Chapter 13: The Pony's Homecoming
Cedric blushed, trying his best to ignore the student's gazes as he ran down the crowded campus halls. Vexia subtly guided him both with his reigns and her will, through their bond.
The harness bit into his shoulders with each step in the vaulted stone corridor. Her small, crimson hand rested possessively on his collar, her sharp nails occasionally grazing the brand she’d inscribed just days before. Whispers trailed them like foul perfume, words like “pony” and “pet” slicing through the hum of institutional magic, each one a stone added to the hollow pit in Cedric’s stomach.
He focused on the feel of the cobblestones underfoot, the strain in his thighs, anything but the faces. They finally reached the heavy oak door of his—no, their—dormitory. Vexia slipped from his back with a dancer’s grace, her boots hitting the floor with a decisive tap. “Easy now.” she murmured, her voice a low, soothing croon as she patted his sweat-damp flank. Her fingers worked the intricate buckles of the bridle, the action methodical and intimate, letting the bit fall from his mouth with a wet click.
The saddle followed, its weight lifting to leave him feeling strangely exposed, standing naked and sweating in the dim light. She unbuckled the cuffs from his wrists, her touch lingering on the raw, chafed skin. “Listen carefully.” she said, her tone shifting from groom to mistress in a breath. “When you are in your tack, you are lifestock. A thing. Thinking is for people, and you are not that.” She coiled the leather reins in her hands. “But now, out of it, you may speak. As my servant.”
Cedric’s jaw ached as he worked it, his throat parched. “Why?” The word scraped out, barely audible. “Why all of this, Vexia? The college, the brand, the… the pony gear. What’s the end?”
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, revealing her extra canines. She reached into the small, elegant bag at her hip and withdrew a crystal. It glowed with a deep, pulsing azure light, the same hue as his own magical signature. “This,” she said, holding it up so the light danced in his wide, hazel eyes. “This is the end. I’ve filled sixteen of these with your mana. Sixteen.”
She let that number hang in the stale air. “It’s enough for a down payment on a modest estate. Quiet lands. Comfort.” Her amber eyes locked onto his, holding no cruelty, only stark, transactional truth. “I’m withdrawing you from the college tomorrow. A reservoir has no need for an education, Cedric. Your purpose is to serve as my mount and my strength. To produce.”
She stepped closer, the crystal between them like a blasphemous heart. “Soon, you’ll produce even more. The rituals will deepen the well, stretch your capacity. I will live comfortably from what flows out of you.” Her free hand came up to cradle his cheek, a grotesque parody of tenderness. “That is your purpose now. You gave yourself to me and I mean to take full advantage of you.”
A coldness seeped through him, colder than the dormitory stones. It wasn’t fury; that required a spark of will he simply didn’t possess.It was a profound, glacial acceptance. The mocking students, the failed practical exams, Samantha’s disappointed looks—it all clicked into a terrible, final logic. He was not a failed mage.He was a successful resource. “I see.” he whispered.
“Good.” she purred. Her hand slid from his cheek, down his neck, over the brand, and across his chest. "My mount needs brushed and bathed."
She pushed the heavy door open and led him in by the wrist, her tail a firm, warm coil around his flesh. The familiar clutter of his old room—the books, the single narrow bed—seemed to belong to another person entirely. He watched as she nudged a stray textbook aside with her boot.
“Sit.” she said, pointing to the floor before the velvet chaise. “Here.”
He obeyed, the warped floorboards cool against his bare skin. She settled onto the chaise above him, her knees brushing his shoulders, and produced a broad-bristled brush from a side table. The first stroke through his mousy brown hair was methodical, starting at the crown and dragging down to the ends. It pulled faintly at his scalp.
Her touch was gentle, even affectionate. “You’ll make a great stallion,” she mused, her voice a soft monotone of assessment. The brush moved in steady, rhythmic passes. “Your legs are weak, but your bone structure is excellent. You just need conditioning. Miles. Weight. Obedience. Follow my guidance on your reigns must be second nature."
He closed his eyes, the repetitive motion almost lulling. A traitorous part of him clung to the simplicity of it, of being assessed like a thing of potential value. The brush caught a snag and she worked it free carefully, her small fingers deft.
“Up,” she commanded, tapping his shoulder. She led him to the copper basin she’d placed near the hearth, now filled with water. “It’s not warm.” she warned, testing it with her elbow. “It’ll do.”
The water was a shock, but her hands were not. She used a rough cloth and a cake of harsh, herbal soap, scrubbing the sweat and rode grime from his neck, his back, the hollows behind his knees. She worked in silence for a while, the only sounds the slosh of water and her measured breathing.
“The new gear I purchased will fit better.” she said conversationally, as if discussing a new jacket. “The leather’s been suppled by a proper artisan. Less chafing.” She cupped water in her hand and rinsed his shoulder, watching it sluice down over the brand. “You’ll appreciate that.”
After she finished bathing him, she toweled him dry with a rough linen cloth, her movements efficient and thorough. “Relax now.” she instructed, guiding him to the edge of the bed. “Just sit.”
She left him there, dripping and cooling, while she busied herself at the small desk. He stared at the whorls in the woodgrain of the floor, feeling the day’s aches settle into his bones. The word ‘estate’ echoed. The crystals. His legs felt weak.
She returned with a simple wooden bowl filled with stew from the hall. She didn’t hand it to him. She fed him, spoonful by spoonful, her amber eyes watching his throat work. He ate mechanically, the food tasteless. “Good,” she murmured, wiping his mouth with her thumb when he was done.
"Now rest." She patted his head. "I'll return to collect you for dinner. I believe Samantha wishes to dine with us, this evening."
Vexia’s hand lingered on his head for a moment, then she turned and walked out, the door shutting with a soft, final click.Silence flooded the room, thick and immediate. Cedric sat on the edge of the bed, the rough towel draped over his knees, his skin still smelling of her harsh soap. He stared at the closed door, the empty space where she had just been, and felt the full weight of being alone.It was a different kind of emptiness than before. He was still hollowed out, yes, but now it was a clean, accepted hollowness. He was a vessel waiting to be filled with purpose, her purpose. His gaze drifted to the corner where his old satchel lay, a textbook half-protruding.Introduction to Mana Theory. He hadn’t opened it in weeks.Samantha. The thought of her was a sudden, sharp stone in his gut.Ma’am.Miss Hinkley. She’d tried, in her blunt way. In the library, two months ago, shoving a pamphlet for a transmuter’s apprenticeship across the table. “This place is chewing you up and spitting you out, Thornwood.Cut your losses.” He’d mumbled something about tuition already being paid, about potential.
He’d seen the frustration in her grey eyes.She thought he was weak. Maybe she’d see this, his withdrawal, as him finally listening. A strange, pathetic hope flickered in his chest.Would she be happy?She’d get what she wanted.He’d be gone. The mockery in the halls would cease because the target would be removed.
But she wouldn’t understand the rest.The brand.The crystals.The comfortable estate he was being cultivated to fund. He imagined telling her, the words forming in his mind: “You were right, Miss Hinkley. I’m dropping out. I’m going to be her pony.” A hot flush of shame washed over him, followed by a numb resignation.It didn’t matter. Samantha’s approval was a relic from a different life, a life where he was a person with choices.
His eyes found the new gear laid out neatly on the velvet chaise. The leather was darker, richer than the old set.The bit had a cruel, elegant curve.He stared at it until the details blurred. This was his curriculum now. Conditioning. Miles. Weight.
A faint chime from the university’s central tower echoed through the window, marking the hour. Dinner. She would return soon. Cedric slowly lay back on the thin mattress, the towel falling to the floor. He closed his eyes and practiced the empty stillness she required, pushing Samantha’s imagined, disappointed face into the dark.