Author's note: This tale is told in a land of fantasy. However, sexual power dynamics, control, and non-consensual sex are the more important themes. That is why I have categorized this work as NonConsent. The sexual encounters in this world are high-stakes.
*****
The peddler clawed at the underbrush, heedless of the thorns. Though his already ragged tunic offered little protection he pressed forward, intent only on escaping his pursuer.
The girl followed almost lazily. By contrast her own garments were rich. A tight bodice of silk, and a loose skirt suitable for riding. One hand absently twirled strands of her auburn hair while the other she kept extended toward the wretch fleeing before her.
"My Princess," the man gasped over his shoulder. "I meant not to offend!" He spoke swiftly while still casting about for a path through the brush. If he could get out of sight he might escape with his dignity and his clothing as the only losses. Behind them on the road was his cart with his few wares, but he had little thought for it now.
"Do you hope to flatter me?" she said, a cruel smile on her lips. "I'm not yet a Princess of the Order. Not quite." She kept pace with him, her confident strut contrasting his frantic scramble for cover. "But I have plenty of power. Want to see?" With that, she performed a delicate, nearly imperceptible gesture with her extended hand. Starting from a bracelet tight on her wrist, trails of smoke the color of coral slipped over her hand and past her fingertips. They reached outward.
"No, please m'lady!" the man shrieked, and turned frantically away, scrambling for escape. The smoke found him first, slipped around his wiry frame and contracted. The peddler howled in pain and fell to his knees. Where the smoke touched his clothes they burned; where they found his skin it singed. He screamed anew and clutched at the tendrils but found no relief. His entire body was encased in pain.
Colm watched the scene intently from his hiding place. He watched as the girl had neared the peddler, watched as the man unwisely called out to her to inspect his wares, and watched as she took ready offense at his overtures. Now he watched while, just as suddenly, she lost interest and turned away. The smoke dissipated and the wretched peddler collapsed in a crumpled heap, breathing roughly and sobbing.
***
Flames from rows of braziers threw fleeting shadows across the vaulted ceiling. Amongst the massive pillars of the Hall of Fertility, the Adepts and Princesses swayed, adding their shapes to the shadows, alongside those of the altar, cages, and chains. A rhythmic chanting rose and fell, repetitive, powerful, and surging.
Through the haze of smoke, chanting, and heat, the Degraded was led. A man of average height, but thick build. A laborer, with muscles pronounced on his arms, chest, and legs. His organ, though by no means small, hung limply; he had little cause for arousal. Chained and hooded, he moved blindly, stumbling periodically to the enjoyment of the crowd. Many of these were first-time observers of the Ceremony. Tonight they would finally witness the triumph in person. The ascendency of woman over man made plain.
***
The girl, an Adept of the Order, retraced her steps to the cart and inspected it briefly, distaste evident. The magic the Order wielded held the nation together. The man had been a fool even to raise his eyes to the girl, much less address her directly. Still, Colm's gut twisted. His own father would be around the same age as the peddler were he still alive. To be so brutally treated at the hands of a petulant girl... Colm lowered his head and tried to clear his mind of the sight. He had more pressing matters. He had a message to deliver.
But what was the message? His Brothers had set him to the task, but given little explanation beyond 'Get to Verhone. Find the Lodge. Locate Fyne and tell him the Waning has begun.' The first three were easy enough. Verhone he knew of, though he'd never had cause to travel that far. The Lodge was easy enough; every town had one. And while he didn't know a Fyne, and had never heard his brothers mention such a man before, that one sounded straightforward enough.
It was the Waning that had given him the most trouble. Griff and Braer hadn't meant astronomy, and they'd refused to tell him more. "Fyne will know," they insisted, and would speak of it no further. Nor could he decline the assignment. Colm owed a debt to the Lodge in exchange for the benefits of Brotherhood and was sworn to carry out Lodge business.
Her interest fading, the Adept turned from the cart and called for her mare. Mounting it with an athletic leap, she settled herself, took up the reins, and cantered past Colm's well-camouflaged hiding spot. Her face was flush with youth, pronounced cheekbones, proud eyes, full lips, and a straight nose, the picture of privileged beauty. The Order, especially in its younger ranks, was characterized by women of arrogant demeanor and looks. The Adept, probably from a mother already of the Order, had been certain from childhood of her destiny. That women should own and rule men would be second nature to her. The life of the peddler and indeed any man was hardly worth a thought.
***
Four First Princesses of the Order led the Degraded to the altar, a coal-black slab of solid rock which dominated the center of the chamber. They pushed him onto his back, naked against the stone. While two of the women chanted spells to keep the man submissive, the other two chained his ankles and wrists to the corners, exchanging nervous glances and double checking the strength of the bonds.
The observers pressed forward. Several reached out to explore his taut flesh, ridged with muscle and scarred from a life of hard labor so unlike their pampered and soft bodies. As the spells calming him wore off, he began to struggle, muscles straining as he tested his bonds. A few of the Adepts pulled back. Even those who had seen multiple Ceremonies were reminded of the strength that men are born into. Strength to possess and control any woman were it not for the magic of the Order.
***
Once the dust aroused by the Adept's passing had settled, Colm dragged himself up with a soft groan. Taller than most men, he was poorly suited to cramming himself under rotting branches and leaves. He stretched, brushing debris from his modest huntsman's attire, and picked at more than a few sticks tangled in his dark, unruly hair. There hadn't been a chance to bathe since leaving Methle and that didn't seem likely to change today.
