Deborah Borealis looked as if her soul had been ripped out. She sat motionless on the bed, her prominent aquiline nose mere inches from Monica's delicate one. "You..." She struggled to comprehend that these words could emanate from the woman she so profoundly adored. "Why would you speak to me this way?"

  "I'm merely," the red-haired girl's lips curved into a victorious smile, "stating the obvious truth."

  "You have no right to say that, you whore!" Monica Dunston's head snapped sideways from the violent impact of the slap before she collapsed onto the bed. "You should never have said such things, Monica," Deborah rasped. "You drove me to this. You."

  The crimson-haired girl, stunned by the force of the blow, struggled to regain her faculties. Only when she observed Deborah seizing her wrists did comprehension dawn regarding what had transpired—and what was about to occur. "No, no!" she cried. "Please! I beg you!"

  "'Begging merely encourages and flatters the aggressor,'" Deborah recited, as though quoting someone else's words. She violently tore away the white bandages encircling Monica's hands, exposing grotesquely disfigured appendages to the night air.

  "Please... don't look..." Monica turned her face away, endeavoring to confine her tears and shame to the pillow's sanctuary. Deborah casually murmured an incantation, and every candle in the chamber erupted with unnatural brilliance, as though each flame consumed its entire reservoir of wax in a single moment. "Hideous, aren't they? Like scorched pig's trotters," she remarked, admiring Monica Dunston's hands, irreparably damaged from years of practicing fire magic. A satisfied smile played across her lips as she pressed them against the red-haired girl's ruined flesh. "Yet some people find such things appealing. They relish deformity, especially the ugliness concealed within seemingly perfect vessels. Like discovering a seemingly pure, innocent girl harbors a whore's nature—nothing could be more exhilarating."

  Monica sensed that the voice belonged not truly to Deborah but seemed to echo someone else's words—someone unknown to her. Deborah positioned the girl's hands above her head. "κλειδαρι?."

  "No!" Monica's scream pierced the night as invisible forces locked her hands firmly in place. She closed her eyes, biting her lip, waiting for the rape. "I'll ensure your satisfaction, little girl. Primal violence is the precursor to modern aesthetics."

  Deborah lowered Monica's nightgown to her chest, exposing her luminous throat and collarbones. The red-haired girl emitted another piercing cry as Deborah savagely bit her collarbone and shoulder. She felt her skin tear beneath the assault, pain constricting her breathing. "'Pain accompanies pleasure as a faithful companion,'" Deborah Borealis murmured, tasting blood on her lips.

  Within a minute, Monica Dunston found herself completely divested of her nightclothes. "You resemble a rose bud awaiting bloom, Monica. An unripened fruit." She attacked the girl's nipple with her teeth, pulling violently as though intending to sever it, while her other hand roughly kneaded her left breast as if it were nothing but dough.

  "It hurts! Stop..."

  "Can you remain silent, whore?" Deborah delivered another stinging slap. Monica recognized something profoundly aberrant in the situation, knowing this night would conclude in abject misery. In her experience, Deborah Borealis had frequently visited her bed under cover of darkness, pleasuring her and permitting reciprocation, even after Patrick had been sold to Bellita Village by pirates. But Deborah had always demonstrated tenderness then, and Monica had offered minimal resistance. Never before had she struck her.

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  With dawning horror, Monica realized her most intimate region had become the ultimate objective. As Deborah Borealis attempted to part her thighs, she resisted with every ounce of strength, determined to maintain her barrier. "'Futile resistance merely inflames the conquering instinct,'" Deborah intoned softly. "διαχωρισμ??."

  Monica Dunston's strength evaporated completely. The spell forced her legs apart, exposing her private area and pale auburn curls. "I implore you, Deborah," she begged weakly. "Don't do this. This isn't you."

  "'This isn't you,'" she echoed Monica's words.

  She began stimulating Monica's vulva with her nose, tongue, and teeth. The red-haired girl writhed in discomfort as waves of revulsion assailed her from every direction. Deborah Borealis licked her labia, thrust her tongue into her tight vagina, and gently nibbled her sensitive clitoris. "Please, stop." Deborah ignored her protests, continuing her invasive exploration. After repeated attempts, she discovered the girl remained completely dry.

  "You show no response," she stated flatly. "'You show no response.'"

  "I don't want this!" Monica roared.

  "Neither do I!" Deborah bellowed, her fist crashing into the bed beside Monica Dunston's face.

  "I don't want this." Deborah Borealis's body went limp, her head falling onto the red-haired girl's chest. "I don't want this... but who hears my cries?" Monica felt cool droplets falling onto her skin. "No one understands me, no one willingly listens or respects my thoughts. During countless nights adrift at sea, gasps, screams, and curses surrounded me, drowning out my voice, my cries. Those sailors treated me exactly as I've treated you tonight, though they used ropes and chains instead of magic..." She dispelled her enchantments and rolled away from Monica to the bed's edge, becoming as still as stagnant water.

  Though details remained unspoken, the red-haired girl comprehended what Deborah had endured before the pirates' customary transaction with the villagers. Rather than fleeing, she moved closer, embracing Deborah from behind. She had not forgiven her—not for her stance regarding Cynthia—but she recognized the desperate need for consolation in this moment.

  Sleep descended upon them both.

  Rhones Lord paced the chamber with evident agitation. The bodies had been removed, and the remaining guards methodically searched the room. "Clean those bloodstains more thoroughly," he ordered one guard. "Don't let the queen see them."

  The side door burst open as Claire Grace entered, wearing garments somewhere between nightclothes and a formal dress, having outpaced her trailing attendants by several meters. "What have you found, Rhones?" she demanded without preamble. He noted her obvious signs of recent weeping.

  "I regret to report, Your Majesty, that beyond the letter, we've discovered nothing of significance." He gestured toward the fireplace. "Though perhaps that location might yield additional evidence."

  "Do not jest with me, Sir Knight," the queen's gaze conveyed stern reproach. "This concerns the princess's safety. I trust you comprehend the implications."

  "I understand perfectly," Rhones Lord shrugged, though no one observed the gesture. "Claire," he approached, lowering his voice, "how fares Rebecca?"

  "She's well. Leiana attends to her." The queen's expression briefly lightened at the mention of her daughter before darkening once more. "She won't wake... Do you understand? We've exerted every effort to rouse her..." Rhones Lord feared she might weep again before the assembled guards, but thankfully she maintained her composure. "Archmage Hamilton suggests she likely consumed a sleeping draught... I fear she may never awaken..."