Monsters Aren't Born Chapter 1 - The Spark

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Heat.

That was Dreama's first conscious thought as she jerked awake, heart slamming against her ribs. For a moment she thought it was the lingering warmth of the nightmare that had gripped her seconds before… but instead it was real, suffocating heat pressing against her skin from all sides. Her eyes snapped open from her bed and gazed onto an incomprehensible scene: her bedroom walls consumed by roaring flames, orange tongues licking up the wooden beams of the only home she'd ever known.

This wasn't possible. She'd blown out her candle before sleep, hadn't she? Nothing could have caught flame… yet the evidence blazed before her, a hellish reality replacing the comfort of the small farmhouse bedroom she'd fallen asleep in just hours ago.

Dreama tried to scream, but her throat closed around a mouthful of thick, black smoke. She coughed violently, lungs burning as if they too had caught fire. The air shimmered with heat, the flames flashing towards her bedsheets and threatening to ignite them as well. The fire roared in her ears, a hungry beast devouring everything in Dreama’s world. "Father! Mother!" She finally managed to cry out, her voice raw and barely audible over the crackling flames.

No answer came but the groaning of burning timbers.

Panic seized her fully now. She scrambled from her bed, nightgown tangling around her legs as she stumbled toward the door. The wooden floor was scorching hot against her bare feet as she screamed, collapsing. Her nightgown smoldered where it touched the ground, the clothing threatening to ignite as well. She looked up, desperate for a way out… the door was a wall of flame. The window was just as blocked. She was trapped in an inferno with no escape.

In her mounting terror, fragments of her life flashed before her eyes. Earlier this week she had been celebrating her birthday. Her father had presented her with a small wooden pendant, carved by his own rough hands during winter evenings. It wasn’t made of precious metals or expensive jems since they had no money, but it was more valuable to her than gold or silver would have been. "For my little girl," he'd said with that gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Her mother had baked a special bread with the last of their hoarded honey. It had been delicious.

Such simple pleasures had seemed so precious mere hours ago. Now, those memories collided with her present reality as a burning beam crashed down behind her, sending up a fountain of sparks. The heat intensified impossibly, pressing against her like a physical weight. What was happening to her?

"The gods have forsaken us," she whispered, a phrase she'd heard the village elders mutter during times of hardship. But this was beyond hardship. This was damnation itself!

A scream tore through the roar of the fire. "Dreama!" Her father's voice, desperate and terrified.

“I—” Dreama tried to scream back, but the smoke interrupted her, and she coughed savagely. “I… I’m here! I’m—”

The door to her bedroom suddenly crashed down in an explosion of burning splinters. Through this gap stumbled her father, looking like a walking nightmare. His clothes were smoking, and much of his hair had been singed away. He was covered in soot and ash and bright red skin, but still he staggered towards her, reaching for her with hands that were more like charcoal than flesh.

"Father!" she screamed, the word ripped from her throat.

He grabbed her arm with rough, raw fingers. The smell of him hit her as even over the smoke… that of cooking meat and burning hair. "Come," he croaked, the word barely decipherable through ruined lips.

Dreama tried to climb back to her feet, but she felt so weak, so exhausted… like she had been hollowed out on the inside. How was it possible to be so tired? Her heart was racing a thousand times a minute. Her father didn’t hesitate though. He pulled her up, lifting her into his arms. Then he turned and carried her back through the broken-down door, dragging her through the scorching hot air and the burning flames that licked at them both. She kept her eyes open in shocked horror, unable to look away from the grotesque transformation happening to her father before her eyes as he carried her. She was fixated on staring at his ears… they were melting almost like wax as they sagged down the side of his head. His eyebrows had vanished, along with the rest of his hair.

Then they burst through the front door of the house into the cool night air. Her father collapsed immediately onto the dewy grass, dropping her and barely avoiding falling on her. Dreama landed heavily on the grass, gasping in clean air that seemed impossibly sweet after the choking smoke. "Father," she sobbed, reaching for him with trembling hands. "Father, please."

His body twitched, skin crackling like parchment. He seemed more burned meat than flesh now. His face turned towards her and his eyes found hers, still somehow recognizable in the ruin of his face. His lips moved, forming words she couldn't understand through the damage. Blood bubbled from his mouth, steaming in the night air.

"I don't understand," she pleaded, leaning closer. "Daddy… please… tell me what to do!"

He raised a blackened hand to her face, hovering just above her cheek as if afraid to touch her again. A rattling sound came from his chest.

Then the light went out of his eyes, like a snuffed candle… and they left only glazed emptiness behind.

"No," Dreama whispered. Then louder, "No!" She shook his shoulder as hard as her inexplicably weak limbs could manage. "Daddy! Daddy, don't leave me!"

But he was gone. The body beside her was no longer her father but merely the charred vessel that had once contained him. Behind her the house continued to burn, the roar of the fire accompanied now by the crash of collapsing timbers.

A terrible thought struck her like a physical blow. "Mother," she gasped.

Her eyes darted back to the burning house. There had been no sign of her mother. No screams, no desperate attempts to reach her. Had her father managed to bring her out here before finding Dreama? Had her mother already succumbed to the smoke before Dreama even woke? Was she still in there, trapped in her bed, burning as Dreama sat unharmed on the grass?

A scream of anguish tore from Dreama's throat, raw and primal. The house that had sheltered her for all her life was now her mother's pyre.

Dreama lay back on the cool grass beside her father's corpse, staring up at the sparks rising toward the night sky. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, cutting clean tracks through the soot on her face. The fire cast its orange glow over everything, illuminating her father's burned form in merciless detail. No one came out of the burning house.

Dreama didn't register the arrival of the villagers at first. Their voices reached her as if through water, distorted and meaningless. She remained sprawled on the grass beside her father's blackened corpse, her mind drifting in a sea of shock too vast to comprehend. Only when rough hands tried to pull her away from her father did she react, clinging to his charred arm with desperate strength, a wordless cry tearing from her raw throat. The hands retreated, and voices murmured around her like insects, growing louder as more people arrived with buckets and shovels in a futile attempt to fight the flames devouring what remained of her home.

"Form a line!" someone shouted. "Don't let it spread to the fields!"

The villagers organized themselves into a chaotic brigade, passing buckets and digging firebreaks, but their efforts made little impact on the burning house. It burned with incredible intensity, resisting the tossed water from the well as if mocking them.

Dreama remained motionless, her eyes fixed on nothing, barely breathing. Her father's body beside her had cooled enough that it no longer steamed in the night air, but the stench of burned flesh hung heavy around her. She couldn't process what had happened, couldn't piece together how her world had ended so completely in the space of minutes.

"Look at her," a woman's voice whispered, not quite quietly enough. "Not a mark on her."

"Came through that inferno clean as spring washing," muttered another.

"It ain't natural."

Startled, Dreama realized that they were right. She had felt so much heat as the air scorched her that she assumed she had been burned to a crisp… but she wasn’t. The skin of her arm where it reached for her father was pale and pink and untouched. Her nightgown was singed, largely burned away and blackened with soot, but her skin beneath was unblemished. The contrast between her unblemished body and her father's charred remains was obscene.

What kind of monster was she, to survive what had killed her parents? What unholy protection had kept her flesh from burning while her father melted before her eyes? These questions circled in her mind as she lay paralyzed by shock and grief, waiting for a dawn that would bring no comfort.

The whispers grew, circling Dreama like carrion birds, waiting for her to show weakness.

"The fire started in her room."

"Her parents burned black as coal, but she's untouched."

"Witch-whore."

This last was barely audible, but Dreama heard it, the crude term landing like a slap. Her head jerked up, suddenly aware of the ring of villagers standing at a careful distance, watching her with expressions ranging from pity to outright fear.

An elderly woman with a face like crumpled parchment pushed through the circle. Old Marta, the midwife who had helped birth most of the village children, including Dreama herself. She approached when others held back, her rheumy eyes narrowed in assessment.

"Stand back," she commanded the crowd. "The girl has Sparked."

A collective intake of breath rippled through the onlookers. Several made warding signs against evil. "Magic," someone hissed. "Knew there was something odd about her."

"Sparked this late?" another argued. "Usually happens at puberty if it's going to."

Old Marta knelt beside Dreama with creaking joints, unconcerned by the speculation behind her. Her gnarled fingers hovered over Dreama's head, not quite touching. "First time is the worst,” she murmured. "I heard when Salim Yeghts over at Brighton sparked she terrified a bunch of chickens half to death… that was some thirty years ago. First time is always the worst, when there's no control."

Dreama's lips parted, but no words came out. Her tongue felt swollen, useless.

"Did you dream of fire, child?" Marta asked gently.

The question penetrated Dreama's fog of shock. She hadn’t dreamed of fire, had she? She’d been seeing monsters. Evil lurking in the dark and chasing her… haunting her nightmares. She had been looking for something, anything, that could keep her safe from the things terrifying her. And she’d picked up a torch.

A burning torch.

Had she done this? Had her sleeping mind somehow conjured the inferno that killed her parents?

"I—" she tried, but her voice broke. It was her fault.

Her parents were dead, and it was her fault.

"Leave her be!" a man's voice boomed across the yard. The Mayor pushed his way through the crowd, his sturdy figure commanding respect despite his disheveled appearance, clearly roused from bed by the commotion. "Haven't you vultures gawked enough?"

The crowd shifted uneasily but didn't disperse. The Mayor—a stocky man with a gray-streaked beard—surveyed the scene, his expression hardening at the sight of the dead farmer. "Poor Tobin," he muttered, then raised his voice. "Someone cover him properly! Show some respect!" Two men hurried to obey, bringing a rough blanket to drape over the blackened corpse.

"What happens to her now?" someone called out. "If she's Sparked—"

"She comes to my house," the Mayor cut in firmly. "At least until the village council can meet and decide what's to be done."

This declaration provoked a fresh wave of muttering. Dreama heard snatches of it through her daze.

"Under your roof? With your children?"

"—dangerous—"

"—could burn us all in our beds—"

The Mayor silenced them with a glare. "I'll hear no more of this tonight, you superstitious louts. The girl's just lost everything. A sorcerer has no control over what happens when their magic first appears, and I won’t have you blaming the girl. Have you no heart?"

As the arguing continued, Dreama barely heard them… horror continuing to crash through Dreama's numbness like a physical blow. She had done this. The nightmare, the strange heat she'd felt building in her chest—it had somehow escaped her sleeping body and manifested as real fire. She… she was a sorcerer. She had magic. And that magic had murdered her parents.

A sound escaped her then, halfway between a whimper and a moan. Her hands clutched at her chest as if she could tear out the deadly power hiding within her.

"Up you come, dear," a gentle voice said. The Mayor's wife had appeared with another woman, both reaching to help Dreama to her feet.

Her legs wouldn't work at first. When she finally stood, she swayed dangerously, the world tilting around her. That was why she was so weak… so tired. Because she had conjured those flames. The two women steadied her with firm hands, but Dreama noticed how they touched only her nightgown, avoiding direct contact with her skin.

They're afraid of me, she realized. They’re probably afraid I’m going to kill them too. And they should be.

She glanced back at the burning ruin one last time as they led her away. Somewhere in that inferno were her mother's remains, now nothing but ash and bone. The blanket-covered mound of her father lay on the grass, village men already discussing how to dig a grave come daylight. A lifetime of love and security, reduced to smoking ruins in a single night.

With each step away from the scene, Dreama's self-loathing grew. She was a murderer. A monster who had killed her own parents. The worst part was that she couldn't even understand how she'd done it. The power that had erupted from her was as mysterious as it was deadly.

The Mayor's wife wrapped a woolen blanket around her shoulders, its rough texture strange against Dreama's skin. "Poor child," the woman murmured.

They led her to a small guest room, its sparse furnishings a sharp contrast to the homey clutter of her lost bedroom. As the door closed behind her, leaving her in blessed solitude, Dreama finally allowed her legs to give way. She sank to the floor, buried her face in her hands, and wept silently for all she had destroyed. When she passed out, she slept for hours, and did not dream.

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When next she woke, Dreama knew something was wrong.

The blonde woman’s eyes snapped open in the unfamiliar darkness of the guest room, her body instantly alert. She couldn't name what had awakened her… she could hear no sound, see no light, recognize no movement. Something, though, had changed in the fabric of the quiet house around her. The air felt different, too still, as if the building itself were holding its breath. She sat up slowly, heart accelerating in her chest for reasons she couldn't articulate. The silence pressed against her eardrums like a physical weight. No creaking timbers, no distant snores, no whispered conversations from the family quarters.

Dreama slipped from the bed, bare feet finding the cool wooden floor. She hesitated at the door, fingers trembling as they reached for the handle. Some primal instinct screamed at her to stay put, to barricade herself in, to hide under the bed like a frightened child. But she needed to know. With a shallow breath, she eased the door open and peered into the dark hallway.

No lamps burned. Moonlight spilled through a window at the far end, casting everything in silver and shadow. The hallway stretched empty before her, but that wrongness persisted, a sickening certainty that something terrible waited to be discovered. She took one step, then another, drawn forward against her will.

At the top of the stairs, a metallic smell hit her—copper-rich and unmistakable. Blood. Her stomach clenched, bile rising in her throat even before her eyes found its source.

The mayor’s oldest child lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, his face frozen in disbelief. His throat gaped open in a second, grotesque mouth that stretched from ear to ear, so deeply cut that his head lolled at an impossible angle, barely attached to his body. Blood had poured from the wound, spreading across the floorboards in a dark pool that gleamed wetly in the moonlight. His nightshirt was soaked crimson from collar to hem.

Dreama's knees buckled. She caught herself against the wall, a small sound escaping her lips before she could stifle it. The need to flee battled with horrified fascination. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not another night of death. She clutched the wall for support and ran, forcing her leaden legs to carry her down the hallway toward the family's bedrooms. The first door stood ajar. She pushed it open with fingertips that barely made contact with the wood, as if it might burn her… and the Mayor's wife lay in her marriage bed, dark hair fanned across her pillow, throat slashed like her oldest child’s had been. The bedding beneath her had soaked up so much blood that the mattress made a squelching sound as Dreama's weight shifted the floorboards. The woman's eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, her mouth open in what must have been her final scream.

A sob built in her chest, but before it could escape, a voice spoke from behind her. "The new sorceress awakens."

The voice was deep, cultured, almost pleasant—and all the more terrifying for it. Dreama spun around, nearly losing her balance in her haste.

A man stood at the end of the hallway, blocking her path to the stairs. Tall and lean, he wore a noble’s vest of such deep blue it appeared black in the moonlight, over such a perfectly white shirt that it could only be the result of wealth. His face was angular, handsome in a cold way, framed by dark hair pulled back from high cheekbones. But it was his eyes that transfixed her—pale blue and luminous, regarding her with the detached interest of a man examining an unusual insect.

In one hand, he held a curved dagger, its blade gleaming wet. With his other hand, he casually polished the weapon against a cloth, his movements unhurried and precise. "Who—" Dreama began, but her throat closed around the question.

The man smiled, revealing teeth too perfect, too white. "Oh, but you’re right… I am being rude. I am Rastin," he said, as if they were meeting at a village gathering rather than in a house of slaughter. "And you are the fire girl who has caused such a stir and caused me to come to this empty, waste of space village in the middle of nowhere.” He smiled at her. “Who might you be?”

Dreama's survival instinct finally kicked through her shock. She turned and ran—or tried to. Her body suddenly froze mid-step, muscles locking into place as if turned to stone. She couldn't move, couldn't even fall. Something invisible held her suspended in her flight posture, one foot raised, arms reaching forward… and a wave of power that felt slimy and cold washed over her skin. "That's quite rude," Rastin said mildly from behind her. “I didn’t give you permission to leave.”

He approached her immobilized form, circling her like a predator assessing its prey. His footsteps made no sound on the wooden floor. Up close, she could see the fine network of scars on his exposed skin, deliberate patterns that spoke of ritual rather than accident. "You have no idea what you are, do you?" he asked, stopping directly in front of her, close enough that she could smell his expensive cologne. "You're valuable, girl. Significant magical potential. Such people usually are sent to one of the mage academies as quickly as possible, to learn to harvest their rare gifts, and once there they are quite unreachable for someone like me. It was fortunate I was in the area, and close enough that I felt you Spark.”

Dreama couldn't speak, couldn't scream, couldn't even widen her eyes in terror. Whatever magic held her was absolute, leaving only her mind free to race with panic.

Rastin reached out one long-fingered hand and stroked her cheek with cold fingers. His touch sent revulsion crawling across her skin like insects, but she couldn't flinch away. There were rubies sewn into his sleeve, she realized, and they caught the faint light as he touched her. “What… are you…” Dreama forced the words out.

"They call me a necromancer, my dear," he explained conversationally, as if lecturing a disappointing student. "It means I’m a sorcerer, like you, only I refused to be restrained by those fools at Morninglight. I choose to seek real power and work with death magic—the most honest magic there is, since all life ends in death eventually." He smiled again, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Of course, Morninglight or any of the nearby kingdoms don’t exactly approve of someone like me, so I don’t have many resources of my own to work with… which makes finding someone like you to harvest quite the stroke of luck.”

His fingers traced down from her cheek to her neck, lingering over her pulse point. "When your magic exploded last night, I felt it from miles away. Such raw power, untamed and wild." He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across her face. "I came to claim what is rightfully mine by virtue of superior strength. That's the natural order, after all—the strong take from the weak."

Dreama's mind screamed in denial, but her body remained frozen, helpless.

"You belong to me now," Rastin stated, the casual certainty in his voice more frightening than any shouted threat could have been. "Your status in life has changed, girl. From villager to sorceress to orphan to my slave, all in the span of a single day." He stepped back, admiring her as one might admire a newly purchased horse. "Life can change so quickly, can't it?"

Behind Rastin, Dreama noticed for the first time the silent figures standing around the room—at least six of them in hooded robes, faces hidden in shadow. They had made no sound, no movement to draw attention to their presence. How long had they been watching? Had they participated in the slaughter of the Mayor's family?

Dreama swallowed. "I… I will never belong to you," she spat, surprising herself with the venom in her tone. Fear still coursed through her veins, but anger pushed past it—anger at this monster who had slaughtered an innocent family, who spoke of people as resources to be harvested. All of her fear, all of her anger and confusion at what had happened to her family poured out of her, finally given an acceptable target. She felt the wave of his magic paralyzing her, and finally realized what had woken her up… she had felt this man’s sorcery, his necromancy, sliding through the air. "Kill me if you want, but I'd rather die than be your slave."

Rastin's expression shifted, amusement giving way to cold anger. "You misunderstand your situation," he said, each word precise and clipped. "This isn't a negotiation. You don't have choices anymore."

With a flick of his fingers, an invisible force slammed into Dreama like a physical blow. The paralysis broke only for her to be hurled backward, flying through the air and into the next room to send her crashing down on the home’s table. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Before she could recover, her limbs were wrenched outward, spreading her eagle on the wooden surface. No ropes bound her, and nothing visible held her down, yet she couldn't move. She couldn't even close her legs as her nightgown rode up to expose her thighs.

"I teach lessons," Rastin said, approaching the table with measured steps. "In a better timeline for you, you’d become one of my lucky apprentices, learning at my feet… but I already have enough of those. You will be learning a very different kind of lesson from me." He began to disrobe, methodically unfastening clasps and ties. "And the first of those is going to be not to antagonize your betters.”

The outer robe fell away, revealing a lean, muscular torso covered in ritual scars. The hundreds of precise cuts formed elaborate patterns across his chest and abdomen. More disturbing were the gemstones embedded directly in his flesh—not sewn to clothing but inserted beneath the skin, creating a constellation of pulsing red lights that throbbed in perfect synchronization.

Dreama struggled against the invisible bonds, panic rising as he continued to strip in front of her. She was young and naive, but not that naive. "No," she gasped. "Please, don't."

Rastin ignored her plea, continuing to undress until he stood naked before her. More scars and crystals adorned his thighs and arms, creating an effect like stars against a night sky. His cock stood erect between his legs, the sight of it sending fresh waves of terror through Dreama. It was throbbing with his arousal. and it terrified her to look at it. It seemed so big…

"I'll burn you," she threatened desperately. "I… I can do that. I’ll burn you to ash!"

This provoked a genuine laugh from Rastin, the sound devoid of warmth. "Then do it girl!” He raised his hands invitingly. “Burn me. Summon your flame… if you can.”

Dreama tried it. She thought of fire. She thought of the torch. She thought of the nightmares and the monsters. Every time she tried to think about anything, however, all she could think about was her dead parents. Nothing happened.

He laughed at her again. “That was what I thought, girl. You have no idea how to access it. How to use it. Untrained magic is useless against someone like me." He positioned himself between her forcibly spread legs. "And you’ll never get an opportunity to learn.”

Rastin pressed his bloody knife to the delicate fabric at Dreama’s collarbone. The blade was cold, but it was her terror that made her shiver uncontrollably, as if the metal itself had cut through her soul before it even touched her skin. She knew that it had just killed the people here, so having it touch her felt especially disgusting. Dreama tried to twist away, but the invisible force holding her to the table rendered her body utterly useless for anything but the sick spectacle. She was forced to stare up Rastin while the necromancer worked at his leisure.

He pinched the fabric of her nightgown between two fingers. With savored slowness, Rastin made a cut straight down the center, all the way to her navel. The knife didn’t so much as catch on the thread; it parted the worn, hand-embroidered cotton in a single smooth line. The fabric collapsed off her shoulders and puddled at her sides, baring the full length of her torso in the chill air. Dreama felt her face heat with shame, a hot prickle that spread over her cheeks and down her chest, blooming even as she struggled to hide her body with the hands that would not move, the legs that would not close. For years now the boys had been staring at her breasts, so she had kept them hidden beneath her shirt. Those breasts, high and firm, were fully exposed now.

The necromancer’s eyes flicked over her, appraising as the knife traced a line between her breasts, down her belly. He paused just above her modesty, and she realized with a jolt that he was deliberately savoring the moment—drawing it out, making her wait for the inevitable humiliation. He sliced the nightgown up the other direction, splitting it fully open, then grasped the ruined dress in both hands and yanked it from under her. The rough fabric dragged harshly across her hips and thighs, scratching against the soft tuft of hair between her legs before tearing free and leaving her completely exposed.

Dreama was naked. On the mayor’s table. With a monster looming over her and an audience of silent, robed men watching from the darkness. Every part of her was laid bare: the pale, unblemished skin that betrayed her rural life of scant sun and hard labor; the scattering of freckles down her arms and across her chest; the soft, dark hair between her thighs, which she’d never thought about before, now suddenly mortifying. Even the faded birthmark on her hip, which her mother had always said was in the shape of a crescent moon, was on display for these strangers.

Dreama could have wept from shame if terror hadn’t squeezed her heart so tight that she could barely breathe.

"Please," she begged, abandoning pride for survival. "Don't do this."

Rastin ran a hand up her inner thigh, his touch clinical and possessive. "Virgins are so adorable,” he mocked, rubbing the head of his cock against her dry entrance. His pale eyes locked with hers. "And breaking in a new slave is one of the most enjoyable parts of having power."

Dreama screamed as he thrust into her with brutal force, tearing through her maidenhood without hesitation. The pain was excruciating, radiating outward from between her legs like molten metal being poured into her core. He showed no consideration for her agony, no pause to allow her body to adjust. He simply took, pounding into her dry cunt with methodical strokes that felt like they were splitting her in half.

"Stop!" she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "You're tearing me apart!"

"That's rather the point," Rastin replied, his breathing only slightly elevated despite his exertion. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging bruises into her flesh as he pulled her against him with each thrust.

Blood from her torn virginity slicked his movements, creating an obscene squelching sound that filled the room. Each impact of his hips against hers sent fresh waves of pain through her body.

Around the table, the hooded figures watched in silence, their faces hidden but their attention fixed on the rape. Their passive observation added another layer of humiliation—being violated not just by one monster but displayed like an animal to others, her pain and degradation a spectacle for their entertainment.

Dreama closed her eyes, trying to transport herself elsewhere: Back to her family's farm, to happier times, to the simple life she'd taken for granted. Instead, the moment she thought of her family she only thought about them burning to death. Each brutal thrust dragged her back to the horrific present, and it was almost a relief to be being violated rather than be forced to dwell on her family’s deaths… even if the eyes of the others watching seemed to pierce right through her.

The necromancer slammed the knife down into the table, just before her eyes… Dreama saw her own terrified face looking back at her in the reflection. "Look at me," Rastin commanded.

When she kept her eyes closed, his hand closed around her throat, squeezing until black spots danced behind her eyelids. She was forced to open her eyes, to look up into his face: Composed and haughty even in the midst of rape, as if he were holding court before a throne rather than committing an atrocity. "There you are," he said, easing the pressure on her throat. "I want to see the light in your eyes dim as you accept your new reality."

His pace increased, the thrusts becoming more erratic. Dreama felt a change in his breathing, a tightening of his grip on her hips. With a final, brutal thrust, Rastin buried himself to the hilt inside her and groaned, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her unprotected womb. The sensation of his hot seed filling her violated passage made Dreama gag, bile rising in her throat.

"Perfect," he murmured, remaining inside her for several moments longer, as if ensuring every drop of his semen remained trapped in her body. When he finally withdrew, a mixture of blood and seed leaked from between her thighs, running down onto the wooden table in a viscous stream.

The invisible bonds holding Dreama spread-eagled suddenly released. She curled into herself immediately, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, trying to make herself as small as possible. Sobs wracked her body, the full horror of what had just happened crashing over her in waves. Her torn cunt throbbed with pain, her insides feeling raw and wounded.

Rastin didn't spare her another glance as he methodically redressed, arranging his robes with precise movements. Once fully clothed, he turned to his followers.

"Prepare her for travel," he ordered. "And collect any of that blood that dripped from her. A sorcerer’s virgin blood will have some use for us."

Dreama barely registered his words through her haze of pain and shame. She remained curled on the table, trembling uncontrollably, her world narrowed to the agony between her legs. When Rastin's followers finally pulled her from the table, her legs buckled beneath her, refusing to support her weight. The pain radiating from between her thighs was too intense, too raw. Her body had been violated in ways her sheltered mind had barely comprehended existed.

One of the hooded figures grunted in annoyance when she collapsed, then roughly hauled her up by her armpits while another bound her wrists with coarse rope. She hung between them like a slaughtered animal, head lolling, blood and semen still leaking down her inner thighs and soaking into what remained of her torn nightgown. "Master doesn't like damaged goods," one muttered to the other. "Carry her properly."

They hoisted her between them, her bound hands unable to grip anything for balance. Every jostling step sent spikes of agony through her ravaged cunt. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, the coppery taste of her own blood filling her mouth.

The cool night air hit her skin as they carried her outside. Dawn was still hours away, but the moon was high in the sky. In that liminal light, Dreama saw that the Mayor's house was not the only destination Rastin's followers had visited during the night. Several other buildings showed signs of disturbance—doors hanging open, personal belongings scattered on doorsteps.

They carried her to where a small procession had already gathered at the village outskirts. Dreama's dazed eyes widened at the sight of other captives—men and women from around the village were collected, all bound and guarded by robed figures. She recognized faces from neighboring farms, people she'd seen at market days or festivals. One man bore fresh whip marks across his back, visible through his torn shirt. A woman clutched a crying infant to her breast, her face streaked with tears. A boy hardly into his teens trembled visibly, his pants darkened with urine. All of them stood with vacant expressions, eyes downcast, spirits already broken… or perhaps enchanted and made helpless by Rastin’s magic.

"This is the last one," one of her carriers called. “The one that matters."

Several of the hooded guards turned to look, their faces still hidden in shadow beneath their hoods. One made a crude gesture, thrusting his hips forward. Another laughed. Dreama felt her face burn with shame, knowing they all knew what had happened to her. She hung her head, unable to meet even the glances from her fellow captives. She didn’t know if they would be sympathetic or accusing.

As they took their place in the procession, Dreama twisted painfully to look back at the village one last time. From this vantage point, she could see the blackened skeleton of her family's farm in the distance, a thin wisp of smoke still rising from its ruins. Less than two days ago, that had been her home, the only place she'd ever known. Her parents had been alive, their simple existence stretching before them in an expected pattern of seasons and harvests. Now all of it was gone, along with her village.

A commotion at the front of the procession drew her attention. Rastin emerged from the Mayor's house, wiping his hands on a cloth. He mounted a black horse that pawed the ground impatiently, its eyes rolling white with fear of its rider. From his elevated position, Rastin surveyed his collection of new slaves with the satisfied expression of a successful merchant taking inventory.

His gaze lingered on Dreama, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The memory of those cold hands on her body, that hardness tearing into her, made her stomach heave. She retched, but nothing came up—she hadn't eaten since before the fire. "Move out," Rastin commanded, his voice carrying easily in the still morning air.

The procession lurched into motion. Dreama's carriers adjusted their grip, their rough hands digging into her thighs and back. One of them, his breath stinking of stale beer, leaned closer to her ear. "Lucky cunt," he whispered. "Master usually lets us have the new girls after he's done with them. But not you. Says you're special."

The other carrier chuckled. "Probably doesn't want us spoiling his new toy. Did you see how he looked at her? She'll be warming his bed regular, this one."

"Must have been good," the first replied. "Heard him rip her open like gutting a beast. She screamed like one too."

Dreama closed her eyes, trying to shut out their words, but they continued to discuss her as if she were merchandise, debating what made her valuable enough for Rastin's personal attention. Their crude speculation mixed with the physical pain of being carried, creating a haze of misery that threatened to drown her. The procession wound its way out of the village, following a dirt road that led toward Suntree forest. Dreama had never traveled beyond the nearest market town. Now she was being carried into unknown territory, away from everything familiar, with no hope of return.

They crested a hill that would take the village out of sight forever. Dreama twisted in her carriers' grip, ignoring the pain, desperate for one last glimpse of home. The small cluster of buildings that had comprised her entire world grew smaller in the distance, soon to disappear behind the hill's shoulder. Then she headed down the other side, and they vanished.

Dreama would never see the place she came from ever again.

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