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Detraeus stretched his drawing arm, relaxing the muscles there before beginning to pull his bow — empty, but an easy maintenance exercise just the same. While he did, his mind wandered — to things to come, the house, the talk he had yet to have with Lithian pertaining to gods. And Araceli’s parents. Just the thought made him restless and anxious. She had told him previously that her father hated oblivionites, and even her mother — the more ‘passive’ of the two — had nearly drawn a knife on him during their first encounter.

He wanted things over with. To pack up, move to their new home, settle, and be done with all the in between. Every day that they lingered, in his mind, was another risk.

Just as he thought it, a knock sounded from the front of the house. Knowing Araceli was inside — but likely napping, as she’d often taken to doing in the afternoons as her pregnancy progressed — he moved quickly around the side of the house himself to answer it. He stilled in his tracks at the sight, tail flicking warily. The woman he recognized as Araceli’s mother, which meant the man…

“She’s asleep,” Detraeus grunted.

The spines of Detraeus’ tail bristled, rippling at the posture and tension in the other man, the rest of his own body language mirroring it. But he kept his weapons sheathed, and at Niyol’s question, some of his stiffness eased away, distracted by the more comforting topics. He nodded and moved forward to open the door for them.

“She’s beautiful,” he said. “Healthy. The children grow each day and kick often. A peisio dovaa…her friend, Lithian, visits her in the mornings and sees to her.” After stepping inside himself, Detraeus left the way clear for them, moving immediately in towards where Ara was stirring on the couch.

Detraeus made a soft sound and moved in, laying a hand at Ara’s waist, half possessive, half a simple reminder of his existence. “Yes,” he said.

Niyol and Rhett stayed for nearing on a week, spending time with their daughter and — in Rhett’s case in particular — ‘accustoming’ himself to the idea of Detraeus in general. Detraeus got on better with Niyol than her mate, but tolerated his presence and made do mostly by keeping quiet and lingering close to Ara. Closing in on the end of the first week of their stay, Araceli persuaded Detraeus to allow himself to leave the house and not remain permanently attached to her side. There were still some goods remaining to be prepared for the next trip into the mountains, and — with Niyol’s encouragement — the two women managed to get Rhett and Detraeus ‘cooperating’ on said issue. At the very least, they left the house together, and it gave Ara some time with her mother, even if their respective mates were not so pleased with their company.



Callum Rothric was an attractive man. Fit. Well off enough for comfort. Liked enough that he did not want for company, and in general not starved for anything. If he wanted the company of a woman, he could have it. Similarly, if he wanted the more permanent stability of a mate, he knew he had sources to find willing, even eager companions.

So why, then, he found himself mentally hung up — trapped on the poisoned hook — of one particular, none-too-special girl was a question that drove him to his wit’s end. It wasn’t that he cared about her. He didn’t care about her. She wasn’t even that attractive. He’d taken pity on her at first, for her eyes, and afterwards she had been eager enough and virginile in the ways of love and romance that it had been so easy to stay. And, he had no doubt, that if he had simply grown bored of her and left her, it would have been another matter entirely and her state would not concern him.

But she left him.

Not only that, but for some dark-blooded, eyeless husk. A madman, clearly.

To be thrown away for something like that — no.

Callum tried. He sincerely did. But the man’s face haunted him. Twisted and demonic. And he saw hers, too, laughing at him. Jeering him on. Some nights, he imagined her as a witch, doing it to spite him and drive him mad. Other nights, he imagined he had judged everything wrong. She had only been testing him, wanting to push him to his limits, teasing him and hoping that, once he understood, he would be all the more passionate for her. In this scenario, she was now trapped in the vice of a demonic thing. Suffering. Crying. Wishing he would come for her. Save her.

It served her right. But at the same time, made his pulse race with excitement. He could still go back for her. He wouldn’t keep her, of course — she was tainted, and not material for keeping in the long term to begin with — but it wouldn’t be hard to gather a group willing to help extract a dovaa woman from the house of an oblivionite. Even on Eowyn, there were scores of those who held prejudices of all sorts.

The longer he thought on it, the more the idea solidified, stretching and growing as he added onto it over the weeks and months. He let it form fully, brimming and impossible to contain any longer, before he sought out his company, and it was in the eighth month of the year that Callum finally had everything he needed to face her again. They planned carefully. Monitored the house, watching the comings and goings of the inhabitants — which only served to rekindle his resolve ever more.

How could she let such a thing touch her? Hadn’t she once been with him on that opinion? It was one of the things they always agreed on. Now, it seemed as though the thing had all but warped her mind. Perhaps it had.

Then, their opportunity came.

A young ysali dovaa, clear by his electric green hair and smattering of darker, forest-tinted scales, stood outside the door as it opened. When the woman inside appeared to greet him, he smiled. “Good morning, ma’am. I was wondering…” he said, reaching into a pouch in his side pocket, “…if you would be willing to consider purchasing—” As he lifted his hand back up, he opened his palm, revealing a neat stack of green powder, and he blew. One puff, and the cloud filled the woman’s face, dispersing into the air.

“A lifelong supply of sleep aid,” Callum murmured, stepping past the ysali and his victim as Niyol collapsed. “Handy for all your house raiding needs…and would you look at that. Abronaxus is smiling on us today…it’s almost as though they gift wrapped her for us.” He tisked, smiling, and stepped in. “Finnith?”

The ysali glanced up, stepping gingerly over the older woman’s unconscious body and moving towards Callum. “Aye?”

“Just enough to keep the lady here drowsy. Wouldn’t want to harm her…precious cargo,” Callum said, laying a hand on Araceli’s belly as she stirred.

The ysali, Finnith, laughed — high enough pitched that it almost came out sounding like a giggle as he moved around the living room table to pinch out a new selection of sleeping dust and sprinkle it over her nose. He then touched his finger to her forehead, the tip glowing a soft, iridescent green before fading out, and Callum watched her lashes flit, humming before rousing her to pull her up.

“Come, little butterfly,” he said, lifting her semi-unconscious body up. “We have places to be, and they’re not here.”

“Shhh, shhh, shhhhh,” Callum murmured, guiding Araceli’s stumbling body along towards the door. “Everything will be better soon, I promise…”

After getting her out of the house, she was load into a hastar-towed wagon amidst a loose pile of textiles, and in minutes, they were off: out of Taliuma, and into the desert just as the sun began to sink along the horizon. They travelled for several hours, Callum and his company of five others — though it hadn’t, in the end, taken nearly that much to subdue her — and they made camp with the stars in full bloom overhead. Araceli, by then knocked into a full sleep, was unloaded, bound, and layered with another magic-dampering spell, before being propped up and bound back against a thick post they affixed to the stiff clay earth.

There, she was allowed to pull from her induced-sleep into consciousness.



Detraeus and Rhett returned just past sundown, light bleeding out along the edges of the horizon. Immediately, something struck Detraeus as ‘off’ — the lights in the house unlit and everything eerily quiet. Upon spotting far too many footprints in the surrounding earth, and weighted grooves from the departure of carriage wheels, his pulse stuttered up, and he darted ahead of Rhett without a word, jerking at the door—

—which was unlocked.

On spotting Niyol strewn across the floor, he snarled. “Ara? Ara!” He moved over Niyol, not so much as pausing to check for a pulse before beginning a full search of the house. Every room. Every closet. Every workable space.

Gone.

She was gone.

Someone had taken her. Someone had kidnapped—

Stupid. He never should have left her alone. Never should have gone with Rhett. He should have stayed. Detraeus armed himself: bow, knives, short-swords, daggers — effectively strapping on most everything he ever used that he didn’t already wear in the most casual situations — and immediately after, stormed into the main room and towards the front door.

“Dead,” he growled on his way past. Everyone who had participated in taking her, they were all dead. They just didn’t know it yet. “I’ll be back.”

‘When I’ve killed everyone fool enough to touch her…’



“What did I do? Oh, what did I do,” Callum repeated, moving to crouch in front of Araceli and giving a mock pout. “Let me go, let me gooo…” He smiled and shook his head. “Don’t worry, little butterfly, I don’t expect you to understand yet. Uncouth as he is, that husk has seemed to work some very powerful, degenerative magic on your mind…and I’m here to help with that. All you need to do right now,” he said, reaching out and brushing a thumb over her cheek, “is relax…”

As his finger grazed over the scar there, he lingered, his pulse picking up a fraction. Excitement. Thrill, even. He had put that there. A mark to remind her of him, no matter what she got up to with the leather demon. At the thought of the oblivionite, though, Callum’s brow furrowed again, and he let his fingers trail down, tracing the smooth skin of her cheek down to her throat.

“It really is a shame about your eyes,” he murmured, “…and, well, now of course this…” He laid a hand on her belly and clicked his tongue. “Far more of an insult to our race, that. The eyes, someone could have gotten past that, but now…you’re permanently tainted. Still…” His eyes swept down her: taking in her new shape in all its details. He found himself more interested than he expected, and shifted his weight. “One could forgive a few things, temporarily…and—” He held up a hand to cut in to whatever she might have said, “—before you go thinking it would be a great idea to spit on me…remember: I have six other men in my company, most far cruder than me, and I can guarantee you more than one has wondered what all we’re going to do with you…what it might be like…” He leaned in close, smiling as his lips lingered near enough to her horns for the heat of his breath to crawl down her neck, “…to share the company of an inter-species slut…and I could let them all, if I wanted. Let each and every one of them who had any interest do whatever they pleased with you…”

Trailing his hand down her belly, he let his palm come to rest on her thigh, his thumb sweeping back and forth experimentally.

“So…it might be in the best interest of you, and the little one…to keep me happy, don’t you think?”

Detraeus paid no mind to Rhett, or Niyol — or anyone, for that matter. Whether either of them followed him was no concern of his. For the moment, his world revolved around a sole purpose: returning Araceli whole, healthy, and home, as soon as the heavens permitted. After attaining a hastar, he was off. Night gave him no trouble, and the departing party’s tracks appeared clear as day to him in the undisturbed sand, the winds low and cooperative, doing nothing to mask their path. They stretched on, though, for what felt like an eternity, every hour out deepening his concern, his pulse as wild in his throat as the beat of his hastar’s hooves on the sand.

Then, the light of their camp came into view in the distance, and Detraeus slowed his pace. As he closed in, keeping to the shadows of the rocky stacks, he reached down, thumbing over the beaded wind trinket Ara had gifted him so many years ago now. At its command, the gusts shifted, bringing the wind to him and achieving two purposes: first, it kept his scent away from their own hastars, and any sounds he might make away from their ears, and second, it brought their voices to him, adding a backdrop to his observations as he dropped his boots to the sand and fastened off his own mount to one of the neighboring rocks.

The last thing he needed was a stray whinney giving him away.



“Ah-ah-ah, come now…weren’t you just listening?” Callum caught Araceli’s chin between his fingers and pulled her around to look at him, grip rough and tight in sharp contrast to the misleading softness of his voice. “I’m the gentle one here, and you know me…” With his spare hand, Callum slipped loose a long dagger at his waist belt. “Generally, I’m so very careful. But sometimes…especially when I’m angry…” He lifted the blade, drawing its flat edge down the shape of Araceli’s scar and then lower, lower along the column of her throat, over her breasts, and to her belly, “…my hands can slip at inconvenient moments. It would be a shame to mess this moment up, Araceli…because right now…” He leaned in, shutting his eyes and catching her lower lip between his teeth before kissing gently, his breath heavy, and hot with interest as he drew the tip of his blade up, and down the swell of her stomach, “…I’m so very happy. Now. Tell me honestly…”

He kissed her again, lingering, and then drawing his tongue over her bottom lip and making his way down her neck. He nipped, pressed, and breathed her in, spurned on all the more by the wild thrum of her pulse under his touch. Keeping his dagger up, he lifted his spare hand, drawing it up her side and sweeping his thumb along the outer curve of her breasts.

“…are you afraid of me?”