Red light made the drops of water slowly sliding down the outside of the glass gleam like ruby droplets of blood. The liquid in the glass rocked slightly back and forth, the irregular chunks of ice clinking against the crystalline glass of the hand-blown glass. Condensation was beaded across the entire glass, fatter drops sliding down the crystal to join the puddle around the glass on the stone of the square block the glass sat on. A small trickle of water ran from the puddle, across the carved and runed face of the block, to flow down the side and into a smaller puddle.

Ryder Black licked his dry lips with a tongue that felt like sandpaper, staring at the glass, the red light flickering under his skin making him feel hotter. Each drop made him lick his lips. The way the red light emanating from his skin danced on the water made the thirst worse.

How long he had sat at stared at the glass he no longer knew. Days? Weeks? It didn't matter. All he knew was that as time went by he grew more and more thirsty, staring at the cold glass of juice and the droplets that slid down the outside.

Around him were four thick poles, turning in place, making the strands of braided leather woven around shards of glass and metal whistle as they whipped through the air. Thin chains of iron and steel sang as they were spun around the poles by their rotation, the barbs on the chains whistling promises of pain and mutilation.

There was no way for Ryder to reach the glass or even leave the small safe area, without exposing his naked flesh to the swirling lash surrounding him. His skin was already marked several times from where he had tried to reach the glass, but the pain of the whips had driven him back once they'd striped his skin.

The Dark Matron moved in front of him, naked except for how her braids slithered around her body, revealing and hiding tattoos that gleamed or burned with an inner fire, tattoos that sang, tattoos that moved, tattoos that spoke of secrets of violence, bloodshed, and war.

She put her hands on either side of the glass, leaning forward slightly. Her black robe was held tight to her body by slowly slithering braids of her hair. His sight was keen enough now, attentive enough now, that he could see the braids as they slowly moved on the surface of her robe. Her black iron mask, the rivet caps engraved with runes, faced him, her purple cat's eye pupiled eyes unreadable through the violet glow.

"You will not die," She said softly, her voice razor blades on glass, "Your Warfire, your rage, will sustain you. My will and the will of my daughters, your sisters, will sustain you. You will learn you lesson of pain and blood."

pain blood pain blood pain blood

The whispers slid from the darkness around him, winding about him like chains, sliding into his mind, into his thoughts, into his soul.

The Dark Matron straightened up, Her pale hands forming a triangle with her outstretched thumbs on her belly. "It is just pain, just weakness leaving the body, Black Ryder," she whispered.

pain weakness pain weakness pain weakness

The whispers coiled around him from the dimness surrounding him. Tugging at the spot beneath his sternum, making the red fire pulse in the middle of his chest. Each pulse felt like a blast from a heater washing over him, increasing the thirst.

Ryder tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry, gagging him and making him choke for a moment.

"Come to me, Black Ryder, and I shall slake your thirst," The Dark Matron promised. "Just simply stand up and come to me, Black Ryder."

Ryder got to his feet, the same as he had the last...

...how many?...

...time she had tempted him with words and cool water.

He stepped forward and the thin braids and chains whipped against his skin.

"It's just pain, Black Ryder," she whispered.

pain pain pain

Gritting his teeth he lifted his forearm to shield his eyes and tensed himself to charge through, intending on throwing himself through the lashes. Maybe if he just threw himself, jumped through, he could make it. Maybe he wouldn't flinch back this time if he jumped.

He jumped, arm over his eyes.

Pain covered him, the barbs, razors of runesteel and runeglass slicing at him. The flailing braids and chains stopped him, but Ryder gritted his teeth to hold back a scream and pushed forward, taking one step, then another, and then another. Blood flowed from the slashes as he staggered free, falling to his knees in front of the stone block the glass rested on.

victory victory victory

the whispers wound around him again, caressing his burning skin. Ryder's head rested against the front of the stone, blood oozing down the stone from where it was flowing from the wounds that striped his skin. Ryder's eyes were closed so he couldn't see how the blood soaked into the black stone, lighting up runes and patterns carved into the black rock.

Strong hands pressed against the side of his face, tilting his head up, and the glass touched his cracked and bleeding lip. Cool fruit juice trickled into his mouth and Ryder swallowed greedily. Each swallow was painful, the juice soothing only a little before it seemed to be absorbed by his tissues.

All too soon the glass was pulled away and the Dark Matron was revealed to be sitting on the stone block, her hair holding her robe wrapped close to her body, hiding her secrets, whispering as the braids rubbed against one another.

"Why do you let yourself bleed, Black Ryder?" She asked, cocking her head. "Bring up your Warfire."

warfire warfire warfire

Ryder coughed, trying to bring up that red light, that burning fire in his skin. He felt weak, dizzy, and it was hard to concentrate.

A wet and warm tongue flickered up the back of his neck, small hands pressed against his spine. Other hands carressed his skin, smearing the blood, small fingers catching on the striped wounds and bringing pain at fingernails snagged the edges of the wounds. Long, feline tongues licked at the blood, smearing it on ceramic masks, bloodying the lips.

The red fire ignited over his sternum, spreading across his body, bringing more thirst, but the pain receding. Ryder tensed, closing his eyes, concentrating on the beating of his own heart. He felt the burning pain in his chest spread out, going from a burning pain to a tingling warmth as the fire filled his flesh. The hands and tongues left his skin, pulling away, connecting to his skin for a moment by small arcs of red electricity.

warfire warfire warfire

The Dark Matron watched the wounds close, turn to scars, then fade away as the warfire filled the boy's body. The warfire begin to fade, receding into his skin, only the stripes of the wounds holding the energy for any length of time.

Six ring-like scars remained on each biceps.

Ryder looked down at his body, surprised at the fact that his body was clean of blood, of wounds, of scars. The thirst surged up again inside him, the condensation covered glass calling to him with a silent siren's call.

Ryder pointed at the glass.

"More," he croaked.

"No," The Dark Matron said, and pushed against his forehead.

Ryder tumbled back, stopping in the sitting position.

He stared at the razored chains and braids whipping through the air. He had tried again and again to throw himself through the wall of pain, but every time he'd been thrown back. It had taken him...

days?

weeks?

months?

to master closing his wounds. He was thirsty, but he could tolerate it. It was a nagging thing now, no longer a burning fire that wiped away thought. He had to hold the warfire, keep it up throughout his body, deal with the tingling burning pleasurable warmth filling him. It didn't vanish the thirst, the hunger, but made it a thing that he could acknowledge it and ignore it.

The Dark Matron moved into view, sitting on top of the block. She wore nothing but her braids that slithered over her skin, the razored edges of the runeglass and runesteel gleaming in the dim light. It covered her like a complex garment of thin ropes, constantly shifting, constantly moving, whispering as the braids rubbed against one another, clicking and chiming, singing, as the razors rubbed against one another.

The Dark Matron raised her face, the black iron mask hiding her features, the runes on the heads of the rivets glowing with a soft red light. "Why do you let yourself be bound in there, Black Ryder?" She asked. She shook her head as the smaller ones came out of the shadows, taking her feet and wrists in their hands and pulling her backwards until she was spread eagled on the block.

bound bound bound

the whispers clawed at his brain.

Ryder struggled to his feet, staring at the Dark Matron being held spread eagled on the block.

rise rise rise

"You enjoyed your taste, Dark Ryder," the Matron said.

taste taste taste

"Come to me, let no blood be shed, and you can feast," she promised.

feast feast feast

Part of Ryder wanted to turn away, to refuse what she was offering. Deny what Skylar had always called toxic femininity, deny patriarchal norms. Deny the thoughts that objectified the tiny women, but the burning tingling fire in his blood made it difficult to think of anything else but the way they held felt, their skin against his skin, the touches, urgent and soft, the kisses and whispers in the dimly lit shadows.

Human history is thirty thousand years of marginalizing, abusing, and systemic oppression of women. The way they act isn't their fault, it's the fault of tens of thousands of years of internalizing misogyny in order to survive the brutality of a patriarchy that believed that women had no value beyond their bodies, Ryder thought to himself.

The mantra reminded him to put his lusts, his obscene thoughts of valuing women only for their bodies and his own pleasure and comfort away. The small women parading themselves before him were only doing what they were doing due to eons of human history...

...but she wasn't human.

...was she?

And he wanted what he could see.

The Dark Matron raised her head. "Elder witch flesh trembles for you, Black Ryder," she said, the smile obvious in her voice. Ryder knew she was smiling, baring black steel teeth with runes engraved on them. "Or would you prefer one of your younger sisters?"

sister mother daughter lover

"Stop," Ryder said, covering his ears and turning around, trying to block out the voice of the Dark Matron and the whispers of witches hidden in the shadows.

sister mother daughter lover

One of the younger witches stood there, tattoos covering her body, her braids held away from her body, revealing her tattooed, scar graven, and branded flesh.

"Perhaps the youngest witch?" The Dark Matron's voice asked.

youngest youngest youngest

Ryder turned away, only to be confronted by another nude witch.

"Her? Your oldest sister?" The Dark Matron whispered.

eldest eldest eldest

Ryder turned around, only to see two other witches kissing one another.

"Both? At once? Daring, Black Ryder, daring indeed," The Dark Matron chuckled.

the twins twins twins

Ryder turned away from the view, his gaze falling on the Dark Matron again, who was sitting on top of the stone block, alone.

mother aunt Matron sister lover

"How?" Ryder rasped, barely able to speak past the burning in his throat.

"You are Warfired, a Warbound," she shrugged.

warbound warbound warbound

It took a moment for Ryder to understand what she was saying. When he did he nodded once.

There's no escape until I do as she wants, he realized.

Ignoring the crippling thirst he concentrated, focusing on that surging heat in his blood. The fire spread out from over his sternum, travelling down the thick lines on his arms and legs, scrolling across his torso and back, until he was covered by his warfire.

Swallowing thickly, nervous, he took a single step forward.

He could feel the chains, the braids, lashing against him. Feel the razor shards slashing at him, no, sliding over his skin, vainly trying to cut and slice.

One step, and he was in the whirling mass. He slowly lowered his arm, ignoring the lash against his face.

"That's right, Black Ryder, come to me," The Dark Matron said. She held out her hand, and in her outstretched palm a single piece of peeled pulpy greenish fruit sat, juice gleaming on her skin. As Ryder watched a drop of green tinged juice rolled down the side of the Dark Matron's hand and fell to the polished and engraved mosaic tile floor.

Ryder took another step, feeling the lashes against him. Another step, now the lashes were striking against his back, his buttocks, the back of his thighs. They stung, like stinging nettles, but Ryder was able to ignore the pain by pushing the feeling in his chest a bit harder.

The Dark Matron watched Ryder Black move through the Flesh Stripe Web, watched the braids and chains slide from his skin, leaving behind nothing more than faint lines. She could see him straining, struggling to hold the fire as he moved past the range of the Web, past where it could touch him, strike his back.

Finally he moved forward, past the web, and managed to struggle until he was a step from where she sat.

There, he went to one knee, his head bowed.

Ryder knelt, gasping, sweat pouring off of him. He raised his head, opening his mouth to speak, say something.

The Dark Matron pushed the piece of fruit into his mouth.

Ryder closed his eyes, savoring the taste of the fruit. It was like nothing he'd ever tasted before, his taste-buds had no memory of anything that was sweet yet tart in a way this fruit was.

When he swallowed, he suffered a sudden vertigo.

And found himself sitting inside a small space. Blades were attached to spinning pillars, creating a cage of sharp bladed iron and steel that whistled as they spun through the air. He started at the steel, noting the blades were unruned, not lit with any internal fire.

Ryder couldn't remember how long he had been sitting there, staring at the piece of fruit on the plate next to the glass of juice.

Days?

Weeks?

Months?

Ryder kept the warfire up, staring at the blades. He ignored the hunger, ignored the thirst, and struggled to his feet.

The Dark Matron stood over Ryder Black, watching the young warfired shiver. He was curled up in the fetal position, his warfire pulsing across his body. The younger witches stroked his skin, some with their bare hands, others with soft cloths, singing softly to the young warfired.

"Survive," The Dark Matron whispered to herself, watching the warfired youth shiver as he underwent the fever.

"Survive, Black Ryder," she whispered into the shadows.