Chapter 2: The Manor of Unspoken Rules
The word "rise" was a physical force. It flowed from Vashti's lips and into Anastasia's very bones, a current of pure energy that gave strength to atrophied muscles and clarity to a mind clouded by centuries of fog. Anastasia rose, not with the shaky uncertainty of a prisoner, but with a strange, newfound grace. She felt as though she were a marionette, and the voice of this magnificent, terrifying woman was the hand of the master puppeteer, guiding her every motion. The filth and grime that caked her skin, the deep, aching pain in her joints—it all seemed distant, a memory belonging to someone else. All that was real was the commanding presence before her, the emerald of her gown, the obsidian of her eyes.
"You are weak. Drained," Vashti stated, her voice devoid of pity but filled with a clinical assessment. "Vorlag was a glutton, but he was also a fool. He starved you of *neshama*, believing it would keep you docile. He did not understand that your kind of devotion is a fire that needs fuel, not a weed to be stamped out."
She extended a hand, her palm facing upward. Her skin was flawless, pale as moonlight on marble. "Come."
It was not a request. It was the second command of Anastasia's new life. She obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward and placing her small, trembling hand into Vashti's. The contact was electric, a muted echo of the psychic explosion from moments before. This time, it was not a crash of colliding souls, but a steady, powerful current flowing from one to the other. Vashti's grip was firm, possessive, her fingers wrapping around Anastasia's with a strength that was both a comfort and a cage.
Vashti led her from the cell, up the winding stone stairs, and back into the great hall. The scene was exactly as she had left it: the sleeping guard, the impaled corpse, the pile of grey ash that had been a lord. The mortal girl was gone, having evidently found the courage to flee into the night. Vashti paid the carnage no mind. It was already a footnote in a history that spanned millennia.
As they stepped out into the courtyard, the night air hit Anastasia with the force of a physical blow. For centuries, her world had been a ten-by-ten-foot box of darkness, its air thick with the smell of damp stone, rot, and her own blood. Now, her senses were assaulted. The wind, cold and sharp, whispered across her skin, raising goosebumps. It carried the scent of pine needles, of damp earth, of distant rain. Above, the moon, a perfect, silver disc in a sea of stars, shone with a brilliance that was almost painful to her unaccustomed eyes. She flinched, her head ducking instinctively, her hand tightening in Vashti's.
"Look up," Vashti commanded softly, her grip tightening in response, forbidding retreat.
Anastasia forced her gaze upward. The sheer, overwhelming scale of the sky, the infinite, cold distance of the stars, threatened to shatter her fragile composure. In her dungeon, the world had been small, contained, knowable. This… this was a terrifying, boundless emptiness. A panic, cold and sharp, began to rise in her throat.
"It is only the sky," Vashti said, her voice a low anchor in the swirling chaos of Anastasia's senses. "It holds no power over you. *I* hold power over you. Look at me."
Anastasia's eyes snapped from the terrifying heavens to the divine authority beside her. Vashti's face, illuminated by the stark moonlight, was a mask of serene, absolute control. In her eyes, Anastasia saw a universe far more vast and intricate than the one above, but it was a universe with a center, a purpose. A ruler. The panic subsided, replaced by a wave of profound relief. The sky was chaos. Her Mistress was order.
"Good," Vashti approved, seeing the shift in Anastasia's demeanor. "You learn quickly. Let us go home."
She did not walk towards the broken gate. Instead, she drew Anastasia closer, her arm wrapping around her waist. "Hold on," she instructed.
Before Anastasia could process the command, the world dissolved. The shadows in the courtyard surged, rising like a black tide to engulf them. There was no sensation of movement, no rushing wind, only a complete and total absence of light, sound, and sensation. It was a void, but it was not empty. It was filled with Vashti's presence, a silent, overwhelming power that held Anastasia's own fragile essence safely within its core. It was the ultimate form of possession, a temporary absorption of Anastasia's being into her Mistress's own.
The journey lasted an eternity and no time at all.
They re-formed not in a forest, but in a vast, manicured garden. The air here was different, heavier, scented with the intoxicating perfume of night-blooming jasmine and moonflower. The moonlight was softer, filtered through the weeping branches of ancient willows and reflecting off the surface of a silent, black pond. Before them, rising against the star-dusted sky, was the manor.
It was not a fortress like the Keep. It was a cathedral to the night. Towers like slender, black needles pierced the clouds. Gargoyles, carved with the exquisite detail of master artisans, watched from the eaves, their stone faces twisted in expressions of silent ecstasy and sorrow. Vast windows of stained glass, dark now, hinted at the opulence within. The entire structure seemed to have been carved from a single piece of obsidian, drinking the moonlight and giving nothing back. It was beautiful, terrifying, and it radiated an aura of ancient power that made the Keep feel like a child's sandcastle.
Anastasia stared, her violet eyes wide with awe. This was the heart of the power she had felt, the source of the authority that now owned her.
A figure detached itself from the shadows near the grand, arched doorway. It was a mountain of a man, his form more granite than flesh, his presence a silent promise of violence. It was Kael, the Guardian. He moved towards them, his steps heavy but silent on the gravel path. He stopped a respectful ten feet away and bowed his head to Vashti.
"Mistress," his voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together. "Your hunt was successful." His gaze fell upon Anastasia, and for a moment, his stony expression flickered with something akin to curiosity. He sniffed the air, his head tilting slightly.
"The stench of the wolf-kin is gone from the northern border," he observed. Then, focusing on Anastasia, he added, "This one… she smells of fear. And of you."
"She is mine, Kael," Vashti said simply, the words carrying an indisputable finality. "A treasure recovered from the filth of Lord Vorlag. She will be staying."
Kael's gaze lingered on Anastasia for another moment, his senses probing her essence. He detected no deceit, no malice, only a devotion so profound it was almost a sickness. He gave a slow, single nod. His duty was not to question, but to protect. The girl was now under the protection of the house. He melted back into the shadows as silently as he had appeared.
Vashti led Anastasia up the wide stone steps to the front doors. They were made of a dark, polished wood, carved with intricate patterns of twining roses and thorns, with no visible handles or locks. As Vashti approached, they swung inward on their own, opening into a foyer that was larger than the entirety of Vorlag's great hall.
The floor was a mosaic of black and white marble polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the impossibly high, vaulted ceiling where shadows clung like sleeping bats. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of old paper, beeswax, and dried herbs. A grand staircase, its banister carved into the shape of a slumbering dragon, dominated the far wall. The only light came from tall, slender candles that burned with a cold, unwavering white flame, placed in sconces of tarnished silver. The silence in the manor was different from the silence of the forest. It was a heavy, listening silence, pregnant with unspoken rules and centuries of history.
Another figure was waiting for them at the base of the staircase. A woman, tall and severe, her silver hair braided into an intricate coronet. Her gown was the colour of a thundercloud, high-collared and severe. Her face was one of sharp, classical beauty, but it was a beauty devoid of warmth, her expression as cold and polished as the marble floor. This was Elara, the Seneschal.
Her grey eyes flickered over Anastasia, a quick, dismissive appraisal that took in the rags, the filth, the fragile frame. It was the look one gives to a stray animal that has been dragged into a pristine home. Her gaze then lifted to meet Vashti's, and while her posture remained one of perfect deference, her eyes held a question.
"Mistress," Elara's voice was like the chime of a crystal bell, clear and cold. "You have returned. I trust the… sanitation was successful."
"It was, Elara," Vashti replied, her hand still resting possessively on the small of Anastasia's back. "The filth has been purged. And I have acquired a piece of property that Vorlag did not see fit to include in his inventory."
Elara's gaze dropped back to Anastasia, and this time, it was sharp with disdain. "A stray," she said, the word clipped and precise. "It is… damaged."
"She is not a stray, Elara. She is a guest," Vashti corrected, her voice soft but laced with a steel that made Anastasia flinch. "And her name is Anastasia. You will see that she is made comfortable."
A flicker of something—surprise? resentment?—passed through Elara's cold eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She inclined her head in a shallow bow. "Of course, Mistress. As you command." She turned her attention to Anastasia, her voice losing the faint trace of deference it held for Vashti and becoming flat and clinical. "Follow me."
Vashti gave Anastasia a gentle push forward. "Go with Elara. She will see to your needs. Do exactly as she says."
The command was clear. Anastasia's new allegiance was to Vashti, but her immediate obedience was to be given to the silver-haired woman. She bowed her head, whispering, "Yes, Mistress," before turning to follow Elara, her bare feet silent on the cold marble.
Elara led her up the grand staircase and down a long, echoing corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women whose eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. They stopped before a heavy oak door. Elara opened it, revealing a large, opulent bedchamber. A massive, four-poster bed draped in black velvet dominated the room. A fireplace, cold and dark, was set into one wall, and a series of tall, arched windows looked out over the moonlit gardens.
"This will be your room," Elara stated, her tone making it clear this was a temporary arrangement. She then walked towards an adjoining door. "The bathing chamber is through here. You are to cleanse yourself. The filth of that kennel is not welcome in this house."
The bathing chamber was larger than Anastasia's old cell. A huge, claw-footed tub stood in the center, already steaming, the water scented with lavender and something darker, more exotic. Beside it, on a small table, were soft towels, scented oils, and a simple, elegant nightgown of black silk.
Anastasia hesitated in the doorway, overwhelmed. She had not had a proper bath in living memory.
Elara's patience was clearly thin. "Are you deaf as well as mute? Your Mistress commanded me to see to your needs. Your primary need is to no longer carry the stench of your former life. Remove your rags."
The order was harsh, clinical, but it was an order. Anastasia obeyed, her fingers fumbling with the knots of the tattered rags she wore. They fell away, pooling at her feet, leaving her naked and exposed. Her body was a roadmap of her past life. Faint, silvery scars crisscrossed her pale skin, old wounds from her mortal life that had been permanently etched onto her Eferim form. Newer bruises, marks of Vorlag's crude appetites, marred her skin. She stood, trembling slightly under Elara's cold, analytical gaze, her arms instinctively trying to cover herself.
"Do not hide your flaws," Elara said sharply. "They are what you are. The Mistress has seen them. I am merely cataloging them. Get in the tub."
Anastasia slid into the hot water, a gasp escaping her lips as the heat soaked into her chilled bones. It was a shocking, exquisite pleasure. She scrubbed at her skin, watching as centuries of grime washed away, revealing the pale, alabaster perfection beneath. Elara watched the entire process, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She was a warden, not a handmaiden, her presence ensuring the command was followed to the letter.
When Anastasia was finally clean, her skin pink and glowing, her dark hair washed and hanging heavy down her back, Elara handed her a towel. "Dry yourself. Put on the gown."
The black silk felt alien against Anastasia's skin, impossibly soft and smooth. It was a garment of luxury, of status. It felt like a costume, a role she did not know how to play. Dressed, she followed Elara back into the bedchamber.
A third figure was there now, an elderly human man, dressed in a severe black suit. He was rail-thin, his face a mask of devoted wrinkles. It was Mr. Blackwood, the caretaker. He was placing a silver tray with a crystal goblet on a small table near the fire, which was now burning brightly. He did not look at Anastasia, his entire focus on his task and on the presence of Elara.
"The Mistress commanded a refreshment be brought for the guest," Elara said. "It is prepared."
Blackwood bowed stiffly to Elara and then, without a single glance at the room's new occupant, retreated as silently as a ghost.
The goblet on the tray was filled with a dark, ruby-red liquid. It was not wine. Anastasia knew its scent, the coppery, life-giving aroma of mortal blood, fresh and potent. Her throat, parched for centuries, suddenly ached with a thirst so profound it was a physical pain. She had only ever been allowed to feed on scraps, on the dying dregs left by her sire. This… this was a feast.
"The Mistress is generous," Elara said, her voice tight. "Do not mistake it for affection. Drink it. All of it. Your weakness displeases her."
Anastasia approached the table, her hands shaking as she reached for the goblet. She lifted it to her lips and drank. The taste was an explosion of life, of warmth, of pure, unadulterated essence. It flooded her system, chasing away the last of the weakness, the last of the dungeon's chill. Power, warm and vital, coursed through her veins. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever tasted. She drained the goblet, her violet eyes closing in pure ecstasy.
When she opened them, Vashti was standing in the doorway.
She had changed from her emerald gown into a robe of deep crimson silk that clung to her perfect form. Her black hair was unbound, cascading over her shoulders. She looked less like a queen and more like a goddess of the night in her private temple. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the clean, silk-clad Anastasia, the empty goblet, the crackling fire.
"Leave us, Elara," she said.
Elara bowed her head. "Mistress." She cast one last, unreadable look at Anastasia before gliding from the room, closing the heavy door behind her with a soft, definitive click.
The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Anastasia stood by the table, her heart—the psychic center of her being—pounding in her chest. She felt like a new creation, scrubbed clean and presented for inspection.
Vashti glided towards her, her movements silent, hypnotic. She stopped before Anastasia, so close that Anastasia could feel the warmth radiating from the fire on her back and the profound, ancient cold that emanated from her Mistress. Vashti reached out, her fingers gently tracing the line of Anastasia's jaw, her touch sending a shiver down her spine.
"Better," Vashti purred, her voice a low, intimate rumble. "The filth is gone. The weakness is abating. We have a clean slate to work with."
She tilted Anastasia's chin up, forcing her to meet her gaze. "This house has rules, Anastasia. They are unspoken, but they are absolute. You will learn them. You will obey them. Your life, from this moment until the stars grow cold, is mine to shape. Your pleasure is mine to grant. Your pain is mine to inflict. Every breath you take will be by my will alone."
She leaned in closer, her lips almost touching Anastasia's ear. Her whisper was a hot brand on Anastasia's soul.
"You are no longer a prisoner in a dungeon. You are a jewel in my collection. And jewels are to be polished, perfected, and displayed for the pleasure of their owner. Nothing more."
She pulled back, her dark eyes searching Anastasia's, demanding an answer, a confirmation of her absolute ownership.
For Anastasia, these words were not a threat. They were a vow. They were the bars of a new, beautiful cage she could finally call home. The chaos of her past, the meaningless suffering, was over. Now, there was purpose. There was a Mistress.
A single, perfect tear of pure, unadulterated relief traced a path down her cheek.
"Yes, Mistress," she breathed, the words a prayer, a surrender, and a beginning.