The cellar smelled like iron and old damp.
Elma had dragged their prize down the narrow stairwell by the hair, boots slipping on stone as he thrashed and cursed. A lesser rival, one of Frostspawn's second sons, drunk on arrogance and cheap wine. His horns had barely crested; his magic stank of youth and desperation. But he had one thing they needed — a leash of his own, thin and half-formed, bound by oath to another house.
Perfect for testing.
Calista waited by the circle, her hood thrown back, jaw tight. The shard pulsed between them, cold light crawling across the walls. It hummed in Elma's palm like a second heartbeat.
The boy spat at her shoes. "Vale trash. You think you can break me?"
Elma smirked, dropping him hard onto the chalk lines. "No. I'm going to let her do it."
His gaze darted to Calista, and for a heartbeat, fear cut through his sneer. The queen wasn't supposed to be here. Queens didn't creep into cellars with gutter girls and forbidden artifacts. But here she was, eyes sharp enough to carve him open without a blade.
"Elma." Calista's voice was even, though her fingers trembled when she reached for the shard. "Hold him still."
Elma planted her knee in his chest, pinning him down. His breath stank of wine and terror. She leaned close enough for him to see the blood still crusted at her lip. "Don't bother screaming. Nobody comes when I'm the one making the noise."
The shard floated when Calista lifted it. Not high, not gracefully — just enough to prove it wasn't stone anymore, but something alive. The circle flared, sigils crawling like worms across the boy's skin.
He screamed.
The sound cracked against the walls, high and raw. Elma felt his leash react — a faint silver collar coalescing at his throat, tugging against invisible chains. The shard's light sharpened, slicing into it.
The system whispered:
[Leash Override Detected]
External vector: Fragment schema
Risk: Critical
Elma's chest tightened, leash coiling in answer. The system tried to smother the rebellion, pain clawing through her ribs. She grit her teeth and pressed harder on the boy's chest, forcing him to stay.
"Don't fight it," she hissed in his ear. "Let it burn."
The shard cracked the collar. The boy's eyes rolled back, veins glowing faintly blue before the leash snapped like brittle glass. The sound wasn't loud, but it was final.
Then silence.
The rival gasped, trembling, free in a way he hadn't expected. He pushed weakly at Elma's knee. "It's… gone. You—what did you—"
Calista lowered the shard, her face pale but her eyes blazing. "We cut him loose."
Elma smirked, climbing off him. "Congratulations. You're useless to your house now."
The boy scrambled back, too stunned to speak, before bolting for the stairs. His footsteps faded fast.
The cellar breathed quiet again.
Elma turned, chest still aching from the leash's punishment. "Well? That looked real enough."
Calista held the shard tight, almost reverent. "It works."
Elma's grin was sharp even through the ache. "Then so do we."
They sat after, backs against the cold wall, the shard pulsing between them like a forbidden hearth. Elma flexed her bruised fingers, watching the light crawl across her knuckles.
"It hurts," she muttered. "Every time it touches his chain, it feels like it's ripping pieces out of me."
Calista's gaze lingered on her face. "Because he tied it to you too deep. Every thread we cut from him scrapes you raw."
Elma laughed bitterly. "So freedom's not free. Figures."
Her voice softened, more to herself than to Calista. "That's what nobody tells you. They all say break your chains, chase your desire, be free. But freedom's pain. It's waking up knowing you have nothing holding you, nothing protecting you. You bleed, and there's nobody to clean it up but you."
Calista's hands tightened around the shard. "Then why do it?"
Elma turned her head, meeting her eyes. "Because pain I choose is better than comfort he forces."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Calista swallowed hard, looking away. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not." Elma leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. "I've been leashed since I was thirteen. First by poverty. Then by men who thought I was theirs because they bought me dinner. Then by Nitron, who dressed the chain up in silk and called it survival. Easy? No. Necessary? Yes."
Her voice roughened. "If I'm going to bleed either way, let it be for something I chose."
Calista didn't answer. She was staring at her reflection in the shard — the perfect wife, the cold mask, the queen who sat on his arm and smiled while her body burned for someone else.
For years, she had told herself submission was strength. That playing along was how you survived. That being the porcelain doll meant her family lived, her name lived, and maybe she lived too.
Now she saw the crack in that lie, glowing blue in her palm.
"Elma." Her voice shook. "You think I stayed with him because I was weak. I didn't."
Elma cracked one eye open.
Calista's fingers dug into the shard until it hissed against her skin. "I stayed because my house would have collapsed if I didn't. Because in this world, power is survival, and Vale was power. I let him own me so others couldn't break me. That was my strength."
Her eyes met Elma's, sharp as glass. "But it was never freedom."
Elma smiled faintly. "So maybe you were strong. Doesn't mean you weren't chained."
Calista's throat worked. "No. Not anymore."
The shard pulsed, as if agreeing.
Elma reached over, prying Calista's hand open and lacing their fingers together around the shard. Pain flared instantly — the leash punishing the intimacy. Both women gasped, shoulders jerking.
But neither let go.
Their breaths came ragged, teeth clenched, muscles trembling under the burn. The leash writhed, furious at being tested. The shard pulsed brighter, cutting threads in protest.
Elma leaned in, forehead to forehead, their sweat mingling. "If freedom doesn't hurt," she whispered, voice shaking with laughter, "it isn't real."
Calista let out something between a sob and a laugh. "You're insane."
"Probably," Elma muttered, lips brushing hers. "But you love it."
The kiss broke them. Fire roared down their spines as the leash shrieked, burning them alive. But they clung harder, mouths desperate, hungry, punishing themselves for the taste of rebellion.
When they finally tore apart, gasping, their bodies shook with both agony and euphoria.
The system chimed:
[Leash Integrity −12%]
[Willpower +1]
[Shared Risk escalated]
Warning: Master audit imminent
Elma laughed through the pain, wiping blood from her lip. "Worth it."
Calista stared at her, eyes wet, lips swollen, chest heaving. "Every time."
They didn't speak much after. Words felt too fragile.
Instead, they sat side by side, burned raw but alive, as the shard dimmed between them.
Elma thought about the boy who had run free tonight. A pawn unchained, probably already being hunted. He wouldn't survive long. But maybe he would die knowing what it felt like not to belong to anyone.
And maybe that was enough.
She thought about herself, too — about the choice she had just made. To bleed harder, to suffer longer, just for a taste of freedom. And she realized it wasn't just her story.
Everyone in the city lived under some leash. A job. A debt. A marriage. A bloodline. The whole system was built on collars nobody wanted to admit were there.
Maybe that was why rebellion mattered. Not because she'd win. But because every crack she carved into the leash proved to anyone watching that chains could break.
She looked at Calista, who was staring into the dark like she'd finally seen herself clearly. For once, Elma didn't smirk. She just let the silence settle.
They both knew it: the coup wasn't just about power anymore. It was about life.
And life wasn't worth shit without choice.
When they finally left the cellar, dawn had started bleeding pale light across the sky. The manor slept above them, unaware.
But the system didn't sleep.
[New Quest: Coup Preparation]
Objective: Subvert 3 Donors
Progress: 0/3
Warning: Master suspicion rising
The leash throbbed in Elma's chest, weaker but vengeful. The shard pulsed in her palm, stubborn and alive. And beside her, Calista walked without her mask, her hand brushing Elma's once before they separated.
The house didn't know it yet. But two knives had been drawn.
And lessons in chains had already begun.