The ladies of Muse House had unanimously chosen Jac to play the role of Iabelia, Dry Moon’s patron Daughter, for their full moon celebration tonight, and with each hour that passed Jac became gladder and gladder that she had accepted.
At first, she’d been almost offended. They’d nominated Jac because her golden-brown skin, heart-shaped face, and exquisite beauty matched how Iabelia was always depicted—but Iabelia was also known to be a soft, gentle girl, quick to tears of joy that watered the land when she was worshipped and cherished.
It wasn’t until Yasmine reminded Jac that Iabelia, when angered or neglected, was also Lixane—the fierce and cruel lioness monster who drank the air of all its wetness and feasted upon the bodies of those who died of her drought—that Jac to finally settled into the role. After all, Jac too liked to imbibe, and savor the deaths of those who disrespected her.
What surprised Jac was how much she enjoyed playing Iabelia, the sweet, giggly woman so eager for love and affection in the form of praise and adoration. As the ladies prepared her, washed and worshipped her, offered her rich, sweet fruits and wines, dressed her in Iabelia’s sheer, earth-toned silks and carefully settled a wig of thick, black curls onto her head, Jac felt this blissful tingling spread from her scalp, down the base of her neck, and eventually through her whole body. She’d thought this pleasurable buzzing was the wine at first, but the way that tingling culminated in a warm, wet swell between her legs made her realize it was more than that.
So she let the ladies care for her and she became every bit the giggly girl Iabelia was.
Muse House got almost as much care as Jac did. The rain pools were filled with the cool, crisp water of Heaven’s Fall and scattered with aromatic flower petals. The main stage was set with a large wooden throne wrapped in green ivy, and more earth-toned silks draped across the House. Ivy crawled up the columns and little fireflies came to rest within the blooms that burst all over the greenery, making the flowers twinkle.
As soon as the Full Dry Moon peeked over the horizon, before the sun had even left the sky, nobles began arriving. Performers from the city had been brought in to attend to Muse House’s guests while its ladies were on display. The performers wore only golden jewelry, delicate mesh and thin chains hanging off their hips, resting between their breasts, and dangling as veils over their faces. They carried trays of food and wine, whipped silks around them while they danced, or poured water over the stretched forms of the ladies who lounged in the rain pools, but they never spoke. Never made a single sound.
Ana hid behind her eisica, filling the House with bright, if bittersweet, music that harmonized with the drunken laughter bouncing off Muse House’s stone walls. More nobles arrived as the sun touched down on Mt. Mares’ peak, and even more when it slipped behind the mountain for a night’s rest.
Occasionally, someone would raise a cup and shout, “To Iabelia!” before emptying their drink over the nearest lady in her pool, to the cheers of the room. It wasn’t long before the pools ran red with wine, and the very air in Muse House was enough to intoxicate.
It was then that Iabelia made her entrance.
Attendants pounded drums on either side of Muse House’s front doors, drawing the attention of the guests in the main room and tempting them out to the entrance hall where a path of rose petals lay in waiting for the Daughter to arrive. The doors swung open, sending petals scattering, and more performers laced with gold danced in. Through the flying silks that the dancers pulled through the air, only a glimpse here or there could be caught of Iabelia.
The ladies, still dripping with their shimmering dresses pasted to their flesh, started down the path, petals sticking to their damp feet. It was only then that the silks finally parted and Dry Moon’s patron was revealed. She wore a crown of golden ivy, perfectly matched by the gold of her eyes that peeked over the sandy-colored veil covering the bottom half of her face. She was wrapped in fine, fluttering silks with brightly-colored buds and blooms tucked into her curls.
The ladies bowed before Iabelia, and Exther and Raquel extended a damp hand each, which she accepted. Exther and Raquel came to either side of Iabelia and guided her down the path, almost as if to ensure she didn’t fall.
But she didn’t feel patronized. She felt cared for. Worshipped.
She looked around the entrance hall, hoping but not expecting to see a freckled blonde among the crowd, ideally having slipped the prince. But Belle was nowhere to be found, and disappointment weighed heavy in her belly. It was silly—Belle was busy doing her best to survive and to prepare for Toll, and here Jac was wishing she could see the excitement, the joy on her best friend’s face at the sight of Jac all dressed up.
There was someone else who would swoon over the sight of Jac pampered and painted, but that idea made her sick. Thank the Mothers Cuppedia was off with Lona preparing Broken Earth for the prince’s departure—and the queen’s return.
The nobles in their richly-colored traditional dress applauded and bowed as Iabelia passed them into the main room. She was led onto the stage, to her throne, where attendants waited with fruit-laden trays to move in the moment the ladies stepped back. Iabelia picked the fattest peach she saw and accepted a new cup of wine, and then the offerings began.
Two of the golden-veiled performers fell to either side of the throne, and just as Jac undid one side of her veil to take a great, juicy bite of her peach, her eyes snagged on the performer to her right as they passed. They were breathtaking. Flawless honey-colored skin stretched over lean muscle, wide, strong, but soft-looking hands, a full, fat ass, and, hiding beneath the loincloth of woven gold chain, fruit that looked even more delicious than the peach in her mouth, dripping down her chin.
It wasn’t until the beautiful performer reached and drew a thumb under her chin to swipe up the juice that Jac realized they had caught her watching them. They offered the juice-wet thumb to Jac’s lips and she found them parting, accepting, sucking the thumb clean. A fierce blush burst over Jac’s face, and she told herself it was because she was Iabelia tonight. That it was just a demure act.
She could find no details of their face beneath the veil, but she could feel wicked eyes on her. Heart pounding, Jac turned her gaze forward and fumbled to replace her own veil.
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One by one, each of the party’s guests stepped forward to bow before Iabelia’s throne and produce their offerings. The Daughter traded the offerings—bunches of fruit, jugs of wine, heaps of fabric—for blessings of rain and greenery and full bellies. Either of the performers to her sides took the offerings and set them around her until Iabelia was surrounded by decadence.
Lady Ishe’s offering came accompanied with a lingering look and a sweet kiss to the back of Iabelia’s hand. The lady’s straight, black hair—threaded with vines of silver to match her dress armor—tickled Iabelia’s knees, and when Ishe began to draw back, Jac grasped her hand. To keep her there. To savor the sight of Ishe on her knees before her. Ishe’s dusty-rose lips pulled into a slow, mischievous smile, and when Jac finally released her, Ishe drew two fingers along Jac’s thigh before she stood to retreat.
When the line before Iabelia’s throne had shortened from one to none, Jac felt petulance blooming behind her lips, pushing them into a pout hidden by her veil. She felt possessed by the patron Daughter, had to resist the urge to stomp her foot as she looked out over the room of nobles deep in their cups, of wine-drenched ladies laughing in their pools, of performers dancing and—of no one worshipping her any longer.
But then the honey-skinned performer was before her, dropping slowly to a kneel, and Jac couldn’t help it—she squirmed and felt a wet blush between her legs. Mother Light, their hair looked like the finest spun gold.
“Iabelia,” they spoke in a purr, and Jac could swear she felt it rumble through her. “I ache to add to your offerings, but—,” the smile behind their golden veil was audible, “—all I have to offer is myself.” One strong, smooth hand stretched toward her. “Could you accept such a humble gift?”
Ishe’s sharp smile appeared over the performer’s shoulder to whisper, “Of all the things I’d name you, Humble is not one of them, Lord Vigore.”
Embarrassment bled up Jac’s spine—she should have known.
“Lady Ishe,” Z purred. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Isn’t that pretty face of yours supposed to be hidden within your mother’s House?” Ishe pressed.
“Which face of mine do you mean?”
Ishe reached over Z’s opposite shoulder to tap one finger just under their chin. “This one.”
“This face is a simple servant, called to worship the Daughter Iabelia the best way they can,” Z replied.
Ishe glanced up toward Iabelia, letting her arm dangle over Z’s shoulder. “Well. I’d never dare pull an offering from Iabelia’s grasp, least of all on the Full Dry Moon. This rogue is yours to command, Your Divinity.”
Once again, Z offered their hand.
With the two of them before her, looking up with hungry eyes, Jac didn’t stand a chance.
They made her feel delicate—divine—as they drew her from her throne, held her arms aloft and guided her from the stage. Perhaps the Daughter had possessed her because she didn’t even feel her toes touching down as she glided through the room to bowed heads or uplifted cups.
As carefully as she’d been dressed, she was undressed. In the middle of her room lit by only two glowstone lamps, Iabelia was pulled away piece by silken piece until only golden-brown skin remained, stretched over smooth muscle and sweet curves. Even her wig was lifted and tossed aside.
Jac stood, completely exposed. Vulnerable in the most terrifying and delicious way.
Her worshippers shed their own clothing and drew her onto the bed, but was all too short a time that they spent twined together in holy communion—
The door exploded off its hinges.
In a scrambling instant, Jac was on her feet, looking for Puissance—but she froze.
Of course. Who else but the Crown Prince would blow up her door?
Richard stood in the doorway wearing a smirk as he watched Ishe clamber to cover herself. Jac dropped the hand that was stretched toward Puissance, waiting patiently against the wall on the other side of the pieces of her door that littered her rug, but neither she nor Z made any attempts at modesty. A powerful mixture of burning emotions she couldn’t pick apart swelled inside, driving out every last drop of the aching pleasure that had filled her moments before.
Her first concern was for Belle—but then she saw her friend in the hallway behind Richard, watching the prince with a serene, attentive expression like he was telling a mildly interesting story. Jac’s next concern was for herself. Because whatever reason the prince had for exploding her door couldn’t be a good one.
All sounds of music and celebration in the House beyond had burned away, leaving only anxious whispers drifting through the air like ashes. Richard strode into the room, still smirking, his polished black boots snapping across the stone floor. The deep blood-red suit he wore didn’t fit at all with the traditional clothing the nobles had chosen for this celebration, but it didn’t seem like honoring Iabelia was why the prince was here.
“How did I know?” Richard said, eyes on Z who was still stretched across Jac’s bed, propped on one elbow and smiling lazily.
But the glint in Z’s eye wasn’t lazy. It was that look they got, the one Jac couldn’t exactly name. Mischief, but darker. This could get bad fast, so Jac opened her wardrobe to grab two dressing gowns and tossed one to Ishe—it would be no small feat for the Lady to get back into the dress armor scattered across Jac’s floor.
Z purred, “How did you know, dear Prince?”
“I knew,” Richard approached the bed, passing by Jac as she wrapped herself in her gown, “because all the years I’ve known them, the little Bastardbeast Vigore could never resist a party.”
Jac could swear Z’s eyes actually flashed, but the smile never slipped from their lips. They simply said, “You caught me.”
“I also knew,” Richard snatched for a fistful of Z’s hair, but they ducked off the bed too quick, turning Richard’s smirk into a snarl, “that your own mother damning you to Toll would still fall short of beating some Order into you. You’re too well-wrapped in Chaos’ fist for it to even get through. I can name only one thing that could manage to loosen the Dark’s grip on you, Z. And now the Light Mother has dropped just the opportunity into my royal lap.”
From the other side of the bed, next to Ishe who was trying hard to melt into the wall at her back, Z said, like a challenge, “Name it.”
The smirk was back, but Richard turned his gaze first to Ishe, then to Jac. “And you Ladies. You knew of Z’s confinement, but here you are. Fucking them. I think the two of you should join us.”
“Name it,” Z repeated.
“Are you commanding your prince now?”
Z took a steadying breath before dipping their head and saying, “Just asking, Your Highness.”
A slow, greedy smile crawled over Richard’s fine face. “Muse House isn’t the sole home of Full Dry Moon celebrations tonight. The Arena celebrates as well. It honors the Daughter by wetting the earth not with water and wine, but something much sweeter. The blood of rebels. I think you should all see what happens to a body that gives itself over to Chaos.”
Jac’s eyes met Belle’s—