The banquet smelled of roasted pheasant and old wine, of candles guttering against too much silk. Long tables glittered with silver, glass catching light in shards. Donors and house heads filled the hall, their laughter too loud, their whispers sharper than knives.
Elma stood near the end, ribs wrapped tight beneath a new gown, the leash humming against her skin like an insult. She hated these dinners—more theater than feast—but Nitron insisted. A public show of dominance after Frostspawn's humiliation.
Calista sat at the opposite side, a queen in dark sapphire silk. The dress clung and pooled like midnight water, diamonds at her throat throwing off tiny bursts of light each time she moved. Her face was carved calm, her smile measured to the ounce. No one looking would guess her knuckles had bruised wood the night before.
Nitron presided at the head, wine untouched, his presence heavier than the food. "Vale rules," he reminded with a glance, and everyone laughed as if they hadn't rehearsed it.
Elma ate nothing. Hunger wasn't the point. She scanned the room, counting allies, doubters, spies.
The first knife slid from Calista's mouth.
"Some women earn power through wit," she said lightly, tilting her glass. "Others… open their legs and hope the leash drags them far enough."
Laughter rippled down the table. Too sharp. Too eager.
Elma's grip on her fork tightened, but she forced a smirk. "Better open legs than open purses. At least I'm not buying company."
More laughter—half scandal, half delight. Nitron's eyes flicked toward them once, unreadable, then moved on.
Under the table, Calista's heel pressed against Elma's calf. A casual touch to anyone watching. But the leash pulsed heat through her veins. Pain disguised as desire. Elma's throat went tight, but she didn't pull away.
By the second course, whispers swirled thicker than the wine. Donors toasted Vale's victory over Frostspawn, but more than one glance darted toward Elma and Calista. Their sniping was too sharp to be performance, too familiar to be chance.
Calista excused herself before dessert, rising with the grace of a blade sliding from a sheath. She didn't look at Elma, didn't need to.
Elma rose minutes later, murmuring about Master's orders, and slipped after her.
The service corridor was empty but for shadows and the smell of kitchen smoke. Cold stone walls, candle stubs, a narrow space meant for servants—not queens.
Calista waited at the far end, breath uneven, the diamond at her throat rising and falling. Her mask was gone. The fury in her eyes could have set the walls alight.
"You shouldn't have followed me," she whispered.
Elma leaned against the wall, ignoring the leash's warning pulse. "Then stop leaving trails only I can read."
For one suspended breath, silence threatened to strangle them both. Then Calista moved.
She caught Elma by the collar, slammed her into stone, and kissed her like punishment. Lips hard, teeth sharp, tongue demanding. The leash screamed in Elma's skull, nerves burning white—but she didn't care. She shoved back, one hand fisting in Calista's hair, the other dragging along the satin at her hip.
Their moans tangled, muffled and messy, as if swallowed by the walls themselves.
Calista pressed her thigh between Elma's, grinding slow, deliberate, turning the leash's pain into something dirtier. Elma gasped into her mouth, then bit her lower lip until blood slicked their kiss.
"You'll kill us both," Elma whispered, breath ragged.
"Then die with me," Calista hissed, and shoved her harder against the wall.
Elma's fingers slipped under silk, finding heat. Calista bucked at the first touch, hand smothering her own mouth to silence the moan. Elma grinned against her palm, sliding two fingers deeper, curling until Calista shuddered like glass about to break.
The leash punished them, arcs of pain racing down Elma's arms, but she rode it. Turned it into rhythm. Every jolt only made Calista grind harder, wetter, silk tearing under Elma's grip.
Minutes blurred into fever. Calista climaxed first, sharp and violent, biting Elma's shoulder to keep from crying out. Elma followed, grinding against her thigh, sparks of backlash raining behind her eyes until the world felt split between agony and release.
They collapsed against each other, sweat slick, breathing hard. The leash pulsed one last brutal warning.
[Penalty Pending: Loyalty Violation]
Enforcement delayed until "public audit."
Translation: Nitron didn't know. Not yet. The leash was saving the punishment for when it hurt most.
Calista pressed her forehead to Elma's, trembling. "He'll see. He always sees."
Elma smirked, bloody and spent. "Then let's give him something worth looking at."
Her laugh was short, wrecked, but real.
Back in the hall, dessert was being served. Nitron raised his glass, eyes glinting faintly as Elma and Calista slipped in from opposite doors, gowns smoothed, lips raw but hidden.
The donors toasted. The rumors fed.
The leash purred, hungry.
And in the rafters, whispers already carried:
The wife and the leash-witch disappeared together. Twice.