The radio crackled to life somewhere in the house, its magic humming through walls and bone alike, tuned to no frequency any mortal map had ever charted. Tonight was a blood moon, not a rare thing in itself, but this one carried a heat beneath its glow, something hungry and intimate, loosening skin, secrets, and restraint in ways that felt dangerous to ignore.

“Hello, all you lovers across the realms,” purred the voice that slipped into the air like velvet smoke. All across Barinov land, the broadcast was already playing. It hummed through barns and kitchens, through fields where hands still worked by lantern light, through stables and smokehouses and narrow rooms where lovers from neighboring farms had slipped in under the excuse of borrowed tools or late chores. “This is your humble host, Algernon Blackthatch, reaching you through borrowed wires, stolen relics, and one very irresponsible magical artifact.”

A soft chuckle followed, warm and knowing. “There’s a blood moon rising tonight, darlings, which means some of you are finding it harder to hide your patterns. Scales. Marks. Truths you swore were buried. Don’t bother blaming yourselves. The moon has a way of undressing souls.”

The signal wavered, then steadied. “If you’re wondering how I’m reaching your realm, your thoughts, or that quiet little place you pretend is private, well… someone always brings the wrong object into the right room. Let my waves hit your spirit. Let them bruise where they need to.”

Music bled in, low and strange, an old rhythm dressed in something sinful. “Tonight’s selection is brought to you by The Drowned Choir of Y’ha-neth, crooning a little nineteenth-century rhythm and blues about blood moons and true colors. Sit close. Listen carefully. Some masks don’t survive the chorus.”

Ayoka sat on the wide stone windowsill, knees drawn close, letting the blood moon wash over her in slow, deliberate waves. The ruby light soaked into her skin, warming her bones and loosening something deep and coiled. She leaned into it, eyes half-lidded, breathing in the night.

She wore something soft and unexpected, a sheer pink chemise edged in green, like spring tangled in dusk. The fabric shimmered under the moonlight. Beneath the glow, snake-like patterns glistened along her arms and collarbone, shifting faintly with each inhale. She lifted her hand, watching the scales catch the red hue, then exhaled and willed them back. Her skin returned to its human tone, though the moon had already marked her truth.

Viktor stood just inside the room, a glass forgotten in his hand. He had seen her like this the moment he entered, already waiting, already caught in the moonlight. He could have turned on the lights then. He chose not to. She looked peaceful, unguarded, and it stilled him.

Only after a long moment did he exhale a ribbon of smoke and flood the room with light. The spell broke softly, not shattered. He tilted his head, amused. “Why are you sitting in the dark, sladkaya?”

Ayoka offered a white lie, her voice smooth. “Didn’t want to waste the energy.” She moved closer and settled into his lap, her weight fitting there easily. Viktor adjusted himself at once, careful and controlled, shifting just enough so he would not press against her. She knew, of course. She could feel the tension he did not acknowledge, but neither of them named it.

Her fingers lifted to his mouth, gentle and unafraid, drawing the cigar from between his lips. She took a slow pull herself, tasting the smoke, then leaned away enough to send it drifting aside, not in his face but close enough that he felt the warmth of her breath. They shared the cigar between them, smoke passing back and forth like an unspoken agreement. An indirect kiss, intimate and deliberate.

He laughed, low and warm. “These lights run on gifted current. Energy from those who have too much and need somewhere to place it. It is a trade, not a cost.” He moved past her, still smiling. “So no need to dim your shine for my sake.”

They eased into their usual rhythm. Viktor poured himself a glass of blood wine, its deep crimson swirling. His fingers brushed her thighs as he moved closer, a familiar, lingering touch. Ayoka reached out and took a sip from the same glass. For a moment, everything slowed.

It was a small gesture, but not a meaningless one. In many circles of Viktor’s lineage, sharing a cup had once been thought an opening of the soul to another’s fate. He would never force such an ideal on her if she did not know it, nor would he explain it unless she asked. For Ayoka to drink after him, and for him to allow it, was intimate, unsettling, and electric.

The air was growing thick when a loud noise echoed through the estate. It sounded like a clash of metal or fury, too sudden to be mistaken for anything else.

Viktor straightened so fast that Ayoka nearly slipped from his lap. He caught her instinctively, lifting her with ease and setting her on her feet as if she weighed nothing at all. The movement was precise and controlled, all urgency without panic. He stepped back at once, already turning toward the door. “Go to your room,” he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes burned with tension.

Sabine was seated in the low chair by the crib, Malik at her breast, one hand steadying him as he fed while she hummed softly. She looked up when she noticed Ayoka at the door and paused, surprised to see her back so soon. Ayoka offered only a vague mention of noise in the dark. She did not explain. Not yet. Ayoka had seen this before, and Sabine had asked her beforehand. She had been surprised then by Sabine’s medical knowledge, and more so by the ease with which magic and care intertwined in her hands. When Ayoka questioned it, Sabine had only smiled and said she was a wise woman.

Ayoka was just lowering Malik into the crib, careful not to wake him, when a knock echoed at the door. Sabine rose at once to answer it. The sound was slow and heavy, not urgent, but not casual either.

Sabine opened it to find seven nervous slaves standing in the hall. Their eyes were wide with fear and shame. Dust clung to their clothes, and one still smelled faintly of smoke. They were familiar faces. The same ones who had been curt with Sabine in passing, who had treated Ayoka with a careful distance, whispering her title under their breath as Master Viktor’s doll. They had never said it to her face. Only small slights, tight smiles, and impatience when asking for help.

Now they stood stripped of that pride. Among them were not only humans, but other bound beings kept under Viktor’s contracts. A girl with slit pupils and a shimmering mane of dark scales blinked slowly at Ayoka. A boy with bark growing along his jawline, dryad kin, held the edge of the door with trembling fingers. A third, small and hunched, had elongated arms and eyes too wide for his face. He bore the mark of the impundulu, a lightning bird child cursed to remain grounded.

These beings carried stories in their bloodlines and bruises, but they were still children. Old enough to work, old enough to be punished, yet barely past youth. Fifteen, maybe nineteen at most. Ayoka’s gaze lingered on each of them, the way you look when you realize too late how young someone really is. No one came to that door lightly. They were more than fellow prisoners. They were a network of quiet resistance.

Even in bondage, the enslaved looked out for one another. It was a legacy passed down through whispered histories, like those in the American South, where women and sometimes men were asked to distract the master or mistress to shield others from punishment. Some bore the weight of manipulation with grace, using charm, wit, or seduction to draw attention away and buy moments of mercy. Whether through flirtation, storytelling, or performance, it was a dangerous dance of survival. Ayoka had done it herself more than once. Sometimes dignity was the cost of protection, and sometimes sacrifice wore silk gloves and a tight-lipped smile.

She saw that same understanding in the dryad boy’s wary gaze and the lightning child’s twitching wings. They did not trust easily, but they had hope enough to knock. Children, asking her for help. Something had gone very wrong.

They explained in panicked voices that they had nearly burned down the supply house over a simple mistake. Viktor had been furious. They feared a punishment so severe they would never walk properly again.

One of the older girls, her eyes sunken but still burning with fire, whispered, “He’s got that mood on him. The kind where words don’t work.”

Another, younger and shaking, begged, “Miss Ayoka, please. We don’t want to die in that room. Just buy us a moment. We will fix it.”

Sabine was ready to send them away. She had worked around Viktor long enough to know how he handled mistakes like this. He would not take it out on the children. He would summon their parents instead, and the punishment would come later, quieter, heavier. Parents would discipline their own, believing it mercy. But children never saw that far ahead. Fear made everything feel immediate, final, and unbearable.

Ayoka stepped forward, the movement surprising both Sabine and the children. This was not pity, and it was not sainthood. It was calculation. Survival. Maybe even desire. The blood moon was still high, her blood still warm, and she did not trust her heart to tell the difference. “Clear the halls,” she said, her voice calm and simple. “No running. No talking. Stay where you are and let me handle it.”

Sabine closed the door as the children hurried off to do as they were told. The latch clicked, sealing the hall behind them. Ayoka crossed the room and went to the wardrobe, fingers moving with purpose as she searched. When she pulled out the costume, a belly dancer’s outfit made of little more than shimmering threads stitched together by daring, she paused. She lifted it and looked at herself in the mirror. That was when she saw it. A flicker of something new beneath the moon’s memory, a look she did not fully recognize yet. She let out a quiet breath and turned to Sabine. “I remember something an older sex slave once told me,” Ayoka said, her voice steady despite the look she was getting. Sabine stared at her like she had lost her damn mind.

Ayoka continued anyway. “She said if you’re going to beg a man to truly change his mind when he’s this angry, you don’t wear a lot of clothes.”

She paused, eyes flicking back to her reflection. “She was a bitch,” Ayoka added softly. “But she was a mother to me all the same.”

Then she turned to Sabine. “Use the magic this time,” Ayoka said. “Draw trees on me. Let a whole forest bloom down my legs. Let him think he is wandering through it alone.”

Sabine studied her for a long moment, not crossing her arms this time. “You are choosing this?” she asked quietly. “Not because you feel cornered. Not because you think you owe anyone.”

“Yes,” Ayoka said without hesitation. “This is mine.”

Sabine nodded once and reached for the glow-ink, fingers steady as she dipped them and began to paint. Spirals of vines and winding roots traced down Ayoka’s thighs, tiny blossoms blooming at her hip bones. Each symbol pulsed gently, casting shadows that moved like breath. Ayoka stood still, hands clasped before her, forcing her trembling knees to hold.

“This kind of path,” Sabine added softly, “does not always let you walk back the same way.”

Only then did Sabine move to the mirror. She placed her palm against the glass, and the surface rippled like water. From it, she drew a small pink bottle, warm to the touch, and set it carefully on the table between them. “I am not stopping you,” she said. “But you should know what you are stepping into.”

Ayoka did not answer. The room seemed to hold its breath.

Sabine stepped closer and placed the vial into Ayoka’s palm. The pink liquid inside was thick like syrup, catching the candlelight as if it were alive, glittering with a slow, patient glow.

“It will loosen the air between you,” Sabine said, her voice low and deliberate. “Not bend him. Not save you. Just… loosen what is tight. And you should know this.” Her fingers lingered a moment before letting go. “You are walking into something that does not give many exits.”

Ayoka closed her hand around the vial. Her fingers trembled, not with fear, but with the gravity of the choice settling into her bones. This was not a pity. It was not a sacrifice. It was power claimed with bare hands. A gamble. A dare. Whether it was survival or desire stirred by the blood moon, she could not yet tell.

When she turned toward the door, she did so knowing there would be no undoing it. She would walk out on her own terms, even if her knees shook beneath her.