Chapter 13: The Mage's Price
The cottage smelled of salt and old magic.
Fox stood at the window, watching the sea churn against the cliffs below. Grey waves crashed against black stone, sending spray into the air that hung like mist in the moonlight. The runes carved into the walls pulsed faintly—blue-white, like the ice that had shattered at Blackmire Ford—and he could feel them watching him.
Everything in this place watched.
The shelves lined with jars of preserved organs. The workbench stained with substances he didn't want to name. The circle of salt on the floor, untouched, waiting.
Everly had been silent for the entire walk back.
That silence had weight.
Arielle sat on a stool near the hearth, her daggers laid out on a cloth before her, her hands moving methodically as she cleaned them. She hadn't looked at Fox since they'd arrived. Hadn't spoken to him. Her knuckles were still raw from where she'd punched a tree on the way up the cliff path.
He'd deserved worse.
The door banged open.
Everly swept in, her robes dripping seawater, her black hair plastered to her skull. She'd stayed behind to erase their trail—ice magic, she'd said, something about freezing the mud so the dead couldn't track their footprints. Fox didn't understand half of what she did.
He understood the look in her eyes.
Cold. Calculated. Furious.
"Seat," she said.
Fox didn't move.
"I said sit."
"I'm not a dog."
"No. You're worse." She crossed the room in three strides, her fingers closing around his jaw. Her grip was strong—stronger than it should have been—and when she forced his head up, he saw the veins of frost creeping along her wrists. "You're a liability. A broken tool. And broken tools don't get to stand."
She released him.
He didn't sit.
But he didn't move away either.
"You cost us the Codex," Everly said. "You had the shot. One arrow. One dead bitch. And you froze."
"I know."
"You know." She laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "You know. That's supposed to make it better?"
"Nothing makes it better."
"No. Nothing does." She turned away, crossing to the workbench. Her fingers trailed over the runes carved into its surface—different from the ones on the walls, older, darker. "But you're going to make it right."
"Arielle already told me the plan. Get close to Leliana. Plant the rune."
"That's part of it." Everly picked up a small stone—black as obsidian, pulsing with faint red light. "This is a severance rune. Once it's on her skin, I can activate it from any distance. It won't kill her. It will destroy the Codex."
Fox frowned.
"The Codex is bound to her blood," Everly continued. "She's its anchor. Its power flows through her. Sever that connection, and the book becomes worthless. Nothing but paper and ink."
"Then why hasn't anyone done this before?"
"Because it requires touch." She set the rune down. "Skin to skin. You have to get close enough to press this against her flesh and hold it there for three heartbeats. Can you do that?"
Fox thought of Leliana standing on the ridge. The smile on her face. The way his hands had shaken.
"Yes."
"You hesitated before."
"I won't again."
"We'll see." Everly turned to face him. "But first, we address your debt."
Arielle looked up from her daggers.
"What debt?" she asked.
"Payment." Everly's smile was thin and cold. "I don't work for free. I've spent years gathering the knowledge I have. The spells, the runes, the rituals—none of it came cheap. And I've just lost valuable resources because your archer couldn't do his job."
"I don't have money," Fox said.
"I don't want money."
The fire crackled.
Arielle stood.
"What do you want?"
Everly looked at her—a long, appraising glance that lingered on the daggers, the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders.
"Tonight," she said, "he belongs to me."
---
They stripped him together.
Arielle's hands were rough as she pulled his tunic over his head. Everly's were precise—unlacing his leathers, sliding them down his hips, exposing skin that hadn't seen sunlight in weeks. He stood in the center of the room, bare and still, while they circled him like predators.
"On the bench," Everly said.
He walked.
The wood was cold against his back. The runes bit into his skin, pulsing with faint warmth that spread through his muscles and made his limbs heavy. Ropes appeared—woven from something that looked like silk but felt like iron—and wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, pulling him taut.
"Comfortable?" Everly asked.
"No."
"Good."
She began.
Her fingers traced patterns across his chest—slow, deliberate, following the lines of muscle and scar. She touched the bite mark on his shoulder where Arielle had drawn blood the night before, pressing her thumb into the bruise until he hissed.
"That's going to scar," she said.
"Good."
She smiled.
Her hands moved lower.
She stroked his cock with the barest touch—fingertips ghosting along the shaft, circling the head, spreading the bead of moisture that had gathered there. He hardened instantly, his hips twitching against the ropes.
"Look at that," Everly murmured. "So eager. So desperate."
"I'm not—"
She gripped him.
Hard.
His words died in his throat.
"Hush." Her hand began to move—slow, steady strokes that sent pleasure crackling up his spine. "You don't speak unless I tell you to. Understand?"
He nodded.
"Say it."
"I understand."
"Good boy."
She kept going.
Minutes passed. Hours, maybe. Time lost meaning in that room, with the runes pulsing and the fire crackling and Everly's hand moving with mechanical precision. Each stroke brought him closer to the edge, and each time she stopped. Her fingers would release him just as the pressure began to build, leaving him gasping, his cock twitching and slick with his own arousal.
"Please," he said.
"Please what?"
"Please let me—"
"Let you what?" She was smiling now, an expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Come? You want to come?"
"Yes."
"Too bad."
She knelt between his legs.
Her mouth was hot—hotter than anything he'd felt in months. She took him deep, her tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft, her throat relaxed as she swallowed him whole. He groaned, arching against the ropes, and she pulled back just enough to speak.
"Don't come."
"I can't—"
"You will." She took him again. Faster this time, her head bobbing, her lips tight around him. The pleasure was overwhelming—white-hot, consuming, building in his gut like a wave that refused to break.
She stopped.
"You fuck—"
"Language." She licked the head of his cock—slow, teasing, collecting the precum that had beaded there. "I thought you wanted my help."
"I do."
"Then don't swear at me."
She went back to work.
He lost count of how many times she brought him to the edge. Each time, she stopped—sometimes with her hand, sometimes with her mouth, once with her teeth scraping gently along his shaft until he cried out. The runes on the bench were pulsing faster now, feeding on his arousal, amplifying every sensation until he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but whimper.
Arielle watched.
She sat on the stool, her daggers forgotten, her hands gripping her knees. Her face was flushed—angry or aroused, Fox couldn't tell—and her eyes never left him.
"You enjoy this," Everly said to her.
"No."
"Liar." Everly's hand resumed its stroking—slow, lazy, just enough to keep him hard. "You're jealous."
"I'm not—"
"You want to be the one touching him. You want to be the one making him beg." Everly tilted her head. "But you're also afraid. Because if you're the one hurting him, you might not stop."
Arielle said nothing.
"I thought so."
Everly climbed onto the bench.
She straddled him, her robes falling away, her body bare and pale in the firelight. She was beautiful—all lean muscle and sharp angles, her breasts small but perfect, her cunt slick with her own arousal.
"You've been patient," she said. "Now you can come."
She sank onto him.
Fox gasped.
She was tight—tighter than Arielle, tighter than anyone he'd ever felt—and her body gripped him like she was trying to drain him dry. She didn't move at first. Just sat there, her hands on his chest, her nails digging into the muscle.
"Look at me," she said.
He looked.
"Tonight, you're mine. Tomorrow, you can be hers." She glanced at Arielle. "But right now, you belong to me."
She began to ride.
Her hips moved in sharp, brutal strokes—no tenderness, no pretense of intimacy. She was using him. Using his body for her own pleasure, her head thrown back, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her nails raked down his chest, leaving lines of fire, and he felt blood well up.
"You like that?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I like it."
"Beg for it."
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
She rode him harder.
The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the creak of the bench, the pulsing of the runes beneath his back. He was close—so close—and she knew it. She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear.
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"You can." She slowed. "And you will."
She stopped.
He swore.
She slapped him.
Not hard. Just enough to sting, to remind him who was in control. Then she started moving again—faster, deeper, her cunt clenching around him like a fist.
"Now," she said. "Come."
He did.
The orgasm ripped through him—violent and sudden, his hips bucking off the bench, his voice breaking on a shout that echoed off the walls. She rode him through it, her nails still digging into his chest, her teeth finding his neck and biting down.
When he was spent, she climbed off.
"He's not done," Arielle said.
Everly raised an eyebrow.
"You said tonight he belongs to you," Arielle continued, standing. "But you didn't say I couldn't have a turn."
Everly smiled.
"He's still hard," she said. "Young men. So much stamina."
Arielle crossed the room.
Her hands were gentle at first—surprisingly gentle—cupping his face, tilting his head back. She kissed him, soft and slow, her tongue tracing his lower lip. He tasted blood. His own.
"I'm still angry," she whispered.
"I know."
"I'm still going to hurt you."
"I know."
She climbed onto the bench.
Her body was different from Everly's—softer, rounder, warmer. She straddled him, her thighs pressing against his hips, and guided him inside her with a slow, deliberate motion that made him groan.
"You fill me up," she said. "You always do."
She began to move.
Not like Everly. Not punishing. Not clinical. Arielle moved like she was trying to prove something—to him, to herself, to the woman watching from the shadows. Her hips rolled in slow circles, her hands braced on his chest, her eyes fixed on his.
"You're mine," she said.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Not hers."
"Not hers."
She rode him faster.
The bench creaked beneath them. The fire crackled. Everly watched from her stool, her fingers buried between her thighs, her lips moving in words he couldn't hear.
The runes beneath his back were blazing now—white-hot, searing, feeding every sensation back into his body until he felt like he was burning from the inside out. Arielle leaned down, her hair falling around them like a curtain, and kissed him.
"You're going to do this," she whispered. "You're going to plant the rune. You're going to destroy that bitch."
"Yes."
"And then you're going to come back to me."
"Yes."
She bit his lip.
He came.
The second orgasm was weaker than the first—his body was spent, exhausted, barely able to respond—but it still rippled through him, made him shudder and gasp. Arielle rode him through it, her own climax washing over her in waves that made her thighs tremble.
When she finished, she collapsed on top of him.
They lay there for a long moment.
Then Everly stood.
"Enough," she said. "We have work to do."
---
She untied him.
His limbs were numb—the runes had done something, drained something—and he stumbled as he stood. Arielle caught him, her arm around his waist, her body warm against his.
"The rune," Everly said, pressing the black stone into his palm. "You need to place it on her skin and hold it for three heartbeats. Can you do that?"
Fox looked at the stone.
At the red light pulsing inside it.
"Yes."
"Then rest." Everly turned away, crossing to the window. "We leave at dawn."
Arielle helped him to the bed—a narrow cot in the corner, barely big enough for two. She lay down beside him, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing the scratches Everly had left.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"No."
"Good."
He closed his eyes.
The sea crashed against the cliffs. The runes pulsed. The fire died.
And somewhere, in the darkness beyond the window, the dead were waiting.
---
He woke to screaming.
Not human screaming—something else, something older, a sound that split the night like a blade through silk. Fox was on his feet before he was fully conscious, his hand reaching for a bow that wasn't there.
The cottage was dark.
Arielle was gone.
Everly stood at the window, her back to him, her body rigid. The runes on the walls were pulsing—not blue-white, but red. Angry. Warning.
"What's happening?" Fox asked.
"She found us."
"Who?"
Everly turned.
Her face was pale—paler than he'd ever seen it—and her eyes were wide with something he'd never expected to see there.
Fear.
"Leliana," she said. "She's here."