Chapter 3: Prized Possession
The gown was a masterpiece of silk and predation. Crimson as a fresh heart, threaded with gold so bright it seemed liquid. It fit Ishtar like a second skin, with a neckline that plunged to her navel and a skirt slit to the hip. Aurick’s stylist had cinched her waist to an almost painful degree, a living hourglass. Her hair was piled in an intricate fall of black silk, held by golden pins. She looked like a treasure, a prize, a willing sacrifice. A thrall belonging to Aurick Silverthorne.
He stood beside her as the carriage pulled up to the Guild Hall, his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "They will all look," he murmured, adjusting the silver cuff of his own immaculate jacket. "They will all want. And I will have you whisper in my ear what you would let them do to you, and I will deny them each in turn. I will refine you through their envy." He kissed her temple, his lips cool. "Play your part."
The Guild Masters’ Soiree Hall roared with a carefully orchestrated chaos. The warm light from a hundred enchanted chandeliers gleamed on polished marble and spotless crystal. Laughter was too loud, orchestral music too lush, the air stank of rare wine, roasted peacock, and the cloying fog of three dozen competing perfumes. Ishtar clung to Aurick's arm, her fingers resting lightly on the fine wool of his sleeve, her smile a practiced curve of familiar allure. She tipped her chin up, letting her eyes sparkle, playing the consort who had finally embraced her gilded fate.
But her gaze was a scavenger, skimming the crowd. She parsed the red-and-black livery of the Hall’s usual staff, the white aprons of the cooks bringing out trays, the subtle variations in pointed ears and hair color of the elven sommeliers. Nothing.
Aurick led her through the throng. Lords and merchants, Guild Masters with ink-stained fingers and scrutinizing eyes, ladies in jewel-colored silks. All turned. The violet-skinned tiefling courtesan on the arm of the reclusive, wealthy high elf was the evening’s finest theatre.
"Silverthorne! Introducing a new… acquisition?" boomed a dwarf with a beard braided with gemstones. His eyes crawled over Ishtar’s chest.
"A collaborator," Aurick corrected smoothly, his hand covering hers on his arm, squeezing just short of pain. "Ishtar brings a unique perspective to my research on infernal energy convergence." The lie was so absurd it was humiliating. Ishtar’s smile never wavered.
"Darling," she purred, leaning into him, letting her breast press against his arm. "Lord Feldspar is staring. Do you think he wants me to explain the convergence to him?"
Aurick’s smile was a razor. He looked at the dwarf. "I fear the mathematics would be lost on him, my dear."
They moved on.
From a balcony overlooking the floor, Grisha, the host, held court. She was a mountain of a woman, olive-skinned and formidable, her greying hair in a severe coronet. Gold and emeralds dripped from her neck. She was the trophy Taker, the sanctuary giver. Ishtar felt a pull in her chest, a physical ache for that sanctuary. She forced herself to look elsewhere.
They were nearing the edge of the dance floor when she saw him.
He moved with a grace too fluid for a mere servant, a silver tray balanced on one palm bearing a single, dusty bottle and two crystal flagons. His hair, not silver but a pale, sun-kissed gold, was swept back, hiding the points of his ears. He had altered his features subtly—arching the brows a little, smoothing the sharpness of his cheekbones. But the eyes. The eyes were a piercing, mismatched blue and brown behind a magically augmented lens, yet something in their predatory stillness was unmistakably his.
Their gazes locked across five yards of polished floor. A chill danced up her spine, a current of pure adrenaline.
In her periphery, she saw Aurick turn his head slightly, a predator sensing a shift in the wind. He followed her line of sight.
Ishtar’s heart stopped. She forced a soft, dreamy sigh, letting her lashes flutter. She leaned in, her lips brushing the peak of his ear. “The sommelier. He looks almost like that drow. It… it startled me for a moment.” She let a tremor infect her voice, the perfect echo of her earlier fear. “He has the same bearing.”
Aurick’s stare was a physical weight on Drizzt’s back as the disguised drow presented the bottle to a pair of Sembian merchants. He watched for a long moment, then relaxed infinitesimally. “A superficial resemblance. The gait is wrong. The drow moved like a shadow. That one is just a tall elf trying to look important.” He patted her hand. “Your nerves are frayed, my dear. A glass of wine will settle them.”
He summoned the sommelier with a flick of two fingers.
Drizzt approached, his face a mask of polite deference. An expertly crafted mask of someone utterly insignificant. “My lord? My lady? The 1292 Neverwinter Nectar, from a private cellar. A privilege to offer it.” His voice was lighter, mellifluous, devoid of Drizzt’s dark gravel.
“We will sample it,” Aurick said, not looking at him, his gaze returning to Ishtar as if she were the only thing in the room.
Drizzt set the tray on a small pier table. His hands were steady as he uncorked the bottle with a soft pop. He poured the deep amber liquid into a flagon and offered it to Aurick first. The elf sniffed, sipped, nodded. Drizzt then poured a second flagon.
This was the moment. His thumb was positioned on the stem of the flagon, right where the silver disc, thin as a coin, could be adhered.
Ishtar reached for it, her movements casual, languid, the practiced move of a woman used to being served. Her fingers brushed his. The transfer was instant, invisible. The cold disc settled into her palm, hidden by the bowl of the glass. A tremor, like a spark jumping a gap, shivered up her arm. The siphon.
“Oh,” she breathed, a genuine reaction. Her head swam for a second, a dizzying lurch.
“Is it not to your liking?” Aurick asked, peering at her.
“No, it’s exquisite,” she said quickly, taking a sip. The wine tasted of ash. “Just… potent.” She widened her eyes at him, letting the magic of the moment, of him, swallow the oddity. “You choose so well.”
His vanity soothed, he smiled. Drizzt gave a shallow bow and melted back into the procession of staff.
The disc was a brand in her palm. The plan was in motion. Now, to touch Grisha.
An hour bled by in a haze of obsequious conversation and drifting among the guests. Aurick led her toward the central staircase that swept up to the balcony where Grisha held court. Every step was an effort. The siphon felt alive, squirming in her clenched fist.
“Grisha does not often socialize with my… area of interest,” Aurick murmured as they ascended. “But your story as my devoted collaborator will intrigue her. Say nothing of your past. You are reborn.”
They reached the top. Grisha’s guards, two humans with the scarred knuckles of lifelong brawlers, assessed them but stepped aside for the noble high elf and his captivating companion.
“Aurick Silverthorne,” Grisha said, her voice a low contralto that cut through the murmur below. Her eyes, the color of wet slate, moved to Ishtar. They held no warmth, only vast, experienced calculation. “And you’ve brought inspiration.”
“Grisha,” Aurick inclined his head. “Allow me to present Ishtar. Her insights have been… transformative.”
Grisha extended a hand, not for an greeting, but to beckon Ishtar closer. It was a command. Her hand was large, strong, the knuckles swollen, heavy rings on three fingers. The moment crystallized.
Ishtar stepped forward, the picture of demure grace. She took Grisha’s offered hand, not in a handshake, but in a gesture of grateful reverence, bringing her own hands up to clasp it between them. It was a natural, submissive move. The instant her palm, with the hidden disc, made contact with the back of Grisha’s hand, the amber stone at the siphon’s center flared with a dark, internal light.
Grisha stiffened. Her eyes snapped to Ishtar’s, confusion and then dawning, violent recognition flashing in their depths. It was the shared glance of two people feeling the same impossible thing: a deep, metaphysical hook, buried for years in Ishtar’s soul, tearing loose.
For Ishtar, it was a frozen bolt of lightning up her spine. A blinding headache, white and sudden, exploded behind her eyes. She gasped, her knees buckling.
For Grisha, it was a sharp, electric jolt, a flinch. She yanked her hand back as if burned, her face paling beneath its olive tone.
Aurick saw only his thrall swooning. He caught Ishtar by the elbow, holding her upright. “My dear? The wine, perhaps?”
“A moment… of vertigo,” Ishtar whispered, the words thick. The blinding pain was already receding, leaving a hollow, clean ache in its wake. The bond was gone. Sensed, then severed. The disc in her palm was now warm, pulsing faintly with a captured energy she could feel through her skin.
Grisha was staring at her own hand, then back at Ishtar, her expression a maelstrom of fury and something like shock. She opened her mouth.
“My apologies, Madame Grisha,” Aurick interjected smoothly, misunderstanding everything. “She has been pushing herself too hard in our work. I should take her home to rest.”
He didn’t wait for a dismissal. He turned Ishtar, his grip firm, and began steering her back down the stairs, away from the speechless, furious matron. Ishtar’s legs were water, but she moved, clinging to the guise of frailty.
They were in the carriage before the fury bled into his manner. The door slammed, the vehicle lurching into motion.
“What,” he hissed in the dark, “was that?”
“I felt faint,” she whimpered, leaning into the corner, pressing her fist with its stolen treasure into the plush seat. “The room was so close.”
“You embarrassed me in front of Grisha.” His voice was velvet over steel. “You faltered. My creations do not falter.” He reached across the space, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her face toward him. “I think you are not fully committed. I think there is still a fracture in your will. We will seal it. Tonight.”
She didn’t resist. The hollowness inside her, the absence of the bond, felt like a silent, roaring victory. She rode it, letting terror show on her face for him. “Whatever you wish, my lord. I am yours to mold.”
Aurick did not lead her to the crimson parlor. He took her down, below the main house, to a chamber she had never seen.
It was a beautiful crypt. The walls were smooth, polished black basalt. Silver constellations were inlaid in the floor. The air was cold and smelled of ozone, blood, and crushed wormwood. In the center of the room stood a low, obsidian plinth, shaped like an altar. Iron manacles, lined with black velvet, hung from its sides.
“You belong to me,” Aurick said, his voice echoing in the stark space. He shed his jacket, his movements economical. “Your body. Your mind. Tonight, we begin binding your very essence.”
“How?” she whispered, her genuine fear no longer needing artifice.
He produced a slim silver dagger from a hidden drawer. “With blood. And truth. Your blood, Ishtar. On this stone. And the name your mother gave you, whispered into the silence." He gestured to the plinth. “Remove the gown. Lie down.”
This was it. The line Drizzt had warned her not to cross.
“I…” She shook her head, backing away a step.
His hand shot out, catching her wrist. The violence in his grip was sudden, absolute. “Do you think I am a fool? That trembling, distracted woman at the soiree? Grisha’s reaction?” He wrenched her arm, spinning her and slamming her back against the cold wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. The silver disc dug into her clenched fist. “Someone spoke to you. Touched you. Was it the sommelier? Was he your drow in a pretty mask?”
Panic, pure and undiluted, lanced through her. She clawed at his hand. “No! I was just scared—”
He backhanded her across the face. The crack was loud in the stone room. Her head snapped to the side, her vision exploding in white stars. The taste of copper filled her mouth.
“Lies!” he roared, his composure shattering, revealing the raving obsession beneath. “You are mine! You were always meant to be mine!” He grabbed the neckline of her crimson gown and tore. The expensive silk gave way like cobwebs, baring her to the waist. He threw her towards the plinth.
She stumbled, falling against the unforgiving obsidian. Before she could scramble away, he was on her, his knee pinning her thigh, his hands shackling her wrists into the velvet-lined manacles. They clicked shut with a terrible finality. She lay spread-eagled on the cold stone altar, half-naked, utterly vulnerable.
He stood over her, breathing heavily, the silver dagger glinting in his hand. His pale features were twisted into a mask of ecstatic fury. “Your defiance only makes the binding sweeter. Your struggling soul will be a finer ingredient.”
He ran the flat of the blade down the valley between her breasts. “First, the blood. A vial is needed for the main ritual, but tonight… tonight I will take it directly. I will taste your submission as I bind you.”
He brought the tip of the dagger to the soft skin just below her collarbone. He pressed. Ishtar cried out as the sharp, bright pain bloomed, a bead of blood welling up. He bent his head and licked it, his tongue hot and wet against her freezing skin.
“Marvelous,” he moaned. “So potent.” He lowered the dagger, and this time traced a line down her sternum, not breaking the skin but leaving a cold imprint. “But the flesh is a gateway. The true bindings are forged deeper.” He discarded the dagger. It clattered on the stone floor.
His hands returned to her body, but there was no clinical detachment now. This was a famished taking. He groped her breasts, squeezing hard enough to bruise, pinching her nipples until she arched off the plinth with a choked cry. He lowered his head, biting the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sucking a dark mark into her violet skin even as her blood from the cut smeared his lips.
“Now,” he rasped, yanking at the remains of her skirt, tearing them away. He unfastened his trousers, freeing his erection. He was already hard, flushed, a look of ravenous religiosity in his eyes. “Now I will plant the first sigil of ownership. I will carve it into your spirit with my cock.”
He pushed her thighs apart, his movements brutal. There was no preamble, no preparation. He shoved himself into her, dry and rough.
Ishtar screamed. The pain was a tearing, burning intrusion. Her body, still tender from the day’s violations, refused. She scrabbled against her manacles, the velvet doing nothing to cushion the bite of iron on her wrists.
Aurick fucked her with short, punishing strokes, his hips pistoning against her. His eyes were glazed, fixed on some point beyond her head as he chanted under his breath, words in a guttural, infernal tongue she didn't know. He leaned over, his breath hot and reeking of wine against her ear.
"Say your name," he grunted, thrusting deep, making her gasp. "Your true name. Whisper it for me. Give it to me and the pain will stop."
Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, tracking through the sweat on her temples. She shook her head, clamping her lips shut. The siphon dug into her palm like a promise.
He snarled, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. "Give it to me, you fucking whore! I own you!" He slammed into her, over and over, the sound of flesh on flesh obscene in the ritual space. She could feel a warmth between her legs, blood or his spit, she didn't know. The violation was absolute, a physical and spiritual violation designed to break her.
She retreated. She fled into the hollowness the siphon had left behind. She let her body go limp, a vessel being filled with poison. She stared at the silver constellations in the ceiling, counting them, while he used her.
His chanting rose to a crescendo. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming frantic, desperate jerks. "Mine!" he screamed, his body stiffening. He ground himself deep inside her and groaned, a long, shuddering release. She felt the hot, unwanted pulse of his seed filling her.
He collapsed atop her, his weight crushing, his sweat dripping onto her abused skin. He lay there panting, still embedded in her.
After a long minute, he pushed himself up, withdrawing from her with a slick, sickening sound. He looked down at her, at her blood on his mouth, at her tears, at her vacant eyes. He seemed satisfied. He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear.
"You will give me the name, Ishtar. Soon. Sleep now." He unlocked the manacles, his touch almost gentle again.
She slid off the plinth, her legs buckling. She caught herself on the edge, her torn gown falling around her in shreds. She didn't try to cover herself. There was no point.
"Go to your room," he said, turning to clean the dagger with a white cloth. "We continue at dawn."
Naked, bleeding, hollow, and clutching a stolen sliver of
We continue at dawn.
The words echoed in the silence he left behind. Ishtar stayed on the cold floor, the basalt leaching the warmth from her skin. Her body was a map of fresh atrocities. The cut below her collarbone wept a slow, sticky track. Deeper aches pulsed between her legs, a raw throb that matched the pounding in her skull. She unclenched her fist. The silver disc was imprinted into her palm, a perfect circle of anguish. The amber stone at its center now glowed with a faint, sullen light, like a captured ember. Grisha’s bond was in there. Her freedom was now a physical object she could hold.
She pushed herself up. The movement made her gasp. Using a torn strip of her crimson gown, she wiped roughly between her thighs, wincing at the smear of blood and semen. The cloth came away stained. She didn’t look at it for long. She fashioned another strip into a crude bandage for the cut, then wrapped the largest remnant of silk around her body like a shroud. It was scant cover, but it was something. She slipped the disc into the makeshift knot at her chest. It felt hot against her skin, a secret heart.
The mansion above was silent, sleeping. She moved through the darkened halls like a ghost, her bare feet soundless on the rugs. Every shadow made her flinch. She expected Aurick’s hand to fall on her shoulder at any moment. Her room, when she reached it, offered no solace. The scent of sex from earlier—her sex, Drizzt’s sex—still hung in the air, a ghostly mockery of the violation she’d just endured. She went to the washbasin and scrubbed again, the water turning pink.
As she dried, a soft tap came at the window. Not the door. The window.
She froze. Then she padded over, pulling the curtain aside. Drizzt clung to the stonework outside, a blot of deeper darkness against the night. His glamour was gone; silver hair, red eyes, stark features. He looked grim. He mimed opening the latch.
She slid the window up. He slipped inside, landing in a silent crouch. He took in her appearance in one sweeping glance: the torn silk, the makeshift bandage, the haunted emptiness in her eyes that even she couldn’t conceal. His jaw tightened.
“It’s done?” he asked, his voice low.
Wordlessly, she untied the knot at her chest and held out the siphon. The amber stone pulsed once, visibly, in the dim light.
He took it, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. He tucked it away inside his vest. “Good. Grisha will be scrambling. The bond’s severed. She’ll feel the void. She won’t know why.” His eyes returned to her, lingering on the bandage. “What did he do?”
“The binding ritual started early,” she said, her voice flat. Distant. “He wanted blood. My blood. And my true name.” She walked to the bed and sat on its edge, not because she was tired, but because her legs would no longer hold her. “He didn’t get the name.”
Drizzt was silent for a beat. “But he took the blood.”
“Yes.”
“And other things.”
It wasn't a question. She didn’t answer. The memory of the obsidian plinth, the manacles, the brutal, chanting thrusts, was a slick, ugly film over her mind. She looked at Drizzt, really looked at him, standing there in his dark leathers, smelling of night air and city stone. He was violence made flesh, but his violence had edges, purpose. Aurick’s was an all-consuming maw.
“He wants to continue at dawn,” she said.
“He won’t have the chance.” Drizzt moved to the door, checking the hall through a crack. “We go now. The bond is severed. The magical tether is gone. All that’s left is the parchment in his study. We burn it, and you walk out of here before the sun comes up.”
“He’ll find me. He’ll never stop.”
Drizzt turned, his red eyes gleaming. “I’ll deal with Aurick.”
The finality in his tone was absolute. It should have brought comfort. Instead, it coiled a new thread of ice in her stomach. “Deal with him?”
“He’s an equation that no longer balances. A variable.” He parroted Aurick’s own word back with deadly contempt. “I’ll simplify him.” He nodded to her. “Get dressed. Something dark. Something you can move in.”
She had nothing like that. Every garment in the wardrobe was a costume for the courtesan or the trophy. She finally pulled on a simple, dark charcoal undershift and a pair of soft leather leggings she used for lute practice. They clung to her hips, allowed movement. She tied her hair back. Drizzt watched, his arms crossed. When she was ready, he held out a hand. In his palm lay a small, crystalline vial filled with inky liquid.
“Oil of ether. Two drops on a cloth. Hold it over his mouth and nose for a thirty-count. He’ll sleep for ten hours. Dreamless. He won’t hear a thing.”
She stared at the vial. “You want me to do it?”
“He’ll be in his bedroom. Likely asleep. I need to search the study. We split the work.” He pressed it into her hand. Her fingers closed around the cold glass. “Can you do it?”
She saw Aurick’s ecstatic fury, felt the ghost of his weight. She smelt his sweat and her own blood. “Yes.”
The mansion was a tomb. They moved like whispers. Drizzt led, his knowledge of the floorplan unnervingly complete. He paused at a junction, pointing her down the west hall towards the master bedrooms. He pointed to himself, then east, towards the study. No words. A final nod. They parted.
The hall to Aurick’s chamber was long, lined with portraits of severe elves. Their painted eyes seemed to follow her. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She held the vial so tightly she feared it would shatter.
His door was ajar. A sliver of moonlight cut across a floor of polished wood. She could hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. She pushed the door open, inch by agonizing inch, wincing at the faint creak.
He lay on a vast canopy bed, naked to the waist, the sheets pooled at his hips. In sleep, his face was smooth, almost innocent, the fanatic erased. The moonlight gleamed on the pale green of his hair, on the sharp line of his cheekbone. He was beautiful. It made the sickness in her gut churn harder. On a nightstand beside him lay the silver dagger, clean now, a sentinel.
She crept forward. Each step was an eternity. The air smelled of him, that frost lily and parchment scent. She uncorked the vial. The oil smelled sharply medicinal. She poured two drops onto a corner of her sleeve, her hands trembling. She recorked the vial, shoved it in her pocket. She leaned over the bed.
His breath washed over her hand. She froze, her own breath held. She brought the cloth down, gently, over his nose and mouth.
His eyes snapped open.
Blue, lucid, and utterly aware. He wasn’t asleep. He’d been waiting.
His hand shot up, a vice around her wrist, wrenching her arm away from his face. The cloth fluttered to the sheets. He surged up, his other hand slamming into her chest, throwing her backward. She crashed into a small table, porcelain shattering around her.
“You think me a fool?” he seethed, launching himself from the bed. He was on her before she could rise, his knees pinning her shoulders, his hands closing around her throat. “The sommelier. The fainting spell. This pathetic attempt at sedative?” His thumbs pressed into her windpipe. Black spots swam at the edges of her vision. “You are working with him. You treacherous, infernal slut!”
She gagged, clawing at his hands, her nails drawing blood. He didn’t flinch. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, spittle flying. “I will cut the name from your soul. I will flay the defiance from your bones. I will keep what’s useful and burn the rest!”
The silver dagger. It gleamed from the nightstand, just out of reach. She bucked wildly, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy, too strong. His grip tightened. She was drowning in open air.
Then his weight vanished.
There was a wet, tearing sound, and a hot spray spattered across her face and chest. Aurick’s eyes went wide with surreal shock. He looked down. The point of a short sword, slick and dark, protruded from the center of his chest. It twisted, vanishing backward. He slumped to the side, collapsing onto the broken porcelain.
Drizzt stood behind where Aurick had been, a vengeful phantom. His other sword was already in his hand, dripping. He wiped the blades clean on the bedsheet with two efficient swipes. “I heard the crash,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
Ishtar scrambled back, retching, dragging air into her ravaged throat. She stared at Aurick’s body. Blood, shockingly red, seeped across the pale wood floor, soaking into the green of his hair. His open eyes stared at the ceiling, vacant. The beautiful, monstrous equation was solved.
“The contract,” Drizzt said, stepping over the body. He went to a section of wall, pressed, and a panel slid open. Inside was a small, iron strongbox. He worked a set of picks, and the lock clicked. He pulled out a single scroll of heavy vellum, sealed with silver wax. He broke the seal, unrolled it, scanned the flowing script. “It’s here. All the terms. The blood clause.” He looked at her. “You want to burn it?”
She was still shaking, the coppery taste of blood in her mouth—his or hers, she didn’t know. She nodded.
He took it to a washbasin, produced a tindertwig, and struck it alight. He held the flame to the corner of the parchment. It caught, blackening, curling, the elegant script vanishing into ash. He dropped it into the basin, watching until it was completely consumed. A thread of smoke, smelling of burnt leather and finished things, coiled toward the ceiling.
“It’s done,” he said.
She believed him. The hollow ache inside her didn’t fill, but it changed. It became a space for something else, something not yet named.
“Get your things. Only what you need.” Drizzt was already moving, checking the hall. “We have minutes before a servant comes for morning duties.”
She had nothing. She stood, her legs steadier now. She walked past Aurick’s body without looking. At the doorway, she paused. She took the vial of oil of ether from her pocket and tossed it onto the blood-soaked floor beside him. Then she followed Drizzt into the dark hall.