Polished black boots sat waiting by the hearth.

"He said you'd know how to wear them," Victoria remarked, her expression unreadable but her tone edged with dry humor. "And that you'd look radiant doing it." She turned to go, but paused in the doorway. "I'll give you privacy. Master Durnan said to let him know when you're ready to be escorted to Chief Corven's manor."

And then she was gone, the heavy door closing softly behind her. The collar remained firm and unmoving against Serene's throat, a quiet reminder of whose eyes had chosen the clothes now draped across the edge of the bed. But she was unshackled. She was fed. And for the first time in hours, she was alone.

The room was quiet again; save the crackle of firewood and the slow thrum of blood moving through her limbs as they adjusted to freedom. Serene rose from the bed slowly, muscles aching, the collar tugging gently at her throat like a leash even without a lead. Its presence made her hyperaware of her own skin. Of every breath.

She approached the bundle of clothes, fingers ghosting over the fine fabric with a cautious curiosity. They were sensual in design; meant to highlight, not conceal; but that didn't surprise her. Master Durnan played power like a musician played strings: tuned for tension, flourished for effect.

She lifted the blouse first; deep red, smooth and supple, the cloth slipping like water between her fingers. When she pulled it over her head, it caressed her bare skin like a whispered promise. The neckline plunged delicately, kissing the tops of her breasts and leaving her collarbones exposed, framing the metal loop at her throat like jewelry. She moved to the small vanity in the corner, glancing in the mirror, catching her own reflection: skin flushed, eyes sharp with purpose beneath a veil of submission.

Her hands slid over the corset next. It was heavier than the blouse, rich black velvet reinforced with subtle boning and dark silver threadwork along the seams; barely perceptible vines curling in patterns she suspected held meaning. She laced it slowly, deliberately. With each pull, her waist cinched tighter, the pressure grounding her even as it accentuated every curve. Durnan had picked it not just to flatter her figure but to remind her what restraint felt like; shaped, framed, and displayed.

As she tightened the last cord, she began to scan the room with quiet calculation. Above the hearth, a strange blackwood mantle held a series of glass decanters. One smelled faintly of crushed lotus; a known sedative if prepared right. On a nearby shelf, an open book sat askew, the pages filled with ritual sigils and old imperial records. She didn't recognize all the glyphs, but she memorized the layout, the page numbers. Her mind catalogued everything.

She stepped into the breeches next; deep onyx velvet that clung lovingly to her hips and thighs, hugging each motion as she pulled them up. The fabric was luxurious and soft, but there was strength in its weave. Not just show. A gift meant to seduce, but also to move in. Durnan hadn't dressed her only to be seen. He expected her to act.

Her fingers brushed the drawer of the end table near the bed. Locked. She tucked that fact away. On the inside of the wardrobe door, something had been scratched; letters, a date. She made note of it even as she pulled on the boots: black leather, supple, perfectly fitted. She felt taller in them. More armored. More herself.

When she stood again, fully dressed, she looked less like a prisoner and more like a weapon kept in elegant display. The collar at her throat clashed with the confidence in her posture; but perhaps that was the point. A part of her wondered if he wanted her to see these things. To find them. To wonder. But even if it was a game, Serene had no intention of losing.