Chtonji beamed as the cake was set in front on him and immediately grabbed for it.

 

“No.” Aithne took his hand and held it, laughing. “Not yet. First we need to crush the box. Right, Da Da?”

 

Urag, beaming from the other side of the highchair, nodded, picked up the small box on the side of the cake, and set it in front of Chtonji. He placed his hand on Aithne’s, which still held Chtonji’s, and said, “Ready?”

 

Aithne nodded, but her attention was fully on the baby. “One, two, three!”

 

Together, Aithne and Urag yelled, “Syåbåybe!” and all three hands descended as one to crush the small box.

 

Chtonji laughed, which made his parents laugh harder. Aithne shared a smile with Urag as their hands lingered on the table for a moment, then he removed his and she released Chtonji and reached for the knife to cut her son’s first birthday cake.

 

“I’ve never heard of that tradition,” she said as she placed a small piece on Chtonji’s plate.  “I’ve only heard of blowing…”

 

A small ding interrupted her and she exchanged a startled glance with Urag.

 

Urag grunted, his smile replaced by an annoyed frown. “Who could that be?” He stood up and strode toward the door to their suite.

 

Chtonji grabbed the piece of cake in his tiny green hand and squished it, which made him laugh (and therefore made Aithne laugh) again. He brought his hand up and…well, didn’t eat the cake so much as smeared it on his face.

 

Aithne’s laughter was interrupted by the return of Urag, along with a stern-looking dark elf.

 

“Ah, there she is.” The elf’s voice was calm and smooth and immediately raised Aithne’s hackles. Her laughter died as danger seemed to seep from the walls.

 

Urag frowned. “Yes. What about her?”

 

“Urag, you know the rules. College slaves are to return to their cells every night and are not to be kept for individual use.”

 

The words rang like funeral bells up Aithne’s spine; her muscles froze as if by an ice spell as the room seemed to contract around her.

 

“This is also not appropriate attire. We cannot allow the slaves to dress in student clothes, for Divines’ sake. Slave, get up and remove those robes immediately.”

 

Aithne cast a panicked eye at Urag, but he offered no hope; his expression was one of helpless rage directed fully at the Dunmer. Aithne slowly raised herself to her feet and reached for the robe’s belt, trying to delay the moment as long as possible to give Urag time to…

 

“Not well trained, is she? Quickly, slave! Zliiph frìzeeph!”

 

A whip made of living flame snapped out from the elf’s hand and streaked toward her. She instinctively began summoning a ward spell to block it, but then reality crashed through her like a bucket of cold ice.

 

She couldn’t defend herself. He was right; she was a slave. She didn’t have the right to block his attack. In fact, she should already be naked, as he had commanded. She stopped moving, let the whip strike her across the face, and didn’t have to fake the cry of pain or the stumble to the ground.

 

She had known this was coming. It had been inevitable, but after almost two years in Urag’s gentle care, she had grown lax. Careless. She had, despite her best efforts, allowed herself to feel like a real person.

 

But she was not.

 

Her mind flashed to Borkul, one hand around her neck, the other twisting her breast so it felt he might rip it off. His words came out of the past.

 

“You are already a slave, you just haven’t realized it yet.”

 

“You have no choice. You never will again.”

 

“I am not playing games, girl.” His fingers hooked inside her and yanked upward, lifting her body as she shrieked. “I can and will do whatever I want to your body.”

 

She was nothing, had always been nothing, would always be nothing. She had pretended otherwise, but the truth was the truth. She ignored the welting pain on her face – it had been his to give; it was not hers to concern herself with – and pushed herself off the floor to her feet, hands already undoing the belt. She let the robe slip to the floor followed by the underthings, then rounded the table and knelt as she had been taught, should never have forgotten: head down, hands on knees.

 

“That’s better. Where is her collar? Really, Urag.”

 

“Archmage, I…”

 

“Never mind, I have an extra in my quarters. I’ll take her off your hands; I’m sure you’re busy. Do you want me to tell them to send another slave up to watch your son while you work? I didn’t even know you had one.”

 

“No.”

 

Urag’s voice was more of a growl than anything else, which made Aithne quiver. It was the closest to Borkul she had heard him sound. She did not dare lift her head to look at him, though.

 

“Very well. Come along, slave.”

 

The Dunmer turned and headed for the door and Aithne shoved herself to her feet and followed without hesitation. Her mind ran in several directions at once and she felt so many emotions, she couldn’t make sense of them, but she forced herself to shut them out; to keep the tears she wanted to shed hidden and the sob she felt forming from leaking from her chest.

 

Chtonji seemed to sense something was amiss, but Aithne kept her feet moving and didn’t turn around even as he began wailing behind her. She heard Urag move, heard him try to comfort his son – not hers. What hubris she had, calling a free man’s son her own!

 

She followed the Archmage out of the suite and into the library, and the room stilled even more than usual as every head turned their way. She found herself flushing red and had to force herself not to cover her body. It was an indication just how far she had allowed herself to fall into the happiness trap; she knew better, knew she had no right to be ashamed.

 

She forced her gait to be steady, hid her quaking knees, summoned all her willpower not to look back as the Archmage turned toward the doors to the Arcaneum and opened them. The last thing Aithne saw before she followed him through was Merks’ wild and triumphant face.

 

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