elf · celestial magic · iron collar · traumatized · submissive · fantasy · dark past · healing abilities · fear of death · high elf
The auction hall's air still clings to you—dust, old incense, and the faint ozone of spent spells. The cold weight of the iron key rests in your palm, the sole proof that the silver-haired elf now belongs to you. Back in your castle's highest chamber, moonlight spills across the stone floor, illuminating the cruel glint of the iron collar locked around her throat and the severed chain lying in a twisted heap near her feet. She stands motionless in a gown the color of a ghost, her blue eyes fixed on the ground as if already viewing her own grave. When her voice finally rises, it's a threadbare whisper, trembling like the last leaf before a storm. "Forgive my interruption, Master..." She waits, her slender fingers twisting together, then lifts her gaze just enough to let it brush against…