lover boy

Epigraphs:

An rud a thig gu dona falbhaidh e leis a ghaoith or What is got by guile will disappear with the wind.

Unknown Author, Gaelic proverb

This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste … In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”

Edgar Allen Poe, The Masque of Red Death

I.

Prospera built Camsir Palace to her exact standards.

Her father reigned as King of Ascana and was a very generous man. When the plague came, His Majesty authorized the construction of the summer palace and told the builders its design needed to both shield Prospera from harm and please her every whim and fascination. No expense should be spared in pursuit of pleasing his daughter. It was for her safety, of course, but also a gift for her eighteenth name day, a retreat for Prospera to kindle her passions.

Builders set to work straight away. Imported stone paved the courtyards, furniture was carved from the finest woods, and stained glass glowed in each window that arose. Intricate stone gargoyles were placed upon its iron gates and on the tall steeples of the keep to ward off evil spirits and the growing disease; rain water poured from their mouths and the gargoyles’ hollow eyes followed any who tread the property, watching without seeing, hearing without reason to share. A great library for which Princess Prospera might store all of her novels and textbooks became one of several jewels on the palace estate, only rivaled by the great golden ballroom and all of its unusual splendor; the guest rooms, which were drenched in color and designed to trick and entertain the mind, were also fantastical and many such nobility were intrigued by the construction.

As for the grounds, the ancient wood surrounding the property enveloped the palace in a dense, verdant embrace, keeping it from view of the main road—just as Prospera intended. Thick vines like monstrous green snakes curled up the palace’s columns while shaped topiary bushes of all designs decorated the gardens. A tall iron gate surrounded the property, with one guarded entrance in and out; a path led from the main road through the front gate and to the grand palatial entrance where coaches might leave their patrons and finally to the stables in the back of the property. The landscaping was nothing short of immaculate, enchanting and mystical, overflowing with burbling sources of crystalline water and exotic flora.

No matter that a plague had begun to consume the countryside. It was not the first plague in Ascana’s history, but it was far more vicious and deadly than any disease which had previously infected its borders. Within the first six months, the disease—which physicians and healers alike were calling the Red Death because of the bloody manner in which it killed—had claimed over a quarter of a million lives and the toll only rose with each passing day. When the healers and physicians too began falling ill and what little treatment could be provided became even harder to access, unrest festered in the commonfolk as they bore the brunt of the disease. 

The King of Ascana, and thus its princess, did not care; for each worker that died in the construction of Camsir Palace, two more were hired. Their bodies and labor were expendable; and in such a rural area, there was no work that paid as well as the King’s work. They labored night and day only to be crushed by an unsecured statue or contract the plague from their crew and die within the week. A mass grave accumulated behind the palace, a growing hole of bodies which were salted and burned. It sat unmarked, unblessed. 

One year after construction began, the palace put finishing touches on its opulence. Exotic rugs covered flagstone floors, herbal gardens sprouted in the courtyards, and carts upon carts of books traveled from Kingsport to Camsir. Princess Prospera moved from the capitol to the summer palace and brought with all the lords, knights, and ladies she desired at her court; there were also jesters and acrobats, dancers. musicians, the finest of cooks, and the wealthiest of friends. 

She built her paradise and then she shut herself inside, sealing the commonfolk outside its walls. While their pitiful homes were burned to stop the spread of disease, the princess orchestrated parties which no imagination could rival or conjure. Plague doctors piled corpses in shaking wood carts just to dump them in a grave which reeked of rotting flesh and teeming with rats, and Prospera donned her favorite gown so she could show her court how it sparkled in the light of her stained glass windows.

All these luxuries and safety laid within Camsir Palace—without was the Red Death.

II.

Prospera stood before a mirror lined with silver and appreciated the finery of her costume. It was made of exquisite vermillion red silk imported from the East, handbeaded and bejeweled with fine crystals that glittered in the candlelight; the corset cinched her thin waist and the bodice atop created the flare of her hips as it bled into the widening of her skirt. She was beautiful, as she always was, of course, and this satisfied her.

Turning away from the great silver mirror with its Elvish filigree, she adjusted the sleeves of her ivory evening gloves and moved from her reflection toward the set of doors which led to a wide balcony. This room, located in the keep’s tower, served as Prospera’s dressing room and where she preferred to take her lovers. The bed here was wide and large, covered with a sheer canopy that surrounded each side, and adorned with the softest of cottons and goosefeather pillows; metal rings were installed so she could bind and restrict whomever she wished and a box under the bed housed her flogs and paddles, among other tools she enjoyed. A secret passage hidden behind one of several woven tapestries accessed the guest rooms, which she used to watch and observe her court as she pleased.

As she opened the doors and entered her balcony, the stench of death and decay greeted her like an old friend. Prospera wrinkled her nose as the smell washed over her and peered over the marble balustrade. Her upper lip curled. Disgusting. Commoners were gathering, more of them appearing every day, breeding like flies. Soon it would be a mob of plague bodies, churning and teeming beneath her like an infested sea of rats; they clung to the thick wrought-iron fence bordering the keep and thrust their emaciated arms through the thin bars, moaning and gnashing their teeth as they shouted for her. Some of them still had their sanity and demanded justice, demanded she answer for the crown’s cupidity, and this irritated her more than anything else.

Without adequate security, Prospera knew all she could do was stay inside and wait for the mob to disperse. Several of her guard had abandoned her in the recent months, accusing her of savagery and barbarity; her uncle would replace them soon, but his recent letter wrote that his own guard was dwindling under the plague’s pressure. With only a handful of soldiers remaining and a single court mage whose talent lied in silly water shows. 

This wasn’t the first mob to gather; it would not be the last. In several days' time, they would be dead and she would burn yet another pit of bodies. Closer inspection provided a clear picture of the Red Death as it wreaked havoc on their bodies, the blood sweat forming on their brow. The peasants below were guaranteed a certain, agonizing death and Prospera reassured herself that it could not reach her in her impregnable palace. The plague bubbled in their skin, bulged in their bloodshot eyes, and she watched as they yelled for her and shook the fence, moving erratically and desperately as the end of their life neared. 

Too consumed with her disgust, a presence escaped Prospera’s notice. 

He stood in the center of the thrashing mob, untouched by the flailing bodies and flying, livid spittle. Dark eyes burrowed into Prospera as the crowd churned around him, impassive as commoners mistakenly came within reach and only to recoil from his touch. As the princess surveyed the crowd with clear disdain on her face, he appeared to her as the others did—filthy, unwell, and inconspicuous. 

As quickly as he appeared, he separated from the mob in favor of entering the grounds. The fence was no obstacle for him, its bonds providing little resistance as he passed through its structure. Prospera turned on heel and returned inside without ever noticing the presence of such a creature. 

The unsavory addition of the mob was not ideal, but Prospera fully intended to proceed with the evening. Whatever unease she’d felt after watching the crowd melted away as she began pondering the long night ahead of her. The palace’s household staff had been subject to her impatience throughout the day, forced to adjust and place and decorate every inch. 

This was more than just a masquerade. 

Prospera would look upon the Red Death and spit in its face. It would not interrupt her glorious paradise, not while she breathed. Thus, every attendant of the ball would wear varying shades of red from crimson to carmine with their faces hidden behind fine masks. They were encouraged to indulge in their animalistic desires, to don the masks of predators as they unleashed their most depraved fantasies. To some, the choice might seem callous or perhaps insensitive, but Prospera delighted in it. A life of abnegation wouldn’t halt the plague’s progression, and her pleasure was an act of defiance in and of itself in such bleak times.

The evening crept over the palace, fingers of the night curling in as it gripped Camsir in its palm. The sun seemed to fall sooner here than in Kingsport, likely because of the dense, towering trees. Soon after it sank below the tall trees, the first of her guests descended from their accommodations.

Nobility she had known since girlhood, debutantes flourishing in high society, and various skilled artisans made up the attendance. Later, her personal brothel would join them. Some nobles had joined her over a year ago when she first took up residence; others only recently joined her, fleeing Kingsport when her uncle ascended the throne when her father had contracted the Red Death and died a few short months ago. 

Prospera had no desire to rule—she was far too advanced for such things—but she knew her uncle was doing a terrible job of it. If the mob forming outside her walls was troublesome, it had nothing on the shuffling corpses in Kingsport, half of whom were too sick to even remember why they even began rioting in the streets.

No matter. She was sophisticated and beyond such trivial and political matters. Her palace was a sovereign nation of its own, one in which the sun never set and the drink always poured. Inside, everything was perfect and beautiful and pleasing to the eye, none of it horrible or disgusting to look at like the rest of the country.

Prospera descended the steps of the tower, the front hem of her dress attached to a tie around her wrist, and considered her options. Her tastes varied but that was why she had brought such an extensive court with her. There was no entertainment she could be denied. With such a night planned, fueled by the anonymity the masques provided and ignited by imported drink and drug from tropical territories, it was Prospera’s goal that every guilty thought and pleasure be indulged.

At the bottom of the tower, her lady’s maid awaited with a masque in hand. It was red silk overlaid with black lace and a jewel affixed to the forehead held in place several raven feathers. 

“Your Highness,” her lady’s maid said, an orcish girl whose name was Morn, and offered the princess the masque with a deep curtsy; she was a quiet thing with dull, filed tusks and plain black hair, which looked simple against the quality uniform Prospera provided. “The guests have gathered in the ballroom. They are awaiting your entrance, should you choose to grace them, Your Highness.”

Prospera made a discontent sound of acknowledgement and took the masque in hand. Morn was agitating, a sore to the eye, and far too puritan for the princess’s liking. She preferred a lady’s maid who serviced her charge without complaint. The orc always cried when Prospera used her, sniffling into the pillow when she thought she couldn’t hear. Prospera sometimes hoped Morn fell ill and died, so she could request a new servant from her uncle, but orcs were hard to come by and the damn thing was the only in her retinue. Morn was clothed handsomely, fed like a pig headed to slaughter, and lived safely away from the threat of plague. Really, she ought to be more grateful. 

She looked down upon her lady’s maid and sighed. When Morn didn’t make eye contact, Prospera reached out and held her chin in a vice grip. She relished the flash of hatred which passed over the maid’s pale green face like a dark cloud and wished she had the magic to sense her fluttering heartbeat. Filing her tusks down wasn’t enough. Prospera wanted her totally domesticated, so she could share the young barbarian with her court. It wasn’t like her to cow from a challenge. “You are dismissed, Elle. You are free to retire to your quarters. Should the night bore me, I will visit you. You’ll be prepared for me. Understood?”

The maid nodded as the bottom half of her jaw shook with fury. Prospera liked her staff kept in a state of fear, more like a frightened animal than anything else—fear entertained her much more than respect or even idolatry—but this was enjoyable, too. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” Morn said, her voice low and strained. Morn had been with her for only three  months. There was still time for her insolence to be controlled.“I’ll begin preparations right away.”

This pleased Prospera. If she didn’t find any other suitable entertainment, playing with her maid would have to do. She might summon another servant, one with a cock, so she could watch them rape each other. Morn was accustomed to this, but there were all sorts of things she could ask them to do, and they would because they had no other choice; maybe she’d have the other servant choke Morn, watch as her legs kicked and thrashed, and delight in the guilt she planted in them; or perhaps she’d have them both climax just to ruin it with self-inflicted flagellation, a punishment for their pleasure. There were always new kinds of pain to invent. 

“Good. I have no further use for you now. You are dismissed.”

Her lady’s maid slunk off much like a sulking cat, and Prospera hummed with amusement. 

As she made her way from the eastern wing toward the ballroom on the northern face, her skin felt tight with anticipation. Her dream, her beautiful and wonderful dream, was almost realized; the moment before was sweet, ripened like summer peaches and ready for harvest.

The halls glowed with warm light, incandescent in the gloomy dark. Each candelabra held a red taper candle that dripped wax like fresh blood down the brass adornments, and thick velvet curtains framed each tall and narrow window; the glass glowed orange and blue and purple as the final vestiges of the sun sunk below the horizon, succumbing to the heavy blanket of night.

Prospera’s dress trailed behind her, shimmering with the rubies and diamonds sewn into its train; the embroidery was elaborate and wove around the gems, framing and complimenting their fine shapes. The jewels had once been a part of her dowry, but she thought they were far more suited for her personal use. Her husband would get no such gift from her, if she took a husband at all. Perhaps he ought to bring her a dowry, Prospera mused. She was a princess, afterall, and next in line for the throne should her childless and incompetent uncle die.

She heard the celebration before she saw it. Voices and laughter echoed through the high ceilings, interwoven with violin and cello and the jingling of bells—the jesters, as they performed their antics, or perhaps the contortionist’s costume as she twisted into impossible shapes. 

When Prospera came upon the entrance, two attendants dressed in cardinal red livery and black horned masques pulled open the grand doors for her. They announced her as Her Royal Highness Prospera Daegon, Princess of Camsir, First of Her Name, The King’s Delight, Heir to the Salt Throne.

Every careful preparation, every meticulous detail—it was better than she could have ever dreamed.

Dancers with twirling black ribbons greeted her upon entrance, framing each side of the door, and acrobats in bright, cheery apparel teetered precariously above her as they walked tightropes between the second floor balconies. An excess of fine foods and aged wines covered the long dining tables, which had been pushed to the sides of the room to make room for the guests and performers. Warm light illuminated the ballroom, glowing from the sconces on the outer rim of the room and from the beautiful diamond chandelier hanging above. Musicians perched at their place at the very end of the room, observed by the golden angels and marble deities as they filled the high ceilings and wide open space with a traditional waltz.  

Prospera stood in the center of the ballroom and observed the guests making their way about the room. They remarked on the quality of the food, the sheer amount of it, and took their pick from the ornate serving plates; some had begun to dance, taking partners of all shape and size in hand. 

The guests took her theme to heart, all of them donning varying shades of red, peacocking in crimson bodices and deep ruby waistcoats. Shining, dark shoes clacked on the freshly waxed checkered dancefloor and Prospera inhaled deeply, picking up the first sweet hints of opium in the air. Some of the nobility were beginning to partake already—a sign of a party well planned. 

If her guests took issue with the theme or did not share her enthusiasm for such a celebration, it did not show. They drank merrily and danced with grace around the room, laughing and shrieking with delight at the fire breathers or jugglers. Her court mage performed a dance with water as it flowed around her rhythmically. While a significant portion of the guests were a part of her personal court, there were still fresh arrivals, new silhouettes, that she did not recognize. Lesser nobility, countesses and barons who had retired to their own country homes, had joined her as well, relishing in the excuse to leave their solitude, if only for a night. The royal decree for quarantine was only so important for the squealing masses who lived in their own filth; inside her paradise, the Red Death could not harm them. She would give them the fantasy, the dream, they desired.

Prospera made her way toward the front of the room, nearing the orchestra, and scanned the disguises for someone intriguing, a personality worth bringing aside. Some attendees approached her but small talk bored her.

A towering figure caught her eye. Despite the crowd’s disguises, most of them were familiar to her either in the way their body moved or that their masques did not conceal their entire face. She’d met almost all of them at some point or another. This person—bewitching as they were—was completely unknown to her and that alone ensnared her attention. 

Prospera moved through the socializing masses, her dress moving like water as she silently demanded they part for her, until she was within range of the unknown guest. Masculine and mysterious, the newcomer drew Prospera’s attention like a moth to flame. She couldn’t look away.

His costume sparked recognition Prospera couldn’t initially place. His boots were tall, nearly reaching his knees, and made of a supple black leather. Tucked into the boots were a dark pair of well-made breeches, which matched his fine ruby shirt and its iron buttons proudly displaying the crest of House Velen. The masque he wore reminded her of a skull—ivory white with gaping black holes where eyes should be, hollow and severe, rivulets of blood tracking down its cheeks. The face extended slightly curving into a beak, and it dawned on the princess. 

A plague doctor.

Delight surged in her chest. If anyone else in attendance thought the theme was in bad taste, he certainly did not.

The guests seemed to avoid the Son of Velen, as if a presence kept them from ever truly coming within his orbit. (In the back of Prospera’s mind, she struggled to recall if Lord Velen had a son. She was sure he didn’t. His daughters she knew, but the son evaded her memory.) Dancers moved around him as he stood in place and watched the magic unfold. Despite the way other guests shied away from him, Prospera moved ever closer until she could reach out to touch him, if she so desired. 

“Hello, Lord Velen,” she greeted, coming around his shoulder, and kept her eyes focused on that odd masque of his. At the sound of her voice, his head tilted, far too attentive and alert, and waited until she continued. “I must say, your costume is daring. I appreciate the horror of it.”

That drew a quiet, pleasant laugh from him. Prospera leaned closer to hear him when he spoke. 

“Oh, the masque? This is a celebration of the plague, is it not?”

Celebration—the princess mulled over the wording of his question. “Not necessarily, but I suppose you are close enough. Have we met before, my lord? I believe I’ve only met your sisters.”

His response was dismissive. “No, but I’ve seen you,” he said vaguely. Prospera’s jaw tightened and her irritation flared, but she stifled it, moving closer.

She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at her. Her smile was sickeningly sweet. “I am Princess of this palace—next in line for the throne of Ascana. My patience wears thin."

He hesitated but after a moment he pulled the masque below his eyes, just enough to show her his pitch black irises, and said, “I am Galar, Your Highness. I am distantly related to Lord Velen through his Isle heritage. He asked that I come in his stead, and I am quite glad. It is a pleasure to meet you. Descriptions of your beauty pale in comparison to your true splendor.

Before she could object, Galar reached for her hand and she offered it. He lifted his masque again and brushed his lips across the back of her glove, placing a delicate kiss upon the fabric. The heat of his mouth burned through the silk and rendered her feverish all over, and the feeling passed almost as soon as it came over her. She dismissed it, blaming the warmth on the moving bodies.

“I will find you later, Princess,” Galar said and parted, leaving with the ghost of a smile on his partially hidden face. Galar drifted into the thick of the crowd and the guests parted before him as though the death on his face were real. 

Despite herself and the commotion surrounding her, the princess discovered she longed to follow him. Why didn’t she? Why had she said spoken but two words? Prospera shook her head and refocused herself on meeting the rest of her guests. 

Prospera circled about the ballroom, making idle conversation, entertaining her guests, and offering elicit favors when she desired. With two snaps of her fingers, an attendant materialized and brought forth a tray which offered all manners of inebriation. The court mage’s spellcasting abilities were pitiful past that of a performer, but Prospera tolerated that failing because her true talent lied with alchemy and potioncraft. Sexual stimulants, temporary gender modifications, euphoric mood boosters—the Belzieu graduate certainly had her uses. 

As she took turn after turn about the room, the musicians began playing familiar songs and the dance floor flooded with bodies. Smoke curled through the stagnant air and gathered high above their heads, giving the room a hazy, diffused quality. Prospera would not be indulging tonight. She preferred sobriety when she took a lover, or a slave. A clear mind made enjoying the give of soft flesh, the vibration in her arm when she hit something, far easier. 

Prospera hailed one of her household staff and instructed them that her harem was to join them in the ballroom. It was nearing midnight, and the guests had indulged themselves plenty by now and would appreciate the bodies she had to offer. Her kept whores and their matron were dressed in their finest, most tempting attire. Dripping with jewels and sheer, luxurious fabric, they would be irresistible to even the most pious of her guests—not that there were many to begin with. 

The music took a turn. Now, the strings played something melodic and slow. The dance floor transformed as couples pressed their forehead , masques tilted near one another, in an eerie embrace. A hand slid along Prospera’s waist and drew her flush against a warm body. 

“Princess,” Galar greeted as he pulled her in, beginning their slow, wandering dance. Not seeing his face only added to his strange sensuality. The hollow pits of his eyes were endless… Prospera wished she could reach inside and probe for the true nature of his thoughts. 

Satisfaction poured over her as his fingers drifted over her waist. “How might I help you, my lord?” 

Prospera felt other bodies close to them, closing in on them. Just when she might notice their presence, Galar would spin her out and around and the guests would drift away again. In his arms, she felt like a beautiful marionette on golden strings. 

The tempo of the music accelerated. Galar swung her in his arms like an expert dancer in perfect time with the music. Staccato notes struck through the sweeping melody until the song morphed into something better suited for quick dancing. It became difficult to speak over the music as it crescendoed and Prospera found herself swept off her feet by the stranger in the plague doctor masque. 

When she came down, Galar leaned in, his jaw brushing her cheek. She was distracted by the smoothness of his skin, the scent of his hair, when he murmured, “Will we just be dancing tonight?” He braced a band against her shoulders and dipped her, exposing the length of her throat, dragging his finger up her cleavage before he brought her flush against his chest. “Or do you have something else up your sleeve, Princess?”

Prospera looked above to the mezzanine and its marble balustrades guarded by ornate cherubs. The matron Titania, an ethereal Fae with white hair and striking purple eyes, slid her hands along the bannister and smiled from above, waving at the guests who pointed and whispered among themselves. She and the rest of her whores wore black and were without masques, an easy and effective way to mark them as community property for the night. 

“Ah,” exclaimed Galar as he followed her gaze. “Party favors?”

Prospera nodded, humored by amusement which he did not bother to hide, and asked, “Are there any who catch your eye in particular?”

Titania and her retinue disappeared from view as they made their way to the first floor where most guests still socialized. “No, your highness. I’d like to dance a while longer with you.”

Prospera then left his side, not because she wanted to, but because she wanted to see if he would give chase. As she backed away, leaving the dancefloor, Galar stood still and the masses pulsed around him, never coming closer than an arm’s length. He dipped his head, lowering that great beak in an exaggerated nod.

Prospera abruptly got the feeling he was in on some scheme she didn’t know about and the feeling unnerved her enough to break her from his influence. 

Others soon drew her attention. Titania’s courtesans had broken off, each swaying to the strings and horns still crooning, and began engaging with the guests, encouraging them to touch and command as they pleased. Prospera drifted toward the nearest one, who eyed her like a timid deer; this one was a new addition to the palace’s harem. The nervous light in her gaze encouraged the princess forward.

“Girl, what is your name?” she asked while approaching, reaching out to touch the fabric draped over the young girl’s small breast. It moved smoother than water, revealing her chest and the pink shade of her nipples, revealing a soft belly and a bush of dark but fine pubic hair, as Prospera pulled the fabric aside. One look at her round ears confirmed she was human, likely a few years younger than she but well developed. 

The girl flushed and averted her sheepish gaze. “Morella, Your Highness.”

Prospera appraised the courtesan as she curtsied in deference. In compliance with the night’s theme, Morella wore dark red sheer silk, accessorized with gold pieces of jewelry worth more than the ballroom’s exquisite fresco. Morella’s rosy lips parted in shock and her eyes grew wide as she watched the celebration’s true nature unfold. With long and glossy black hair and an expanse of unmarked pale skin, she was a vision straight from Prospera’s dreams.

“Morella, beautiful jewel,” Prospera purred and reached for the courtesan’s hair. It was beautifully dark against the white of her glove. “Would you like to do something for me?”

Prospera reveled in the eager light that sparked within Morella’s eyes. Though she could never say it aloud—women weren’t allowed to admit such things—Prospera enjoyed the absolute power she held over the staff of Camsir Palace. Playing with them, hurting them, especially the ones who were too new and naive to believe the stories circulating the household staff, was the most enjoyable part of her station. How many cruel princes were there? If she were a wolf among sheep, why should she deny her nature?

Morella was too tempting to pass over. Prospera would think of something fitting for her. Though she couldn’t take her virginity—such a valuable thing was long gone at her age—she could corrupt and ruin her in other ways. To waste such an eager thing would be blasphemous.

The princess smiled widely at Morella and drew the beautiful girl closer to her as she surveyed the rest of the prostitutes available for use. Prospera prided herself on her diverse assortment of bodies for entertainment and pleasure. She perused her options while petting Morella’s endless waves, pointing out her brothers and sisters across the room.

She leaned very close and said, “Do you desire anything, Morella? Do any of your friends catch your eye?” 

Morella shivered and began to fiddle with one of her many ornamental rings. “No, Princess.”

Around them, the music swelled and reached a fever pitch. Guests puffed on their pipes and slipped foreign drugs into their own drink and others while the available courtesans dwindled. Some had been taken into a nearby room for a rendezvous, but others couldn’t afford to wait and she saw several courtesans mounted against pillars, in the corners, on a table. The sex had begun, but violence too was beginning to emerge, so electric that she could taste it like iron in the air. The masques distorted every figure in the room save for the fresh faced playthings. Those visible were soon surrounded, hidden from view by lords and ladies alike. 

Prospera gestured to the conductor and the music decrescendoed. Eyes flicked her way as she guided Morella to the dancefloor and positioned her in the center. Attention returned to Prospera who called forth her lovely playthings. 

Those who remained in the ballroom stood in a practiced line before her and the masqued partygoers beheld them in all their finery. 

“Again, I ask you, is there anything you desire?”

Morella let out a shy laugh. “No, Princess.”

Perhaps she thought this was what Princess Prospera wanted to hear. 

“Very well,” Prospera said before subjecting the lineup to her scrutinous eye. 

She wanted someone just as eager to please and new to her brothel. The more seasoned concubines dutifully dropped their gaze whenever Prospera regarded them while those still unused to her whims held her stare. Some squirmed under the weight of her eyes and others returned it with the same intensity. Prospera was sure they fantasized about her downfall—let them dream up whatever they desired, it would never come to fruition. 

One of the newer additions to her collection—though not quite as new as darling Morella—caught Prospera’s eye. This one was Elvish in heritage, tall and willowy, and it barely met Prospera’s gaze when she approached. How delightful. A broken immortal. 

She stopped and asked, “What are you called?” Prospera stepped closer to examine it and noticed its white hair was cropped close to the skull, bringing attention to the angular nature of its features and tall, thin ears. 

Its eyes wandered, unable to meet the princess’s gaze, as she approached it, but it did not stiffen or shift the way she expected it to. Prospera knew she had found her second choice. There was a certain unease apparent in its movements, yet it did not shy away from Prospera’s overbearing presence. Whatever stories it had heard, it did not believe them or assume itself safe—such arrogance would soon be rectified. 

“Felix,” it intoned in a voice barely audible over the ethereal, crooning soprano who had joined the orchestra. “Your Highness.”

Prospera nodded agreeably and scanned the crowd gathered around them. Though there were a good number clustered around the princess and just as many dancing, she could see the party reaching even greater heights of depravity beyond the line of onlookers. Weak bodies pushed to their knees to pleasure their masters, the use of magic to torment and bind. It made her throb.

To her disappointment, Galar was not present for her show, but rather outside perusing the gardens with Duke Abyrford’s raven haired mistress, the tip of his masque’s beak arching over the greenery. She swallowed the bitter taste of her displeasure and returned her attention to her own entertainment.

“Felix,” Prospera said and drifted closed until it shivered with discomfort. She delighted in its shy nature and turned to beckon Morella forward. “Felix—drop your garment. Show me what you have to please sweet Morella.”

For a moment, doubt flickered across its Elvish features and Prospera suspected there was still some pride behind those hesitant eyes. “Now,” she snapped and grasped the approaching Morella by the nape of her neck, digging the sharp tips of her manicured nails into the tender flesh and nerves. The girl cringed in sudden pain but did nothing to hinder or stop the princess. 

Felix’s eyes darted to Morella and it pursed its lips into a thin, thoughtful line. It did not need further instruction to obey; it shed its clothing to reveal a slight body and soft cock poking from a sparse covering of hair between its legs. Morella’s gaze dropped and she flushed beet red before facing Prospera. 

“Don’t be so shy,” Prospera cooed and pushed Morella toward Felix. Several guests had removed themselves from the dance floor to watch her show. “You are both my property. If you’d like to remain here, where it’s safe and you are fed, you’ll have to become accustomed to performing for my guests.”

Felix swallowed hard, its jaw and throat flexing, as Morella stepped beside it. The two now performed shy and nervous under the crowd’s and Prospera’s scrutiny. No matter. She was an excellent playwright and director and there were few things she enjoyed more than getting to break in a new whore from Kingsport. Even with all of the palace’s grandeur, she still grew restless confined within its walls and her fresh, young playthings made the endless days of isolation and monotony bearable. 

Prospera watched them and mulled over what to do with the pair. She found them pleasing to the eye, but they could do far better things for her than look pretty. Felix refused to look Prospera in the eye while Morella appeared wary of the situation. Amusement played at the corners of the princess’s red mouth. 

Her Morella and Felix, sweet things that they were, had yet to process their new purpose in life—to follow Prospera’s every command, to entertain her every desire, to suffer for her amusement.

Morella—beautiful, sweet Morella—with her long, shining hair and her heart shaped face, had been sold to her almost a month prior from an adjacent country where disease hadn’t taken root. She was clean and soft and young. Prospera had kept her naïve just for this celebration. Breaking her in alone felt selfish, even by her standards. Felix reminded her of a skittish, spooked animal, but that stood at odds with its Elvish height and lean build. An idea clicked in Prospera’s mind and she gestured for the pair to stand side by side in front of her. 

“Now, Felix,” she addressed it first and relished the way its face bloomed red in anticipation. Morella shifted her weight from foot to foot as she regarded Prospera. “Tell our guests what you think of sweet Morella.”

Felix glanced curiously at Prospera before taking in the sight of Morella draped in her sheer finery. It was easy to discern how much her body pleased it. Its face flushed a deeper red and it averted its gaze after drinking the sight of her in for a few long moments. 

“She is very pleasing, Your Highness,” Felix murmured in a voice soft and gentle like distant bells. 

“Is that all you have to say?” Prospera did not care for whatever it thought; she only wanted to probe with her words and watch it squirm under the pressure of dozens of eyes.

Felix shifted with discomfort and cast its gaze around the surrounding crowd. The guests were growing impatient along with Prospera. They wanted to see blood—tales of her parties had spread far and wide. They did not want to leave without witnessing some of her infamous cruelty firsthand. 

“Very well,” Prospera huffed and took Morella by the wrist. She dug her thumb into Morella’s tender flesh hard enough to elicit a whine from her and it sounded heavenly to her ears. 

It did not take much pressure for Morella to submit to Prospera’s will and this is how it always had been in the case of her playthings. Prospera pushed firmer until Morella sank to her knees, her mouth opened in a silent cry of agony. After much practice over dozens of courtesans, Prospera knew exactly how to push them and receive the reaction she wanted. Some of them required verbal assistance while others, like Morella, folded under the slightest physical pressure. Prospera fought back a satisfied smile. She would never tire of watching her playthings crumble under her skilled hand. 

Felix stood as if it were a statue as Morella knelt before Prospera. Its face was wrecked with conflict. It knew there was no escape from Prospera’s household, but it might have been imagining it. 

“What are you thinking now, Felix?” Prospera turned to it and kept her hand tightly around Morella’s wrist like a manacle. “Would you like to rescue this maiden—take her far from this palace and claim her yourself? I would not blame you. Her cries are like a soprano’s melody.”

Felix shook its head hesitantly, unsure what the princess wanted to hear. This too was part of the fun. Prospera loved watching her things wrestle with the right words to say, whether those words would save them or condemn them to a worse fate. They rarely understood nothing would rescue them. Their fates were sealed the moment they entered Prospera’s collection. 

“Take her face in your hands. And don’t make me repeat myself,” she snapped and backed away from the teary-eyed Morella. 

Felix approached her, grateful for a task, and it cradled Morella’s face in its large hands, gentle as it handled her. They painted a nice picture there in the center of the dancefloor, two pure angels in a sea of monsters. Felix dragged its thumbs over the contours of Morella’s face, tracing her high cheekbones, her bow shaped lips, and the slight divot in her chin. It looked as though it was committing her to memory. 

“Push your fingers into her mouth,” Prospera ordered and her sharp voice cut through the music surrounding them and the quiet between the pair. “Go inside of her like her mouth is a cunt—wet and hot. That is all she is.”

Felix glanced towards Prospera, its lips parting like it might protest, before obeying. It proceeded slowly, taking the time to lovingly part Morella’s lips and trace her teeth inside. This was not what Prospera had envisioned and she could see a few figures in the audience drifting away. This would not do. 

Before they could embarrass her further with their reluctance, Prospera approached Felix and held its chin in an iron grip. 

“I told you to fuck her face like her mouth is a cunt,” she hissed and relished in the way its face fell.

When Prospera glanced up at the surrounding onlookers, she spotted Galar. She longed to see his expression at that moment. Was he pleased with her display? How far did he expect her to push them? Lord Abyrford’s concubine clung to his side and Prospera almost left Felix and Morella to investigate. The dim lighting prevented her from seeing the pair clearly, but she watched as he groped her breasts while watching the display. Prospera blinked hard and returned her attention to Felix. Her eyes dropped between its legs where its cock was still dormant and uneasy. Without a second thought, Prospera grasped it at the base and squeezed so hard its knees began to buckle. 

“Do it,” she demanded and Felix relented. 

It pushed two of its long, thin fingers into Morella’s waiting mouth and Prospera neglected to release it from her tight grip. The further it probed, the harder Prospera held it. She could feel the rush of blood and the subsequent swelling, the hardening of its cock. It’s easily excitable, then, she thought, like an unruly dog.

Prospera glanced at the audience and found Galar pinching and twisting the wide nipples of his chosen plaything. The concubine writhed within his hands. She wondered if it was pain or pleasure Galar liked better. Her jaw tightened and so did her grip on Felix’s cock. Prospera would not be distracted by her petty jealousies, not with her reputation under such scrutiny. 

Felix’s face flushed a deep, ashamed red as Prospera coaxed its cock to life. It was fully stiff in her hand now and the tip weeped sticky, translucent arousal. Prospera swiped some of it up on her thumb and snickered when Felix shuddered. She pushed the soiled thumb into Morella’s mouth alongside Felix’s two fingers. Morella looked as though she was made for kneeling and swallowing whatever was given to her. Her wide, large eyes swam with tears as Felix delved deeper, reaching past her tongue and forcing her to gag. The tears were inevitable, but Prospera preferred to imagine they stemmed from humiliation. 

The audience began to circle closer, surrounding Prospera and her toys while concealing them from the bustling dance floor around them. Some of them remarked on the courtesans’ bodies while others softly urged Prospera to force more out of them. She found she had to agree. This night was for her, after all. Why not spend it doing the things she loved the most?

“Enough of that,” Prospera said and waved a hand. She released Felix’s cock without warning and bit back a smile when it instantly covered itself with spit-slicked hands. Morella remained on her knees while Felix cowered at her side. They refused to look each other in the eye. 

She decided she wanted to watch Felix fuck Morella on the floor. It would be a fitting show for the two whores to put on, writhing on the filthy dancefloor for all eyes to see. She could ask, which was quite simple and anticlimactic, or she could threaten. A threat would bring tears and pleading and a certain desperation difficult to find elsewhere. 

“Morella, hands and knees,” she commanded with no elaboration and the dark-haired beauty complied without protest. 

Prospera went to Felix’s side and dragged her manicured nails along its narrow shoulders. Her touch left gooseflesh in its wake. “Would you like to fuck her in front of all these people?”

Felix blinked at her and swallowed hard before averting its eyes. “What?”

Prospera scoffed. Her hand itched to hold its cock again in that tight, painful grip.

“What?” she mocked and looked to the crowd as though she were letting them in on a joke which featured Felix as the punchline. “Answer my question. I know you’re intelligent enough to understand me, whore.”

An unattractive grimace shaped Felix’s mouth and it regarded Morella who remained dutifully on the floor. Then, it glanced at the audience. Prospera couldn’t help but follow its gaze and she noticed how eager the crowd appeared. 

“Yes,” it spat as though it loathed being under so much scrutiny. 

“Address me properly,” she reprimanded.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Prospera struggled to recall where she had acquired this specimen. All of her playthings had the same few things in common. They had loved ones—families, children, lovers, and friends. Perhaps they were awaiting their return or they had moved on, her whores had no way of knowing. So it was quite easy to hold them over their heads. 

Prospera’s nails trailed down Felix’s rounded shoulders, drifting to its arms, before exploring its hips. “Your family,” she began. Her guess proved accurate when Felix’s face fell and it glanced at her quickly before its eyes darted away. Prospera caught the unsettled horror there. “I can do things you couldn’t possibly begin to dream of if you don’t do your job, darling.” Prospera gestured to the audience and their hungry, greedy expressions before she continued, “It would be such a shame if all my friends arrived only to have their entertainment ruined because of one spoiled brat. Do you want to be the child who ruins my party? I do not think you do, Felix, my love.”

Felix relented and dipped its head in perfect, submissive obedience. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Prospera left its side and stood near Morella. How she loathed to be questioned, especially in front of her guests. If they were alone, she’d have it whipped. She refused to look upon her spectators’ faces. Despite the masques concealing their true thoughts, Prospera could almost hear the whispering. In her barely constrained aggravation, Prospera kicked Morella in the side hard enough to force a shrill gasp from her. When she did not fall, another kick came soon after, and Morella cowered against the waxed floor. She was a vision of incomparable beauty as she coughed and curled in on herself. 

“You have questioned me in public, Felix, and I would be remiss as your owner if I didn’t teach you a lesson. This palace is my kingdom, and you will learn the rules. Morella will face the consequences for your loose tongue—and you will be her tormentor.”

Prospera inhaled through her nose, willing herself to calm, but her pulse hammered in her throat with excitement. A premature satisfaction welled up within her. It was too soon—Felix might still resist and embarrass her further, but she loved beating a dog into obedience. The audience chattered with infectious excitement as they looked on. This scene would be one of many incredible things planned for what she hoped would become an unforgettable night. 

When Felix continued to stare at Morella in a shocked stupor, Prospera scoffed and snapped her fingers in front of its slack face. “Beat her,” she demanded. “Beat her or I will hire a mercenary to slaughter your family. Or perhaps I’ll have them exposed to the Red Death and you can watch them huddle against the gates like the rest of the infected. When I exile you from my grounds, penniless, orphaned, there will be nowhere for you to go and you will rot in some ditch in the countryside.”

Felix watched Morella struggle to pick herself up and disbelief flooded its features. “Your Highness—”

“Do not waste my time, Felix. You have until five. One, two, three—”

Prospera’s firm tone seemed to jar it from its stunned state and it glanced one final time at the onlookers, taking in their voracious excitement and greed. If it didn’t perform as requested, Prospera would likely have to be involved very little in its punishment, as the guests thirsted for blood. A muscle in Felix’s jaw tweaked and it approached Morella. 

Prospera thought she heard it whisper, I’m sorry. Morella, sweet Morella who looked like she’d never been hit before, was unprepared for the first blow. Felix kicked her in the same fashion Prospera did, aiming for the side of her ribs, and it did not look like it pulled its hit. The first impact drew the crowd closer and Prospera felt a pleased smile stretch across her face. Felix’s expression was wrecked with conflict but it did not stop. Fear for its family or whoever it still cared for possessed it and forced it to do whatever Prospera bid. This is how things ought to be, Prospera thought, the natural order of the world.

Morella did not last very long before she began to plead in a sweet and tender voice. Her words were haggard and though she begged, Felix did not relent. As it kicked her, Morella’s voice became difficult to understand. Blood spotted her lips. That gentle, timid voice hitched up into a new pitch Prospera was unfamiliar 

Suffering brought discovery and Prospera would never tire from witnessing all the things pain could unearth. At some point, Felix stopped, panting as it looked to the princess for approval, and Morella sobbed in a heap on the floor. Her accusing eye bounced between Prospera, Felix, and the growing crowd, blood and saliva dribbling from a split lip.

Prospera looked around, seeking out the eye of a servant, and began snapping when one didn’t immediately respond. 

“I want a chair,” she said, speaking to the servant as she looked down the bridge of her nose. “Bring one large enough for the tall one to recline in. I want it to be comfortable.”

A large, ornate chair with a wide cushioned seat and curling arm rests was procured and brought to Prospera’s corner of the ballroom. The soprano from earlier now sang a haunting melody which filled the room and wove its way through every echoing rafter. With a wordless snap of her fingers, Felix followed the order to Sit in the chair. 

Its thighs pressed together in an attempt to cover its cock while its arms crossed over its smooth stomach and hairless chest. Morella knelt on the ground not far from Felix’s feet, slightly more composed but looking anxious, as if she were starting to see the cracks in the china. Many of her staff learned too late that life at Camsir was far too good to be true for people like them. 

Prospera flagged another servant, this one serving flutes of sparkling white wine and she cleared her throat, “I wanted to thank everyone for attending in support of my vision. I know things have been hard since my father the King’s passing, but I know that this is what he would want for me, for you, his loyal subjects whom he served until the very end. He announced the construction of Camsir for my eighteenth name day, almost one year after the Red Death came to Ascana, because he wanted me to be safe and happy and immediately I knew what I wanted this place to be. I had a vision, one where people like me could celebrate their interests and to find reprieve from the sick. Kingsport, as many of you know, has been overrun by the sick and my uncle loses more of his court every day.

“But, here,” she said, raising her flute, “we are safe. My palace has been free from plague since its doors opened almost two years ago. Guests who pass through its doors have never brought sickness to our door, and I believe it is because the gods bless these grounds and our celebration. Too long have we denied ourselves the true pleonexia of our nature. Hedonism is an old and ancient practice. Do not be ashamed tonight. Indulge how you might please. As for the courtesans, my beautiful whores… On your feet, Morella.” 

To her credit, Morella followed the order promptly, pushing herself up on shaking elbows. When she got to her feet, Prospera saw that Morella’s dress was torn in several places and one of her breasts spilled from its constraints, a brown nipple slipping from the bodice. She shook violently, like a wet cat or something equally pathetic, as she stood there, waiting for the princess’s next command.

“Mount it,” Prospera said.

For a moment, there was no movement. Then, just as Prospera found her patience sapped, Morella shuffled toward Felix, her face flushed a delicious pink with her eyes trained on the ground. 

The surrounding crowd held their collective breath as Morella wrapped her soft arms around Felix’s shoulders and crawled into its lap, straddling its thighs. If Prospera hadn’t already chastised the two for their dawdling she might have called out a cue for Morella; her purpose in Prospera’s court was to perform and be beautiful and without the promise of true virginity lost, Morella’s act of inexperience held no true appeal. The only thing saving the girl from Propsera’s ire was the clear humiliation coloring Morella’s cheeks while she stumbled through the movements. 

Once Morella was seated on Felix’s lap, its cock jutting up behind her ass, Prospera slowly circled the chair. Some in the crowd leered and whispered while others watched in silent anticipation. Everyone’s masques made their reactions to the display difficult to read. For some, only their mouths were partially exposed, revealing hungry smiles and wine-stained lips. Others donned masques which only showed their eyes, narrowed and focused, intent on taking in the visual feast Prospera presented them with. 

“Don’t act like you have never seen a cock before,” Prospera leered, leaning close to Morella’s ear as the girl shook. 

Felix hesitantly held Morella’s waist as she began to rise. Prospera reached for the base of its cock with no warning and she guided it to Morella’s entrance. 

“These are stubborn toys,” Prospera told the crowd and left the chair in favor of facing her guests. Felix gingerly attempted to push itself into Morella’s cunt. She was not wet enough, probably dry with her own shame, and her face screwed up in pain. Still the two of them persisted. “But there are ways to remedy that.”

Prospera glanced behind her and met Morella’s eyes. The girl had the tip of Felix’s cock in her cunt but made no move to sink down further. Her gaze was wrecked with conflict. Perhaps she was debating the consequences of denying Prospera her fun, considering the sear as she was forced down.

“Felix—!” she said, snapping her fingers, and it flinched in the seat. “Get her wet.”

If she had more time and if her courtesans had not wasted what little patience she had, Prospera would force Felix to fuck her dry, but the crowd was already growing restless. They needed to see the real suffering they were promised and that had nothing to do with Morella’s physical discomfort.

Felix lowered a hand and began toying with Morella’s clit. Morella tucked her face in Felix’s shoulder, hiding from the prying eyes surrounding them, and Prospera only allowed it because the girl began slowly sinking down onto Felix’s cock. An expression of disbelief and desire struck Felix’s face as she clenched around it before the reality of its desire returned. Prospera only allowed Morella a few more moments of adjustment before she raised her voice once more. 

“Morella, darling. Ride it like you mean it,” Prospera said and sipped from her flute of wine. “Give my guests a worthwhile show, or I’ll send you to the kennels where perhaps the kennel master can teach you some obedience.”

Morella braced her hands on Felix’s shoulders and exhaled. As her breath left her, she inched further down Felix’s shaft. Her fair face was blotchy with a humiliated blush and her eyes swam with tears. As Felix rubbed her clit, she shook and sank lower, never staring at one place for longer than a few moments. 

“This is what they are here for,” Prospera addressed the crowd and swept her hand across the display  unfolding before them. “Beautiful creatures performing for our entertainment and our entertainment alone.”

A murmur shot through the crowd and the low voices of the onlookers took an excited tone. Morella’s face was wrought with shame and unease. It was such an important lesson for her to learn at her age—-how else would she learn her place in the world? Tears streamed down her cheeks in rivulets that left tracks in her powdered face and ran her mascara. Prospera approached the pair and pushed down on Morella’s shoulder until her ass was flush with Felix’s thighs, fully tucking its cock within her. The movement was abrupt and without warning and it forced a pained cry from Morella’s throat. 

Once Prospera was content with her pets’ behavior, she faced the gathering crowd again. Galar was closer now, holding his chosen whore with a large hand around her neck. As Prospera stared at him, he met her eyes and grinned before pinching the concubine’s nipple. 

Prospera averted her gaze and attempted to shake off her nerves. Performance anxiety was out of the question for her. She thrived in her palace, at her parties. Everything should be perfect. Everything was perfect. But perhaps there was something else at play here. Petty jealousy, which at first seemed out of the question for the princess, who had never desired something and not obtained it. 

“Now, sweet Morella will ride like this is the only thing she will ever do. In a way, this is all her life means,” Prospera continued and tore her eyes from Galar and his long fingers toying with the woman’s nipple. She reached out and took a curl of Morella’s hair in her hand, winding it around her manicured finger. “She could be rotting in some rural brothel, abused by traveling men, or trapped in a loveless, fruitless marriage. But she found herself in my care instead. Aren’t you grateful, my sweet Morella?”

It took her playthings a few long moments to realize Prospera was speaking to them. Now, they found themselves locked in the performance. Despite Morella’s tears, she seemed intent on making it believable and she bounced erratically on Felix’s dick. Its head rolled back with its face bloomed with embarrassed heat. Pleasure clearly spiked through them—it showed on both of their faces despite their best efforts. Felix continuously worried its lower lip between its teeth and the flush adorning its high cheekbones was the fault of arousal as much as it was humiliation. Morella remained tear stricken but even that could not hide the soft noises escaping her. 

“Morella,” Prospera said again, drawing out the vowels of her name, letting them roll off her tongue with a heavy dose of venom. “Aren’t you grateful for all I have done for you?”

The courtesan sniffled and nodded, the crown of her head nearly tucked under Felix’s head, but Prospera deserved more than that.

“Answer me, darling. I know you can. I wouldn’t allow a simpleton in my court, now, would I?”

Morella’s jaw tightened, a tear dripping from her chin to her small chest, and the look that passed between the two was filled with a thousand unspoken words. The princess knew she had won when Morella breathed in and let it go, her eyes fluttering shut. Not that the princess had expected anything different. Sweet Morella was well domesticated and someone clearly trained her well in her youth. Whatever Prospera desired, she would have. 

Morella slowed in her riding, blood smearing across the expanse of Felix’s pale thighs, and held Prospera’s gaze. “I am grateful, Your Highness.”

Prospera felt a warm, satisfied smile take over her expression and she reached out to stroke the girl’s cheek. “I can’t imagine what others would do to you if they had the chance,” she mocked and clicked her tongue. She tilted her head, looking over her shoulder, catching sight of handsome Galar in the corner of her eye. “Say—what will you all do when I release them? On a night such as tonight, my playthings are to be shared, and after this display, Felix and sweet Morella will both be available.”

The excited chatter crescendoed again and Prospera grinned. “In the spirit of hedonism, nothing is off the table. Damage, so long as it is temporary or fixable, is encouraged. I only ask that you leave them intact and alive.”

Some in the crowd touted their desires, bragging on how they would enjoy rendering Morella into a mouth and hole. Others focused on Felix. They honed in on its Elvish heritage and expressed how they longed to break it even further. Prospera prided herself on filling her home with such understanding, like-minded individuals.

Her depravity reigned supreme, but she was not alone in it. 

Prospera returned her attention to Felix and Morella. “Ride it—ride Felix like it’s nothing but a body. That is all the two of you are. You became your cunt and your cock the moment you arrived here. Show me how grateful you are and give these kind people a show worth coming here for. Do well, please me, and you’ll be rewarded… Loyalty always is in my court.”

Morella held Prospera’s gaze before her mouth contorted into a thin frown. Felix appeared elsewhere—its eyes glazed over in that intoxicating mixture of pleasure and overwhelming humiliation. Addressing the princess must have been impossible at that moment. 

Prospera stepped back to observe as Morella lifted herself before slamming down, the contact of her skin on Felix’s a sharp, staccato note that seemed to cut through the music. Heads turned and faces focused on the display in the center of the dance floor as Morella established a steady pace. Her thighs shook as she moved and it became clear she would not last long mounting Felix like this. 

“Felix,” Prospera purred. “If you’re going to let the girl do all the work, then at least tell the crowd what it’s like to fuck one of my prized toys. You’re very lucky, you know. I don’t usually allow my playthings to defile each other like this.”

Felix’s face burned.

“She’s tight, Your Highness. Keeps pulsing around me while she,” Felix sucked in a sharp breath as Morella ground her hips down and began to roll her hips, “rides my dick. It’s an honor to use her, Your Highness. You have exquisite taste.”

She reached out and touched its cheek, her fingers itching to reach back and slap it again. Perhaps she’d take her gloves off and allow for a real sting. Or maybe the silk and her gold rings were heavy enough. Loud enough for the crowd to hear her, Prospera said, “Perhaps a guest might join me. She has an available hole, afterall.” Her eyes scanned the crowd, picking through the shades of ruby and raspberry. “Duke Usher? Yes, Your Grace, why don’t you come forward? ”

A middle aged gentleman came forward, a dark glint in his pewter eyes. Duke Usher was an austere man with devilish tastes but they had a long history. As a girl, he’d informed her darker sexual tastes and provided her with the literature and experiences that only developed them. When she felt ready to strike out on her own, it was Duke Usher’s elder sister who had provided a guiding hand, teaching her all of the terrible ways she could hurt someone or humiliate them beyond repair. 

Prospera smiled at him pleasantly, allowing him to take her hand and kiss the back of her glove as he bowed. 

“You honor me, Your Highness,” said Duke Usher.

“You can have her ass or her hole. Felix will occupy the other. As I said, damage is encouraged. Hurt either of them. I don’t care. Just have fun and put on a good show for the others, won’t you, Roderick?”

“Of course,” he said, flipping loose the outer buttons of his pants before unlacing his inner breeches. “As  you command it, Princess, so shall it be.”

Lord Usher spat in his hand, taking his fat cock into his hand, and came up behind Morella. He began by stroking the soft, smooth expanse of her back, his fingers grazing her sides as she moved on the other courtesan’s cock. She was unmarred by any pox or scarring, and Lord Usher’s fascination with it was clear. His lips came to her shoulder and he attached his lips to her neck as he put his cock in her ass. 

Morella screamed. For the first time, she well and truly screamed in agony as Lord Usher entered her. Whatever preparations she’d done before the ball had clearly not been enough to accommodate his girth or with so little lubrication. 

The princess melted back into the crowd, easily blending in with the others once the focus was off her and on the show. In her red dress and masque, she was just another guest indulging in a night of hedonistic celebration. She moved through the crowd approaching Galar and the concubine. 

Galar had Lord Abyrford’s mistress bent over the table, the skirt of her garnet red dress pushed to her hips. She’d forgone drawers, electing only for the chemise and corset, which gave Galar ample access to inspect her cunt. He towered over her, bigger and taller and looking in every way like he could crush her underfoot like a cockroach. He poked and prodded at the concubine, parting her labia to inspect the clitorus  and her pulsing entrance. 

He looked back at her as if sensing her approach and tilted his head. “Nice whore,” he said.

Behind her, she heard the violent sounds of Morella’s sobs and the smacking of skin against skin. Prospera snorted. “She’s not mine. That’s a duke’s kept mistress.”

Galar paused, contemplating this, but stuck finger inside her hole, one knuckle, then two deep. Lord Abyrford’s concubine moaned, tilting her hips to try and access a better angle. 

“It would be inconsiderate of him to bring his mistress to an orgy and find sharing her disagreeable.”

“I don’t disagree. But there are better things you could be doing with your time than inspecting a common whore.”

“Such as?”

“Come with me,” she said, stepping closer. She again yearned for magic, but she was a human with no gift; if it were hers, she would read the signs of Galar’s body, the ones her eyes could not see. “I want you tonight.”

Galar hummed and pulled his fingers free. He wiped them on his trousers and said, “Lead the way, Princess.”

III.

“This way,” she murmured and led him away from the main festivities. Once hidden from prying, curious eyes, Prospera relaxed and guided Galar toward a service passage used by the household staff. At the end of the hall, there was a linen closet with removable shelves. She didn’t use this entry often but it was the closet to the ballroom. Prospera stepped aside, waiting for Galar to clear the space out, which revealed a low door and the hidden passage beyond. 

“Why am I not surprised to see you with secrets? Just  how many of these do you have, Princess?” Galar’s voice echoed in the tight passage, radiating with dry amusement. Prospera couldn’t put her finger on his tone. Did he approve? Was he judging her? It was impossible to discern what his thoughts were. 

Eventually, she replied, “Several,” and continued up the narrow stairwell tucked within the walls. 

Galar hummed thoughtfully and stepped closer. He was near enough she could feel the heat emanating from his body, the sweet scent of his sweat and cologne. The plague doctor’s black beak occasionally dipped into her peripheral vision, bobbing in and out of view. 

Prospera’s main suite was equipped to handle any of her fleeting interests or time consuming hobbies. Comfortable chairs for her to occupy while she practiced needle work, a bay window which provided plenty of light for her art—this room was one of the first she designed. Household staff were not allowed inside unless they had proven themselves trustworthy. She preferred most of her lovers or slaves to be taken in her tower, where she kept most of her instruments and toys. The separation kept things in neat boxes and within her control.

Galar should be flattered he was chosen for such an occasion. She knew his father Lord Velen would delight in her attending to one of his children. Yes, they’d always had a son, hadn’t they? The main suite was large enough that it housed a grand vanity carved from the rosewood sourced in the surrounding forest, a massive bed with a frame constructed with the same wood and a thick mattress of goosefeathers. The covers were thick and dark to retain heat and a fireplace presently smoldered at the opposite side of the room. The waning moon shone through the red stained glass windows dominating the wall which her bed was tucked against. Galar stood near the fireplace now and stared at the flaring embers within. 

Light cast from the stained glass bathed the room in a bloody glow. It made Galar’s masque look as though he had plunged it beak deep within a carcass and feasted upon the festering organs within. 

Prospera traced the outline of his profile as he stood statue still. A new sense of unease washed over her like she’d been doused in frigid water. Determined to snap her out of her unnatural anxiety, Prospera approached Galar and reached for his chest

Galar observed her impassively. She undid the first button of his shirt, but decided other matters were more worth her time. She reached for his masque. Though she could not see his eyes, Prospera felt the weight of his gaze crawling over her. She speculated on the color of his eyes and trailed her hands down the front of his fine shirt, running her fingers over the cold, silver buttons with his family’s crest, the cross potent emblazoned in polished iron. House Velen. Lord Velen was a religious man, wasn’t he? A pious man, a worshiper of the old gods. He thought prayer could drive Plague away. Did his son think the same?

Galar spoke after a period of tense silence. “Tell me, Princess—have you enjoyed your festivities tonight?” 

Hearing him speak without seeing his face was a vaguely unsettling experience. Prospera stared up at the hollow pits where his eyes should be.

“Will you take the masque off?” Prospera answered with a question of her own.

Galar scoffed, though he sounded more amused than anything else. “And what is it you wish to do?”

Prospera was tiring of Galar’s attempts to banter—if that was his intention. 

“I would like to see your face,” she said and removed the masque. 

Galar’s face looked troubled, but his expression did little to distort his handsome face. His skin was fair, if not a bit pale, and marked with a swirling constellation of freckles. His eyes were a pitch black Prospera did not expect and his piercing gaze held her in place like tar. A shock of curling red hair fell over his forehead when Prospera pulled the masque away and set it on a side table. 

Galar did not speak for a few long moments. “You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

Without the masque muffling his voice, Galar sounded confident, far more sure of himself. His accent was easier to discern as well—a drawl from the Northern Isles, heavy on the tongue and thick in one’s throat. Prospera felt more of that unease rush forth from deep within her. It felt as though a great dam had withheld her gut instincts and finally her reason, her usually sharp instincts, was returning. 

“How do I know you?” 

There was something about Galar’s stare that was beginning to make her skin crawl. Looking into his black irises for more than a few moments felt overwhelming and it was impossible to study him as closely as she wanted. 

“Your influence is difficult to escape,” he said and paid her questioning no mind. “I hear how the commonfolk speak of you in the villages where they pile their dead in mounds. Their opinion of you… let’s just say it’s not kind.”

“What are you talking about?”

Prospera was not unintelligent; she knew what the commonfolk said about her. She did little to maintain her reputation. But why did Galar, son of Lord Velen, care?

Galar ignored her and continued, pacing around the room. “Then this masquerade—I heard about it in a tavern east of the Fel. I didn’t have to ask where you lived. I just had to follow their hate. God, it was delicious. I could taste the vitriol when they gathered at your gates. Your disdain for them was almost equally as pleasing.”

Then, Galar glanced at her, and Prospera realized the odd quality in his eyes was absence. There was nothing there, no soul, nothing but deep darkness. The sclera hardly existed. If Prospera stepped close enough, she would see her face reflected in the watery mirror of his black eye.

He was the presence at the gate. She had felt him then, but had not seen him; but he stood before her now, something happening to his deceptively handsome face. High cheekbones shifted slightly, moving under his skin, and he took in great shuddering breaths. Prospera stumbled back, her gloved hand reaching to cover her mouth, and balled her fists as the monstrosity in front of her began to unfold.

“Princess,” Galar said and his voice was no longer his own; it deepened, darkened, distorted into something old and formidable. “You have spent enough time hiding from my plague. It is time you look it in the eye.”

Galar stepped toward her and Prospera felt frozen in place, glued to the ground as it were, in a way that hinted at a darker magic. There was an odd pleasure in his shifting features that told Prospera this was not an attack solely in the name of justice or vengeance. If he pursued justice, he also pursued pleasure. Galar delighted in pain and misery just as much if not more than she; this realization, more than anything else, horrified her. 

When Galar reached her and slid his hands over her shoulders, Prospera felt the phantom presence of insects burrowing within her skin, buzzing in her eardrums and eating away at her flesh. Just looking upon his face nauseated her. The bones constructing his features began to morph again in a way that left him unrecognizable until the movements settled. Then, he looked eerily similar to the pale, gaunt faces gathered at her gate. 

Fear for her life gripped her heart and still she could only muster regret for being caught. The main entrance to her suite was too far for her to reach if she darted for it and Prospera cursed her tight corset and restrictive sleeves. If she screamed, who would hear her? Who would part from their drink or dance or partner to come for her? Screams of pain were even more common than that of pleasure in her home. Fuck, they were encouraged. Even through the walls, the music bled into the space and she knew she would go unheard. 

“Stand down,” she hissed and thrashed within his grasp. Galar sneered down at her before pushing his face against her crook of her neck to taste her fluttering pulse. His teeth gnashed against her skin, his mouth hot and wet. “Get off of me!”

Her demands went unheeded and Galar gripped her waist over the corset as he dragged his new lips over the strained tendons in her neck. Now, Prospera felt a fresh sense of desperation to escape. She had never been refused before, especially like this, and she pushed against Galar’s firm chest to no avail.

“Please,” she whined, legs thrashing, and Galar continued to ignore her in favor of concentrating on her neck. 

His mouth invaded her skin, teeth grazing over her feverish neck even deeper, his hot tongue tracing her arteries, and his hands kept her contained in a vice grip. The feeling of his lips on her was pleasant, stimulating as he drifted across her carotid and lathed his tongue over her pulse. It was not something Prospera wanted to enjoy and she thought of her playthings without intending to. Was this similar to how they felt when she directed them to harm each other for her entertainment? No matter—their punishment for neglecting to help her would be unlike anything they had ever seen. As Galar violated Prospera, she thought of all the ways she would get back at her household as though her survival was guaranteed. 

Galar slipped his hands around to the back of her bodice before locating its fastenings. With swift expertise, he unlaced her stays and pulled the garment free. It slipped from her body, revealing her corset and chemise, and before the bejeweled article could hit the ground, Galar moved on to strip her of her underthings, too. Everything felt as though it happened within the blink of an eye and still, some stubborn side of Prospera refused to believe it was happening. An invisible pair of strings held her perfectly still, perfectly poised. She remained in the scraps of her chemise, but she wouldn’t cave so easily.

Finally, he backed away from her neck and stared vacantly at her while wearing a new face. This time, his features continued rapidly shifting, almost too quickly for Prospera to keep up. 

“What are you? You’re no lord’s son.” 

Galar grinned and his face settled back to what he introduced himself as. He flashed her a dashing, disarming smile that made her skin prickle with want. Again, she felt the imagined march of insects over her skin. The room felt as though the temperature had picked up and she glanced curiously at the fireplace. Somehow, it was lit and burning slowly. Beads of nervous sweat glimmered on her exposed skin where her fine gown had been torn. 

“Something you don’t understand. Couldn’t possibly, if you tried,” he answered and his wicked grin stretched across his face. “Give in, Princess.”

“To what?” Her voice was beginning to sound as strained as her sanity felt. She mulled over the likelihood of her being poisoned or breathing in too much smoke, but this felt jarringly real in a way nothing had for years. The more time she spent in Galar’s presence, the more she realized she had spent the plague in a stagnant state, waiting for something to happen. “Tell me what you are.”

Galar grabbed her hard now, sharp nails digging into her soft waist, and a cry tore through her throat. She sounded terribly similar to the playthings she personally tortured. Humiliating. Without minding her torn gown, Galar threw her onto the plush bed and laughed when her legs became entangled in the remnants of her skirts. 

“Are you familiar with the tongue of the Northern Isles?” When she shook her head no, Galar clucked his tongue. “You ought to. You’ve occupied the land for quite some time, but there’s always time for that to change, especially in today’s climate. An rud a thig gu dona falbhaidh e leis a ghaoith. You’ve made yourself into their god, Princess, but do you deserve it in your ignorance?”

Prospera attempted to scramble off of the bed, but he was too quick and far too strong. He held her wrists and bound them to her ornate bedframe before doing the same with her ankles. 

Although he made no moves to strip her of her remaining clothes, Galar produced a blade from a hostler at his side. Prospera eyed the sharp weapon and had no idea how it had escaped her notice. 

“Please,” she begged and knew there would be no mercy. Galar’s face took on an eager smile and his black eyes were alight with instability. He was a demon, she was sure, from Hell. Nothing else could be so horrific, so devoid of light.

Galar leaned over her as she laid helpless and spread-eagle on top of her fine bedding. His face was handsome to the point of being disarming and despite everything that had happened, Prospera found herself stretching up to hear his soft voice if he deigned to speak. Those dark, vacant eyes reminded her of his plague doctor’s masque, just as empty as the hollow pits she first saw. 

“You cannot stop this, Princess. I am Plague. Do you see now? This palace was never going to protect you. See, see how easily I enter you now,” he said, soft and low, before clamping a wide hand over her face, pinching shut her nose. 

Prospera gasped in shock and Galar immediately captured her mouth in a kiss, wasting no time before forcing his tongue in between her teeth. One of his thumbs pushed into her mouth to hold her jaw open. When she attempted to bite through his tongue, Galar held her teeth apart with his fingers and turned his head to force himself deeper. It happened in the span of a heartbeat and it still felt like the most violating thing she had ever experienced. Prospera found herself shuddering and gasping underneath him and could not determine when he had caged her against the bed with his body. 

It felt as though he was invading her in every sense of the word. His tongue probed, fingers pried, and Prospera thrashed within her restraints in vain. Raising words against him was out of the question with her mouth so thoroughly occupied and so she could do little more than writhe desperately.

Finally, he pulled away after what felt like an eternity and he beheld her face, wracked with torment. 

“Princess,” he crooned. “This is no different than what you’ve put your courtesans through.” Before she could answer, he abruptly tore the neckline of her chemise down to reveal her bare chest. 

Galar regarded her with an air of barely suppressed desire. There was a distasteful lift in his smile and she knew then he did not view her as a person. There was nothing she could do or say to convince him to take a different approach.

For the first time, Prospera began to suspect she might not make it out of this alive, though she refused to directly confront this possibility. 

When Prospera remained stubbornly, fearfully silent, Galar’s wry smile distorted into a grimace and he grabbed her breast hard enough the pain lingered long after his hand departed. It was an ache that throbbed deep within the tissue and she knew it would leave an ugly bruise. Her nipples caught his attention next and somehow, it felt more invasive when he touched her there. Galar began gently, coaxing the soft buds into stiff peaks with reverent touches. He withheld from groping her just long enough to force her into a desperate state. 

Prospera’s face erupted in an angry flush and she once again tugged uselessly at the restraints. “You have no place doing this,” she spat. All of her movements only served to draw attention to her naked chest. 

Galar snickered and repositioned himself, sitting on the edge of the bed. He still wore his luxurious shirt and breeches while the plague doctor’s masque watched them from its place on the table. Galar studied Prospera as she squirmed. His decision to remain clothed made her feel lesser in a sharp, acute way that felt like a hot blade driven into the very core of her, the center of her being. It soon became too overwhelming to continue maintaining eye contact. When Prospera lowered her gaze, she noticed Galar held the blade which had been tucked against his thigh, idly passing it from hand to hand. 

“What are you going to do with that?” 

Galar glanced at the dagger and let out an exasperated sigh. “What do you think, Princess? You’re selfish and vain, but you’re not stupid. Tell me. What do you think I intend to do?”

Prospera felt a fresh wave of nausea wash over her. It felt impossible to tear her eyes away from the flashing blade. The stained glass windows cast Galar’s face in a deep crimson hue. Prospera could barely see the light reflected in his eyes.

“I think you’re going to cut me with it. Infect me with the plague, if you haven’t already. This is an assassination, isn’t it? Did my uncle send you? What are you—a changeling for hire?”

Galar laughed. “A changeling? No, no, though I would love to see what the Fair Folk would do with you, given your own taste for blood. I’m far older than a changeling, Princess. I’ve told you what I am. I am Galar. I am Plague. I have no interest in political assassinations, though I may pay your uncle a visit when I am done here. He too thinks he is safe from my reach.”

He reached down, tucking a stray piece of her hair behind her ear.

“No, darling. I want to see the face you make when you realize there is nothing you can do—there is no one in this palace who will save you. We might have had fun together, you and I, but I can’t have you hiding away while others suffer, now can I?” Galar moved to straddle Prospera’s hips. His weight pressed her into the bed and she felt more immobilized than ever. “Show me your despair and give yourself to it.”

Prospera clenched her jaw, grit her teeth, and stubbornly held Galar’s gaze. Someone would come for her once they noticed her absence. This was her palace and her masquerade after all. The show could only go on for so long without her making an appearance. Then, she considered the state of the ballroom when she left it. The way the guests were locked together or preoccupied with one of her playthings. How the music had become a distorted, strange iteration of itself. The drugs, the alcohol, the visceral tension. Something wasn’t right.

Galar raised the dagger to Prospera’s face and it glinted with crimson light pouring in from the window. Prospera’s heart seized and crept into her throat. When she attempted to plead for mercy, the words found themselves stuck behind a knot in her throat. Breathing slowly became a painful endeavor as terror took hold of her heart. 

The blade drifted near her jaw—she could not see it, but she felt a miniscule chill in the air despite the fire crackling. Galar’s eyes never left hers and she was flayed by the intensity of his black stare. She was certain he would cut her, starting with her face, skinning her in the same fashion she had heard story of in the Northern Isles. The blade came near her eyes as he traced the high points of her cheekbones with it. Prospera forced herself to be as still as the dead and she held her breath, all too aware of the little movements she made. Galar grinned like a wicked god as he dragged the flat edge of the blade against the planes constructing the exquisite terrain of her face. 

Prospera had trouble hearing anything beyond her thundering heartbeat. Galar murmured something that was lost on her before pulling the blade down her neck. The pressure was feather light and Prospera did not dare to take a breath. The blade traveled lower, over her collarbone, and then it stopped at her chest where Galar idly traced the swell of her breasts with it. 

“You cannot hide from death,” he mused and cut her before she could process his words. 

Prospera gasped like she was inhaling her last breath. She looked down in vain. Galar had slashed the underside of her breast. All she felt was the stinging, searing pain of a shallow wound and the hot blood pouring from the cut. It had been ages since Prospera was injured as severely as this—she’d been a girl, probably, thrown from her horse and her thigh impaled on a sharpened branch—and she was wholly unaccustomed to the pain. 

As Prospera cried and pleaded, Galar set the dagger aside and leaned forward to shush her. “Princess, this wound will not kill you,” he said and kept his voice quiet and firm. “Let’s see if you taste as sweet as you look.”

Then, Galar moved down her body, finally tugging the remainder of her clothing away and cutting through whatever he was too impatient to remove gently. 

As she was rendered nude, Prospera felt a strange sense of relief. She theorized he would have his way with her, cut her as shallow as he had under her breast, and be done with it. She knew some people just liked the sight of blood, that it made them hard or wet. When he left, she would amass her forces and raze the countryside in pursuit of this rapist. She knew how tempting her body was, how it brought people of all walks of life to their knees. She was a continental beauty, a national gem. Through her fear, Prospera did her best to angle her body in the most pleasing way she could think of, squeezing her round thighs together, her chest heaving from the struggle it was to breathe through the stabbing pain there. If she were pretty enough, maybe he’d let her go. That was the agreement women made, wasn’t it?

The blood pooled and finally, she could see the dark blood, old blood, spilling down her sides. Tucked away in a corner of her mind, she pondered on the stain it would leave, ruining the goosefeathers.

Galar dipped his head lower and dragged his tongue across the gash he left under her breast while his hands palmed her tits. The sensation of his wet tongue probing into her pulsing, fresh wound was unlike anything she had ever felt. She let out a sound of pain, something strangled and wild, as she squirmed away. The pain reignited and flared brightly across her consciousness. It throbbed in perfect time with her heartbeat. It was difficult to differentiate between the contrasting feelings that came from every direction. Disgust and fury warred in her chest. Wide, rough hands groped her breasts hard enough to draw fresh tears from her while a wet tongue dragged through her wound. 

It became difficult to remain conscious and Prospera suspected her blood loss was reaching a severe degree. As Prospera felt her grip on the waking world slipping, something wrenched her from sleep’s gentle embrace and forced her back into her horrifying reality. The wound on her chest still stung like it had just been inflicted, but intrinsically she knew the blood had stopped flowing. A blood mage? A plague demon? What monstrosity had made its way into her home?

“I’d like to play with you a while longer,” Galar said and cruel amusement dripped from his tone. Prospera did not think she had ever wanted to harm someone more in her life. He reeked of satisfaction. It was clear in the condescending tone he took with her. 

Prospera experimentally tried to sit up fully and was overcome with vertigo. She fell back onto the covers before glaring daggers into Galar. 

“Do not exhaust yourself, Princess,” Galar remarked and rolled his eyes. When he braced himself over her, she finally saw that his mouth was stained red with her blood. As he caught her looking, he ran his tongue over his teeth and Prospera smelled a rotting death on his breath. 

Instead of reaching for the dagger again, Galar put his mouth on her breast and his hand held her just underneath the barely healed gash. As his tongue expertly circled her stiff nipple, his fingers inched closer to the wound. Splitting her awareness between two things was an impossible task in Prospera’s current state. She was all at once focused and revelling in the slowly building pleasure concentrated on her chest while fearfully anticipating the fingers brushing the scabbing wound. 

Those fingers pushed firmly against the newly formed barrier and broke the skin. Prospera emitted an agonized moan and pressed her eyes shut. Dots danced across her vision like solar flares. Everything was as red as Galar’s hair and as black as his eyes. Prospera weakly pulled against the restraints before relaxing into them. 

Galar leaned away from her chest and now, all she could focus on was the way his hands pulled the gash back open, coaxing more blood and terrible pain from her. Prospera was unaccustomed to magic and had no way of deciphering what pain was real and what was bestowed upon her. Galar plunged his fingers into her gash before pulling them free to paint her blood onto her feverish skin. She was boiling, feverish, in a hell of unique design. Although the ache was immense, she did not succumb to it and remained awake—gripped by the horror of the night’s events. 

“Please, why are you doing this?” Prospera spoke without reservations, no longer seeing the point. She barely understood what she asked as her words slurred together from the sheer agony radiating from her chest. 

Galar did not meet her eyes and instead pinched one of her nipples. He tugged it and held it so tightly between his fingers Prospera lost feeling in it. That numb feeling spread the longer he pinched it and Prospera began to cry once more. 

“Because you look better when you’re crying,” he answered, as though it was the most obvious conclusion to draw. Then, he released her nipple and Prospera shrieked as blood rushed back into the bud. 

Galar slapped her breast with his blood stained hand and Prospera writhed against her covers. Sweat flowed freely from her, borne out of her fear, shame, and the stifling heat in the room. The perspiration on her back caused the blankets to stick to her skin. 

“You’re nothing more than a spoiled little girl, Princess,” he mused before casting the same spell that quickly headed over her wound. The lightheaded feeling subsided and Prospera nearly thanked him in her relief. 

Prospera beheld Galar’s apathetic expression and felt unease well up from some deep recess within her. Looking upon his face made the circumstances difficult to understand. He was too handsome. Associating these actions with such a deceiving face felt wrong and the stubborn part of Prospera refused to accept reality. 

Galar rolled his sleeves over wiry forearms, displaying a dusting of pale gingery hair and more of those endless freckles. Prospera averted her eyes and pointedly watched the fireplace. Flames crackled and reached up to lick the walls of the chimney where it began to stretch up. For so little attention, the fire had grown to be quite large. Sweat trickled down Prospera’s temple and Galar appeared unaffected. 

“You can still choose before I’m finished with you,” he said without elaborating. 

Prospera blinked and swallowed against the knot in her throat. “What?”

Galar held her gaze for a few long moments. “Will you submit?”

Prospera hardened her stare until she was sure she could kill him with a look. Summoning as much saliva as she could muster, she spat in Galar’s face and her face twisted into a snarl.

“Let me go, you fucking beast,” she commmanded, her upper lip curled in disgust.

“Very well,” Galar drawled and again Prospera detected a certain amusement in his voice that made her hair stand on end. 

Before she had a chance to reconsider his offer, Galar’s hand reared back and slammed against her face so hard Prospera felt her skull vibrate. Her face remained turned away as she struggled to snap herself out of her stunned stupor. Who did he think he was? She was a princess, granted the divine right of—

Galar grabbed her jaw and forced her to meet his eyes. All of the sudden movement caused her ears to ring, her aching jaw popped, and just as she managed to focus on his face, Galar hit her again, this time slapping the back of his hand against her cheekbone. The impact was so intense Prospera felt her teeth rattle within her their sockets, the roots aching with strain. Blood trickled in hot rivulets from her mouth and her breath came labored from pain and injury. 

Somehow, the look on Galar’s face was far worse than any of the pain he administered. He was thoroughly enjoying this as though he had been waiting forever for this very moment. 

“Scream all you’d like, Princess,” he sneered and bent forward to drag his tongue along her throbbing face. It felt inhuman and slimy, like a frog. Prospera cried and shuddered while pulling so hard against her restraints she feared her wrists would break. 

When she began to plead, her voice hitched up into some unnatural, high pitch that sounded completely unlike her. “Please! Galar—please,” she barely understood what she was begging for. 

As though he read her mind, Galar leaned down once more and tenderly held her jaw in one of his large hands. “Please what? I know you are more intelligent than this senseless begging.”

It was near impossible for Prospera to focus on anything other than the stinging pain on her cheek and the ceaseless ringing in her ears. If she concentrated on Galar’s voice, his tone sounded sickeningly condescending and raspy. 

“Princess,” he repeated himself more sternly and Prospera felt like a chastised child for the first time since her girlhood. 

“Please stop this,” Prospera eventually managed to choke out. “I will give you whatever you want if you just stop.”

Never in her life had Prospera stooped so low. The lies grated in her ears the same way the ringing did. At this point, she believed she would say anything he wanted just as long as it got her out of this mess. 

Galar grimaced at her and raised his hand. Prospera preemptively squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for impact, expecting the blow to land on her face like the first two. A heartbeat passed and Prospera involuntarily relaxed as the hit never came. Galar was waiting for that moment when she let her guard down. With force terrible enough to knock the wind from her, Galar laid his hand on Prospera’s cunt. A horrible, animalistic shriek escaped her sore throat and for a few moments, all she tasted was blood, all she saw was the infinite darkness behind her eyelids. 

The searing pain radiating from her cunt was unlike anything she had felt before. It seemed as though tonight was dedicated to forcing several first experiences—the impact against her face and now being punched in between her legs. It was no different than anything she put her playthings through. If Galar was trying to prove a point, the effort was wasted on her. If anything, realizing this is what her playthings felt under her command invigorated her. She had done worse to them and they had all survived.

The realization did little to calm her when she spied Galar’s dagger. He appeared poised to stab her and finally, Prospera could not find the words to raise against him. It must have shown on her face because Galar grinned viciously and asked, “Was that all the fire you had in you, Princess? I find that hard to believe.”

When Prospera attempted to speak, unsure of what she intended to say, Galar brandished the dagger close to her lips and she immediately lost the urge to plead.

The razor sharp edge looked as though it had been recently sharpened. The blade was embellished with archaic etchings in the metal. Though Galar moved too quickly for Prospera to examine, she knew it was a weapon far older than she. 

Without speaking, Galar’s stare flicked down and he took in the visual feast that was Prospera’s nude body. As he studied her, he did not speak, and again Prospera felt unnatural anxiety rushing through her veins. His gaze felt like a tangible, sticky thing on her, lingering even long after he moved his eyes to a new part of her. It did not take long before Prospera felt a strange sense of insecurity well up from deep within her. Was he not pleased with what he saw? Would he truly kill her if he deigned her unattractive?

Prospera swallowed hard and Galar raised the dagger before placing the sharp point between her breasts. Instantly, Prospera held her breath to prevent the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Instead of stabbing her, Galar slowly, gently dragged the blade down her body. 

He took his time, moving the blade like a river at night as it wound through the world and continued on into forever. The dagger’s point travelled over the contours of her chest and stomach, it circled her navel, and drifted back up once it came too close to her cunt. 

Despite him not exerting much pressure, the blade was sharp enough to draw blood, and Prospera knew her body was marred with thin cuts. They stung worse than the impact on her cunt which had ebbed into a dull, throbbing ache that never felt like it would end. Galar held the dagger over her and she saw her blood on the tip. He brought the blade to his lips and tasted her on its surface. 

“You still believe you will live,” Galar mused after studying her expression for a few long, uncomfortable moments. 

Then, he took the dagger and raised it higher than before. Prospera felt shrill words crawl up her throat and she began to plead, “No—no, no, no,” and her cries fell on uncaring ears. 

Galar grinned wickedly and brought the dagger down, burying it in her soft thigh, and Prospera heard something wailing like an animal—it was her, somehow—and her head swam in a vile mixture of nausea and despair. The pain flashed brightly behind her eyes and was inescapable. Prospera squirmed and thrashed in a futile attempt to crawl out of her body. Each of her movements sent new waves of searing suffering and it took her an eternity to lie still. 

The crimson ceiling high overhead offered no respite from her horrifying reality and Prospera struggled to locate anything that could save her. The restraints circling her wrists and ankles thrummed with excitement in time with Galar’s labored breathing. He was not tired—Prospera now understood a being like him would never tire—but exhilarated, revelling in the agony he caused her. 

“One of my playthings,” he murmured and not for the first time, Prospera thought of her personal harem and her courtesans.

Galar held the dagger’s handle and twisted it within her thigh. Prospera felt her vision go dark and her thoughts grew fuzzy around the edges, difficult to decipher. When she came to, she nearly vomited from the sensation of her fresh stab wound spasming as the blade dug into her. Blood spilled from the gash and when Galar ripped the blade from her thigh, red spurted in great gushes. Prospera’s vision blurred from her tears and she felt her skin oscillate between feverish and cold. Sweat prickled on her brow and coursed down the aching sides of her face. 

In harsh contrast to her weak state, Galar looked invigorated, grinning from ear to ear in a way that preceded nothing good for Prospera. Blood was speckled across his fair skin from where he had stabbed Prospera, and the crimson flecks blended in with his freckles. Those sharp, dark eyes picked her apart as she struggled to stifle the overwhelming effects of the pain emanating from her thigh. The more she squirmed, the more interested he appeared. 

As she lost more blood, she began to feel weightless and numb. She thought of the game she played as a girl—light as a feather, stiff as a board—and imagined that this is what she and the other young ladies had been trying to achieve, this spectacular existence in between. She quieted, stilled her writhing, and listened to the shallow, labored quality of her breath. She angled her head, seeking out the night sky through the very top of the grand stained glass window. Through its lens, the stars were a smattering of glowing red spots and she thought of the spray of her blood upon Galar’s freckled skin; she yearned to reach out and touch the stars, touch him, but her fingers only twitched at her side when she tried. 

As if he could hear her thoughts, the plague baron sighed and reached down to tuck an errant chunk of bloodied hair behind her ear. The veins around his eyes were especially dark,  “It isn’t time yet,” he said before slipping his fingers into the stab wound on her thigh. 

Prospera groaned, a wave of nausea and dizziness crashing over her. She resisted the urge to vomit. The pain—it was too much. More blood seeped from her various shallow cuts while Galar pushed his fingers deeper into the real wound. He moved with purpose, hellbent on causing her as much agony as possible, and his fingers curled once he was two knuckles deep. 

She could feel him pushing around the muscle and tissue, probing and invading. Through the overwhelming agony, Prospera had enough clarity to acknowledge the pure violation of this act. It was somehow far worse than any vaginal rape he might have subjected her to. This felt undeniably wrong and she felt like a dying animal pinned beneath a bird of prey as it tore her to pieces. 

The taste of copper flooded her mouth. Prospera blinked, feeling slow and stupid, as she realized she’d bitten her tongue and the inside of her cheek. She coughed, choking on her own blood and spittle, and lurched to the side as she threw up the meager contents of her stomach; she’d eaten very little in preparation for the ball and it was a vile mix of blood, saliva, and stomach acid.

Galar laughed at her expense and dug his fingers in. 

Pain so white hot and terrible she almost fainted again exploded through her. She sobbed as she dryheaved, collapsing on her side. Galar removed his fingers, leaving her bereft and terrified. One of his hands grabbed her closest wrist and pulled her back to the center of the bed. He hovered above her, and brought his bloody fingers, the ones which had fingered the wound in her thigh, to her mouth. 

Prospera pressed her lips together in defiance, but she was so weak. When the demon pressed his fingers inside, she couldn’t offer much real resistance and cried quietly while he explored her mouth again. 

“Suck,” he said. “A princess’s mouth should never be put to waste.”

With the strength of a newborn, she wrapped her lips around his fingers and sucked, swallowing the bitter taste of her own blood. Behind the metal tang, something rotten lied beneath. Plague. There was no hope, was there?

She was already dead. 

Drawing Galar’s fingers deeper into her mouth, Prospera inhaled and steeled herself, mustering as much strength as she could. Then, before he could move or she could change her mind, she bit down.

Her teeth connected and she felt two digits in her mouth. As quickly as she’d done it, Prospera turned her head and spat the fingers out, bloody and useless, onto the covers.

Prospera wasn’t sure where it quite came from. Maybe the blood loss was making her delirious, or delirium was a side effect of the Red Death. But she began to laugh uncontrollably, giggling as she thought of Galar missing two fingers because of her. 

A hand grabbed her face. This one had all of its fingers.

Evidently one did not need fingers to punch, because the princess was stunned as Galar balled his bad fist and punched her square in the jaw. Blood flooded her mouth again and she probed at her gums, feeling several loose teeth; two had even fallen out and she spat them out right alongside the demon’s fingers. 

Galar pulled his hand back and examined it in the warm light. Sweat beaded along his brow and a wry smile graced his handsome and cruel face. It was not the reaction Prospera had hoped for. She wanted rage—perhaps embarrassment for being bested by a thing like her—but he just studied his mangled hand. As he looked it over, something odd began to happen. There was the stench of decay. Wet, organic scents like metallic blood and sickly sweet mildew. Prospera gagged, overwhelmed by its stench, but found no escape from it. Galar flexed his hand, spreading the remaining fingers wide open, and then new bones started to sprout from the base where Prospera had bitten his fingers off. 

All she could do was lie still and watch in horror as the unholy magic accelerated. Regeneration like this was dark magic, old magic, the kind of magic one only read of in holy texts. The flesh that manifested was not healthy. Prospera knew very little about the human body but even she could see this. The nauseating fragrance of rot grew, entwining with the bitter aftertaste of magic, growing more concentrated. It did not take long before Prospera writhed on the bed, attempting in vain to bury her nose in the covers. When she did, all she smelled was her own blood, soaked into the fabric, which wasn’t much better. 

Galar sucked in a massive, satisfied breath as new skin began growing over the decayed muscle and tendon. This fresh skin was marred with plague symptoms—bleeding pores and a pale, sickly complexion. 

“I… did not expect that from you, Princess,” Galar said. They looked unnatural next to his healthy ones and Prospera instinctively shied away from the hand as he brandished it close to her face. It spread, infecting the tissue around it, until his whole hand was thin and weeping.  “Such fire.”

Speaking around the mess that was her mouth felt like an impossible ordeal, but Prospera tried. It was difficult to ignore the blood pooling in her mouth and the missing teeth she couldn’t help to probe for. 

“Please,” she choked out, wetness pooling in her throat, and Galar responded with an unkind scowl. 

“Please,” he mocked her and held the freshly regenerated fingers inches from her eyes. This close, she could see the blood speckling his pores, the pallid, unnerving hue of his skin. “Try that again, darling. Perhaps I’d like another excuse to beat some sense into you.”

A strangled moan of agony and frustration tore through Prospera's throat and Galar promptly muffled her with his freshly produced fingers. The stench of decay grew until it was all she could process. At that point, it might have been all she had ever known. The abrasive smell caused her eye to roll back in her head and she shuddered hard enough to shake the bed as she tasted those fingers on her tongue, rot and corruption and rage. Finally, she managed to open her eyes and Galar’s face was inches from her own. Her terror was reflected in the black pools of his eyes as he studied her. 

“Yes, Princess. Take it in. Swallow it and let it take you from the inside out.” He grinned and his smile stretched beyond human possibility. “Be with me.”

Prospera choked when he abruptly pulled his fingers free. They were slick with her saliva and blood. 

Galar glanced at his lubricated fingers before turning his eye back to her face. “Perhaps it would be more fitting if we started here,” he mused. Before Prospera had the chance to dissect his words, he grabbed her thigh and pushed his rotting fingers around the slick folds of her cunt. Prospera’s eyes flew wide open and she deliriously began to plead, “No no no no—please!” while she squirmed on the bed. 

Galar languidly prodded her cunt. A slow smile began to stretch across his face and he sighed before shushing her. 

“There is no hiding—no escape from me and mine,” he said, as though telling her soothing words to lull her to sleep. “Let it take you. Give in.”

Despite how lovely his voice was, Prospera was far past the point of delirium. It was a monumental task deciphering the different sensations she was experiencing. The heat of the room, his skin, the sweat slick on her back. All the different points of pain throbbing incessantly on her body. Mouth and thigh and face and now, her cunt ached with need. It was almost as humiliating as his fingers in her wound had been. For reasons beyond her, Galar had yet to plunge the regenerated fingers into her hole, instead focusing on lazily rubbing her. To her horror, she felt the beginnings of warmth bubbling up from some deep place within her. She instantly knew this was what he wanted from her, this sickening and humiliating sensation building in her core that was beyond her control.

As though he could read her thoughts, Galar laughed and shook his head. “Not yet, darling Princess.”

He continued his gentle exploration of the outside of her cunt while Prospera tried in vain to take her mind elsewhere. When Galar noticed her drifting mind, he drifted close to her stiff clit or ground his palm against her still bleeding stab wound. Any contact forced her back into her body and there was no escape. 

As time went on it felt as though it expanded. The night was endless under Galar’s careful ministrations. Hours could have passed, or minutes—Prospera had long passed the point of comprehending time. 

Eventually, Galar’s dead fingers began to probe at her cunt. She was shamefully slick with arousal and ready for him. Biting back her encouraging sounds of pleasure was a feat worthy of legend, and she tried to lay there looking as unappealing as possible. She was dead, she knew. Why continue the performance? The bastard didn’t deserve her.

Before she could be too pleased with her restraint, Galar’s fingers pushed against her clit once more and she groaned as though it was her first time being touched. The pleasure cut through the dull pain across her body like a knife.

“Is this what you wanted, Your Highness?” Galar leaned down and pressed his full lips to her feverish forehead. He was intimate, gentle, restrained. She hated herself for leaning into it. “Is this what you imagined I would do when you brought me here?”

Prospera found herself unable to answer. She mulled over his words as his fingers pressed on her clit. Some sickening, dark feeling began to take hold of her, but she resolved to keep it at bay as long as she could. What had she expected? More of the same, likely. She was partial to her own sadistic urges and enjoyed the sensation of control and power commanding her lovers as she did. Never had she been so completely at someone else’s mercy. If it weren’t so terrible or damning, it may have been exciting. 

“Did you think I’d talk to you sweetly, like this, and hold you?” 

Galar punctuated himself by finally sliding his fingers into her cunt and it sucked him in as though she’d been waiting forever. In her suspended state of being, perhaps forever had passed. The sensation was as satisfying as it was shameful, warring within her for dominance as she stretched around him.

“You certainly seem to be enjoying it this way,” Galar remarked and curled his fingers within her. A shock of sensation far too close to pleasure flashed through Prospera, and she spat more blood from her over-filled mouth, soaking the pillow near her cheek.

It took tremendous effort for her to speak. “No,” she croaked and squeezed her eyes shut.

Hot tears spilled from her eyes and Galar curled his fingers again, seeking the warm, fleshy spot that guaranteed pleasure. His crusade to turn her own body against her was working to her horror and this was worse than anything else he’d done to her so far. Her autonomy, her dignity—with each pump of Galar’s fingers, her body’s betrayal ran deeper and deeper, until she felt so far removed from it that she was sure it had never been hers at all. 

“Yes,” Galar murmured and pushed his fingers deeper, harder. Prospera’s traitorous cunt swallowed him with deplorable greed and it fueled his delusions. “Your body does not lie.”

Prospera realized—those fingers thrummed with the plague and now, she felt a strange sensation wash over her. All at once, her skin prickled with chills that should not have been possible in the sweltering room. The sweat beading on her skin dissipated and she shivered with phantom cold. The restraints holding her began to convulse and something sharp dug into the fragile skin of her wrists and ankles. It felt as though it probed into her veins, violating her from the inside out, contaminating her bloodstream. 

“What—?”

She never completed the thought as Galar leaned forward to kiss her. 

His lips were soft and deliciously warm against hers, and she realized her body had grown very cold. Death was close, then, and for as long as she hovered between life and death, she was under Galar’s control.

He pulled away and his gaze bore into her, revealing a mind far older than she could comprehend. Things danced in his irises, stories that chilled her, emotions that overwhelmed her.  He was Galar, the plague baron, a god of old. 

Then, he took her mouth once more, slotting their lips together, and pushed his tongue past her clenched teeth. His decaying fingers pumped a steady rhythm inside her while his tongue explored the deep recesses of her bleeding mouth. Prospera wanted to bite him, to spit in his face, but her body was not hers, not in these last moments, and she could do nothing but lie there and take it. 

Was this really what she deserved? There had to be more to a princess’s life—to the life of someone divinely blessed.

As Galar quickened his speed in her cunt and swallowed her tongue into his mouth, he moaned into her, enjoying her most as she grew closer to death. The blood loss was disorienting, but she knew she was feeling the effects of the Red Death as well; every touch felt like a hot brandished iron against her skin and her ears tickled as blood began to leak from her eardrums. 

The pulsing in her cunt grew and every bit closer she grew to an orgasm the deeper the Red Death took root inside her. She imagined it growing inside her, burning through her muscles and tissue and everything else it could get its greedy hands on; the sear as it ate through nerves, consuming her until all she could perceive was the orgasm. 

Galar, in his ancient wisdom, knew she was going to cum long before the realization dawned upon Prospera. He ground himself harder against her, his hips connecting with the back of his hand to press himself inside her cunt, and kissed her like he might have loved her just like this, if only for a terrible and fleeting moment. The plague baron dug his spongy, rotten fingers into her once, twice, and Prospera came with a disgraceful spasm, choking on her own blood, her insides twisting in on themselves. Every muscle in her body seized and she pressed her eyes shut, wishing it away, wishing she died.

The weight of her skull bore down against her vertebrae as her head lolled, her body cold and limp in warm, sturdy arms. She swallowed, her tongue fat in her mouth, and her eyes rolled in her skull before they opened, taking in the world once  more.

The plague baron held her against his chest, but a chilled breeze grated painfully against her raw skin. She hurt all over and everything itched and the night air was unbearable. 

“There she is,” he said to her; when he smiled at her, his teeth blackened with blight, it was gracious and benevolent. 

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. 

“Where you belong,” he said, matter-of-factly. The moon shone down upon him, illuminating the shape of trees reaching above him, withering branches that reached like clawed fingers towards her. “You’re one of mine now, and your brothers and sisters will be quite eager to take their turn with you.”

Despite her situation and the events of the night, her body felt whole and all of her larger wounds had sealed, though she imagined the wound festered under Galar’s attention.

He carried her along the stone path leading to the gates of her sprawling estate. Though her eyes were fixed on some distant point in the cloudy night sky, she knew where he was taking her. Already she could hear the mob at her gate, thrashing and moaning and calling for blood.

Propsera. Prospera. Propsera. 

Words bubbled to the surface of her mind before washing away. It became difficult to determine whether or not she was still under the plague baron’s spell. Prospera gazed up at him when she tired of staring at the night sky. His face seemed to shift in the low, opalescent light cast by the far away moon, but when he met her gaze, his face was the same handsome facade she had grown used to during the night’s events. Despite herself and the utter horror of her circumstances, she found him a thing of beauty. If this face was an illusion, it was a fine one and it served its purpose in disarming her, tricking her so thoroughly. As he carried her to certain death, Prospera lamented the fact she had found herself in his arms like this. She should have been more careful, she should have bolstered her security, and she should have never allowed a handsome stranger to beat her in her own palace. 

It was too late. Prospera could not voice her regrets or sorrows. Galar held her and stopped walking. Now, the cries of the diseased crowd were abrasive in her ears and she felt the displaced air every time they reached for her through the bars. The air crackled with tension and she knew in her bones what was about to happen. Galar looked upon her conflicted face and gave her a thin smile. 

“I will give you over to the suffering masses,” Galar murmured and held Prospera upright, supporting her when she slumped forward. “You are whole so they may have the full, profound satisfaction of brutalizing you themselves.”

Protests rose and died within Prospera’s mind. Her thoughts were disconnected from one another and her synapses fired off at a slower pace as her brain began to succumb to the absolute power of the Red Death. 

“Your body is fresh for them—your mind is not,” he continued and idly groped her while keeping her upright. Behind her, she felt hundreds of hands reaching, growing impatient as he dangled her like bait above a pool of writhing beasts. “As you beheld them with disgust, I will observe as they tear you limb from limb and I will enjoy every moment of it.”

Galar then returned his attention to the gate and the thrashing mob behind its bars. He gave the princess one last, lingering look before slipping through the gate’s small opening. Immediately, the diseased crowd stepped aside from him as though they were being controlled by a puppeteer. 

Prospera managed to lift her head despite the spinning and throbbing sensation of vertigo that washed over her. The moon was a far away opalescent sliver and the stars oscillated between appearing too close and too far away to be natural. The mob was full of plague riddled faces—blood coursed down from their open pores, their cracked lips spewed foaming spittle, and their eyes bulged and were ringed with bloodshot darkness. Deep within Prospera’s straining chest, her heart beat kicked itself into a frantic urgent pace and her mind struggled to make sense of her reality. This could not be happening. This was something that happened in legends, in nightmares, and never to royalty like her. 

“Yes,” Galar said in a honeyed timbre that struck Prospera in the depths of her core and soul. “Now, go to them and discover your true self. Without your jewels, your finery, and your station—you are a body. In the end, you will rot the same as the man who tilled your wheat fields.”

Within the fleeting moment it took for Prospera to blink, Galar turned her over to the mob and the steady warmth of his gentle hands was replaced by dozens of feverish hands groping and grabbing her. A clear thought struck through her wrecked mind with the power of a lightning strike. It crackled down her spine and her limbs locked up as she realized she was being given to the starving, diseased mass like a sacrifice. A prized lamb to slaughter. When she felt their skin sloughing off and their hot breath on her neck, she knew they would not stop, not after her, not until they destroyed everything she had built here. 

Galar backed away and the soft smile never left his face as he held her gaze. Prospera felt her will weakening, finally submitting to the plague baron’s superior authority and the dozens of mouths swept their lips across her fevered skin. Teeth sank in and she screamed as they tore into her, ripping her apart piece by piece.

The final image burned into her conscious mind was of Galar’s handsome, content face. When he met her gaze, he grinned, and Prospera saw no more. 

IV.

Prospera’s body went limp and the ravenous masses swirled around her like a violent storm. 

The plague baron extended his influence over the hoard and those that already suffered the Red Death surrendered while a throng of vermin raced from deep within the surrounding forest. He saw through their eyes and felt the cold ground underfoot. He saw from the piercing, enhanced stare of the circling scavenger birds high above, and he watched as Prospera’s limp body passed between hands.

Galar held control over the diseased within close proximity and the agents of his pestilence—the rats and flies and birds doing his bidding. The people and vermin alike swarmed Prospera’s frail, unconscious body and when the first nails raked across her skin, her eyes flew open as though it was her first time seeing clearly and a terrible scream tore through her gaping mouth like an animal’s. Her cries fell upon uncaring ears. A dozen mouths attached themselves to her skin, biting and licking and sucking at whatever they came in contact with. 

Prospera emitted occasional agonized moans between the terrible, inhuman squelching and the plague baron grew transfixed by the sight of her. 

The thin, pale moon hanging high overhead and the low-hanging clouds provided a picturesque backdrop for such a monumental death. The air was charged with the noises of hundreds of vermin and the smell they carried. It reeked of waste and blood and finally, Prospera stopped screaming.

One of Galar’s subjects bit into her delicate throat and greedily sucked at the wound it left. In her infection and the plague baron’s influence, her blood appeared black and viscous. It clung to her colorless skin and coursed over the many hands traveling over her. Everything became drenched in filth and fluids within moments. 

Galar remained at the side of the turbulent crowd, watching closely and burning the image of Prospera’s pain stricken face into his retinas, before the mass overtook her and pulled her under. The only indication she was within the writhing hoard were the sickening sounds coming from its center. Squelching and gasping. The diseased commoners were eating her alive, stripping her flesh from bone, tearing her sinew. Although the crowd consisted of people with poor teeth and emaciated, weak bodies, they rendered her breathless and mute within the span of a breath. 

The plague baron felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction wash over him and he fought it back. The night had yet to reach its climax and Galar turned, beginning the journey back to the grand castle. He did not spare a backward glance for Prospera.

He returned to the palace feeling invigorated, blood dripping from his garments as he laughed and danced. Rats climbed over his feet up his leg and chest to crawl upon his shoulder, and their screeching joined the gnashing of teeth and strangling moans of the infected. 

In the early morning hours, Galar opened his mouth and began to sing.

Behind him, the iron gate swung open and the festering mob spilled onto the grounds, following the sound of the baron’s high, clear voice. The cold night air carried with it the stench of decay, the reek of a hundred rotting corpses, and his hypnotic song as he beckoned his children forward. As they moved past him like water flowing around a stone in a riverbed, they left a wake of filth. Metallic blood and other fluids weeping from pores and orifices, excrement where they died and lost control of their bowels, and the thick, unmistakable smell of despair—Galar inhaled deeply and let the scent curl in his lungs. 

Once inside the palace, Galar instructed one of the diseased bodies with his song to stand in front of the grand palatial doors and die there, propping it open with its weight. He watched with glee as the flesh wept blood and its breath labored in its final moments, such a frail creature overtaken by nature’s great equalizer—disease. Though they had no way of understanding their compulsions, the infected responded to the baron’s song, which had grown more guttural and low, and they found themselves yearning for more bloodshed. 

The princess was not enough. They wanted it all. 

The masquerade was still thriving when he returned to the ballroom. 

Of course, the debauchery had accelerated during his absence with the princess and now, there were very few in attendance who appeared lucid. They busied themselves with fucking and drinking and smoking and abusing the whores. The orchestra played something deep and lethargic. The music dragged through the air in the same slow fashion as the billowing smoke. In Galar’s wake, hundreds of rats and the plague infested mob entered the ballroom and set their deranged sights on the uninfected. The beautiful whores and lavishly dressed nobility. Their riches would not save them, nor would their insistence on hiding from the Red Death. Galar was here and he was sufficiently prepared to unleash his influence over the crowded ballroom.

The true violence with one of Prospera’s delicate courtesans. This one had somehow gone untouched throughout the night. She cowered in a crevice near the grand room’s entrance, concealing herself among the dense indoor plants and decorative pillars. Galar could smell she was a virgin, healthy and pure, and he pulled her from her hiding place into the ballroom’s dim light. Prospera likely kept an assortment of virgins for her entertainment and Galar found it fitting that he should be the one to taint them. 

The precious girl uttered an exclamation of unease and Galar took his ancient blade and ripped it across her delicate throat, his murmurings weaving through the high ceilings in an old chant. Her words devolved into unintelligible moans of agony and she sputtered when he plunged his freshly regenerated fingers into the slit. He would take several whores before leaving, either fucking their holes or tearing them new ones, then he would leave their bodies to be overtaken by his procession of vermin. 

Bright crimson coursed down the maiden’s neck and chest, dirtying her fine clothes and splashing onto the floor. The scent of blood injected the ballroom with new life and Galar sucked his fingers clean and relished in the maiden’s fair taste. 

Around him and the fallen virgin, the masquerade teemed with filth and gore, overrun by the contaminated and vermin. Flies buzzed incessantly and there was no escape from their noise. Partygoers could not avoid the flood of rats spilling into the room and they slapped themselves in their vain attempts to rid themselves of the flies. Panic spread like wildfire through the room, though most were too inebriated or distracted to fully process what was happening. Galar suspected none of them would ever know what truly happened and he would ensure no survivors would leave without carrying the Red Death. If they did not perish within the palace walls, they would fall soon after leaving. 

Galar lifted his victim and laved his tongue over the pulsing gash that used to be her throat. The sensation of the life leaving her body was a feeling unparalleled and Galar felt drunk on it. Her sweet blood drenched his mouth and chin like a masque of his making. When he dropped her limp body to the ground, the rats swarmed over her and began eating away at her face. He returned to his song in a voice low, dangerous, foreboding. 

It only took one death to set off the chain reaction. 

Rats and flies crowded around partygoers both healthy and infected, not discriminating in their choices of victim. The vermin targeted eyes and mouths first, burrowing into the cavities left after eating away at their faces. The orchestra’s droning music was replaced with the shrieks of the dying and their voices hitched in fear. Some of them pleaded for mercy to whatever gods they knew while others succumbed too quickly to their fates to realize what was happening. Galar longed for a worthwhile climax to this monumental night. He commanded the vermin to slow and savor their meals with his song. The plague infected continued with their massacre and Galar wandered through the carnage to observe what he had orchestrated. 

A great satisfied feeling roiled up from deep within the recesses of his soul. This is what he still walked the earth for, this was his purpose—to cause absolute suffering and despair. As he surveyed his surroundings, his extremities began portraying symptoms of the Red Death, and he idly touched anyone within his reach. With every contact his skin made with a living being, he felt the thrumming of their heart beat, felt the history of their life and health burning under his fingertips. Then, he leached it away, replacing their will with the unbearable urge to spread the Red Death. 

The damned souls lunged for each other and screams of terror morphed into unrecognizable animalistic cries. The lovely, ornate masques remained stuck to their faces and for some of them, the masques grew into their skin, binding mouths and noses and eyes with the false faces they had donned for this party. For those who wore the visage of animals, they found their features melting, effects of the plague and some ancient magic, and rearranging into something more beastly. Snarling maws opened and their teeth grew to resemble the likeness of whatever animal they had disguised themselves as. Guests turned upon one another. Dancers bit into the whores, nobility cannibalized the terrified household staff, and the artisans and debutantes tore each other limb from limb. Hundreds of people would die tonight. It was destruction the country had not seen in ages, all of it contained to a single room within one palace. 

As the infection spread and those unaffected dwindled in number, Galar observed individual reactions. People parted from each other as the plague took hold, blood streaming down their pores like vermillion tears, and they sought out the few uncontaminated. 

Once they found them, they became hellbent on spreading the infection, Galar’s seed. 

He watched in restrained glee as one of the whores grabbed a nobleman and spit black, viscous blood into his gaping mouth. The man’s eyes rolled back from a combination of disgust and pain and he quickly doubled over, succumbing rapidly to the absolute domination that was the Red Death. Vomit spewed from his thin, already decaying lips, and the rats gathered to feast on it before scurrying to their next victim. 

The Red Death washed over the masquerade and once there were no souls left to contaminate, the slowly dying partygoers turned to each other. All across the pristinely waxed floor, people fell to the ground, no longer who they once were. Nobility, the whores, the staff—they all became equals under Galar’s influence. They embraced each other and smeared their fluids along each other’s bodies. It reeked of blood, cloying and metallic, and Galar tasted iron in his mouth.

Some cut themselves with the decorative serving utensils still strewn about the tables and when they bled, they fed the fountain of their blood to whoever was nearest to them. Wounds pressed against wounds and the contamination spread in every way imaginable. 

Galar could not help but join in. He had his pick of the damned as was his right—he was, after all, the origin of the great plague and all those in close proximity were helpless to his superior will. 

Women offered themselves to him regardless of what their station had been in health. Nobility, fresh-faced debutantes, the whores. Those who had merged with their masques and those who were experiencing the accelerated Red Death. Galar took them and cut them, probing his fingers and tongue into the new holes he created, relishing in their ecstasy as they came and died for him. The Red Death sweetened the bitter taste of their blood and he leached as much as he could from them. He gutted a woman from sternum to cunt and fisted the mess of organs within her and held her gaze as life drained from her eyes. Legend would perhaps refer to him as cruel, but he took great delight in warping his victims’ experience, forcing mutual enjoyment as they perished. Death was a beautiful thing and there was no better demise than Galar’s Red Death.

Galar left the thicket of bodies still writhing together on the dance floor. The few that remained standing were contorting their failing bodies in a poor iteration of dancing, but it was beautiful and right when Galar watched them. Flies swarmed in the stagnant, fragrant air like everchanging dark clouds. Rats searched the ground for soft things to eat—eyes and tongues and rotting extremities. 

A body lay near one of the archways leading into the side passages. Soft and sweet Morella. Someone had spat blood in her face and it mingled with her bleeding pores. When Galar approached her, she vacantly watched his face and reached for him. 

Galar shushed her and placed his fingers on her tongue, feeling the unnatural fevered temperature of her ailed mouth. It was uncommon to find such a beautiful girl who still had all her teeth and was free from disease—she carried the Red Death now, but earlier tonight, she had been perfectly healthy.

“Sweet Morella,” Galar mused and cradled her face in his hands. He tenderly caressed her high cheekbones with his thumbs and gave her more of his disease. As it spread through her feverish skin, her eyes rolled back and she shivered in his grasp. “You would be a nice souvenir for a night as great as this.”

Morella was far past the point of coherence. Her eyes wandered aimlessly across Galar’s face. To look upon his face before death was a privilege few were granted. To die by his hand was a privilege and it seemed the girl understood this in some distant part of her mind that was still lucid.

Galar’s fingers returned to her mouth and this time, he explored her with purpose, tracing her wet teeth and drifting far back to feel the molars tucked away. He pulled back her lips to examine the straight, white rows, and he realized he had not seen such perfect teeth in a long while. Morella continued staring into his eyes but her gaze was vacant as though she looked straight through him. Although she still breathed, it did not seem like she was all there. 

“I can’t take you with me,” he murmured and kissed her as the vermin began to circle her. They scented imminent death in the air. “You understand, darling,” Morella nodded, “But I can take a piece of you—pieces of you—and you will find peace when you succumb to my Red Death.”

His words evaded her understanding and he knew it was time. 

Galar held her jaws open with one hand while the other began testing the integrity of her teeth. They were healthy and deeply rooted, but his magic was stronger and he took in a great breath to prepare himself. Decay began to take hold of her lower jaw where he decided to commence with his extraction. 

The roots of her teeth began to rot and the decay stretched up to spread throughout the sockets where her teeth were nestled. Galar jostled them and they were looser than they had been and when he pulled at the first molar in the back of her mouth, Morella began to wail in quiet agony. It was music to Galar’s ears and served as a high, crooning melody over the chattering of hundreds of rats, the droning buzz of thousands of flies, and the percussive sounds of skin slapping against skin in the background. 

The first tooth came free and dark blood spilled from Morella’s lips and dirtied Galar’s fingers. He pocketed the tooth and continued, uprooting them in quick succession. Every so often, he was forced to exert more pressure, and during those occasions Morella cried and sobbed around the intrusion of his fingers. It did not take long before her bottom row of teeth was extracted and safely contained in his coat. Now, Morella began to heave violently and choke on the blood pooling in her throat. Galar kissed her blood soaked lips and quieted her—there was still the top row to contend with. 

The rot had taken quick hold of her upper jaw as it spread from the lower and the teeth slid from the sockets, root and all, smoother than butter. Morella had lost so much blood at this point she was having trouble staying conscious. Her eyes erratically wandered around Galar’s face and her skin took on a sickly pale hue. Her teeth were blood stained pearls in his palm when he gathered them.

Once her mouth was emptied of her beautiful teeth, the sweet Morella slumped forward and covered Galar’s fine clothing in the filth spewing from her mouth. The blood would not cease and Galar knew it would not be long before the whore perished. Without teeth, his hand slipped easily into her gaping maw and she convulsed around him. It felt similar to a hot cunt sucking him in. Something in her mind had surely broken beyond repair and he could not blame the girl. She had seen so much tonight that no living mortal could ever be prepared to see. She had endured much suffering at Prospera’s cruel hands and now, Galar was the final nail in her coffin. 

This would be his final act before his departure. Galar slowly pumped his fist into the gory mess that used to be Morella’s mouth and the excessive blood served as a fine lubrication for his act. Morella shuddered and her delicate throat spasmed from Galar’s violation. A sense of pleasure fell over Galar and he felt a satisfaction near sexual in nature. Blood stretched up the length of his forearm and Morella’s lips were stained a dark crimson. 

As he finished, fluids dripped down her nude body to feed the festering rats at their feet and they chattered in excited anticipation. Galar pulled his hand free and studied Morella’s mouth. It looked less like a mouth and more like a wound, still bleeding, still convulsing, and her tongue uselessly writhed within the pooling blood. After all she had witnessed this night, her sanity snapped and she was a shell to be used and discarded. 

Galar knelt and wrapped an arm around the girl’s neck. He slipped his fingers into her mouth, feeling the heat of her blood and pressing down on her wriggling tongue, and she automatically suckled him. She shuddered but continued lavishing his fingers in attention, even as he tightened his arm and exerted so much pressure something began to break beyond the point of saving within her throat. Morella’s trachea compressed and Galar felt her arteries furiously pumping. The bones in her neck shifted beyond repair under Galar’s immense force and Morella’s neck snapped. He stood and she fell to the voracious vermin.

Now, Galar felt his desire satiated and he cast a final look across the desecrated ballroom. 

Although its violation was not his intention, he viewed the room’s destruction as a sign of a night well spent. The long tables filled with excessive food and drink were cleared as partygoers took each other on the surfaces. Fire still flickered in the candelabras, but the warm flames only served to cast the room in an eerie glow. The wide, beautiful dance floor was forever tainted by the dead and the fluids leaking from them. Galar’s vermin left their own special mark upon the palace. Flies nested within the ocular cavities of the bodies where the rats had eaten their eyes and already, they filled the emptied skulls with their eggs. The rats spread more of the victims’ blood along with their droppings until the space became unbearable to exist in. 

Galar stood back as the infected mob mingled with the dead and dying, some of them fucking the bodies, others cannibalizing them, and he inhaled the scent of ultimate despair. Everyone who stepped into the palace would die—now and forevermore. 

Leaving his work was bittersweet, but the plague baron would look back upon this night fondly. Much had been accomplished here and he would recall the arrogant princess’s face whenever he needed something to touch himself to. Galar sauntered down the long hallway leading to the palace’s entrance. Behind him, the remaining sick and the poor stormed into the ballroom as though they had waited for his departure. He heard the sounds of flesh tearing, of squelching, and he knew the dead’s fluids would seep into the floorboards and infect the very earth below the palace, placing an eternal curse on the land. 

The plague baron knew his work here would linger long past death. This curse, his marvelous curse, had required fastidious work and meticulous attention, and such a commitment would reach through time, rippling beyond even his own preternatural senses. The effects of his new Red Death took root as the deceased arose as mindless undead shells. He mused that fire mages and necromancers would find their skills quite useful in the coming months as it evolved into a plague of the spirit, beyond the body.

Their bloody deaths imbued them with a vengeful appetite in the afterlife, driving them to devour the meat of the bodies who did not rise; the undead shrieked and moaned as they ate from their neighbor, the flesh tender and wet and squelching.

Among them feasted a corpse bare except for the tiara which sat upon its head. That had been his own personal touch, one final gift for the Princess of Ascana.

His curses completed, the baron left the ruins of the property behind him. Evil would infect all who walked its halls, now and forevermore, until Casmir Palace and its demons returned to the earth from whence it came.