Graduation Ceremony

Keszriin’s Chataurvvin picnics were the stuff of legend, but the one she’d arranged for Ashenivir that day had been a quiet one. Just the five of them, secreted away in a perfect grove of young zurkhwood stalks, with narrow nightlight fungi providing soft, faintly pulsing illumination. They were deeper into the fungal forest than could entirely be called safe, but they were all wizards of no small ability, and besides, the Myconids never came up this far. The worst they had to worry about was a giant centipede or two taking an interest in their food.

Ashenivir was glad for the peace of it, and that Keszriin had taken to heart his dislike for the grand designs she’d had the last time he’d been poised to graduate. He was less glad at the extravagant gifts she’d presented him with. It was nothing to her, with House Eilist’tra’s coffers at her disposal, but receiving such things always made him uncomfortable.

Moonstone earrings, enchanted with Eilistraeen blessings of protection and good fortune, now decorated his ears. And a new cloak too, also enchanted; it would shift through whatever style was fashionable as he—or rather, as Keszriin—wished it. She liked playing dress-up with him, given half the chance. It was folded away in his bag now, over by the remains of the picnic. He and Keszriin lay side by side on the blanket, on their backs with their ankles hooked together.

“Feeling okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” Ashenivir replied. Keszriin knocked the toe of her boot against his.

“You sure about that? You got through the exams alright, but if you go off the deep end again about the ceremony—”

“I’m alright, Keszriin, I promise. If anything, I’m excited.”

There was a shriek from the edge of the grove, and the sound of magic ricocheting off an arcane shield. Dresvan and Pellanue had wandered over there a while ago, certain they’d seen a rare moth, and tipsily determined to catch it. Vuzree had gone after them, though whether for supervision or entertainment, Ashenivir wasn’t certain.

“Don’t burn the damn forest down!” Keszriin shouted, and was rewarded with a chorus of cursing. “Idiots.”

She reached over and linked her fingers into Ashenivir’s, lifting their hands into the fading duskglow. It was getting late, and even accomplished wizards knew to be careful in Chataurvvin at night.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ashenivir said. “You know where I live, you can visit whenever you like.”

“I know, but it’s not the same. And your Matron will be there, waggling her eyebrows at us.”

Ashenivir sighed. It wouldn’t be the same. Keszriin and the others might visit, but they’d still be apprentices doing the thing he loved the most, and he’d be stuck weaving decorations for the Zauvym estate and keeping his mother company.

And he wouldn’t be able to see Rizeth at all.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Keszriin asked quietly.

“Nothing, just…” He turned his and Keszriin’s clasped hands in the fading light. Pale lilac against darker violet. “Keszriin…how do you know if you like someone?”

“You know how you know, you like plenty of people, myself included.” She shifted onto her side, raising an eyebrow. “Or are you talking about romance? If you’re crushing on someone you legally have to tell me.”

“That’s not a law.”

“It’s best friend law—come on, spill!”

Ruby eyes in an angular face. The brief flicker of a sharp smile and the rarer curve of a soft one. Hands around his wrists and his throat; punishment, praise, and pride. A mark on his neck and I don’t want it to be over and he still didn’t know whose mind that thought had belonged to.

“No-one, I just…how do you know?”

“I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but I suppose…” Keszriin thought for a moment. “It’s a warm feeling. When I have a crush, it’s like there are moths in my chest and my heart is a light. Sometimes it’s almost like terror, but a good kind, you know? And then you ask them out and they’re straight and you have to go cry into your sister’s expensive imported chocolates for a few days.”

“And then it goes away?”

“Having a crush? Mm, after a while. I imagine it doesn’t if you’re really in love, but who has time for that?” She got an impish look on her face. “Though your Matron’s still convinced we’re in love.”

Ashenivir groaned.

“Don’t remind me. She still thinks we’re getting married at some point.”

“Oh, that’s no trouble, we can have a wedding—I’ll run off with the presiding priestess and cause a huge scandal, it’ll be wonderful.” Keszriin bumped her nose against his.“Is this why you keep panicking about leaving after graduation? Is there someone at the Arcanum?”

“It…” He had to fight to keep his hand from going to his collar. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel, it’s…confusing.”

He was just happy to be a good submissive, wasn’t he? Proud that he’d impressed Rizeth well enough as Ra’soltha to earn the mark now burned into his skin.

“Well, if you ever want to tell me, I promise I won’t judge.” She sat up, fluffing out her hair. “Unless it’s still that stupid infatuation with the Archbastard, then I will judge.”

“It’s not Master Velkon’yss.” Ashenivir busied himself with packing away the picnic things so she wouldn’t see him lying. But it wasn’t a lie, was it? Even if the idea made his face heat, any talk of his love-life always did, and Rizeth was not a part of that. He didn’t have a crush; that would be ridiculous, it would be completely absurd, it would be—

The warmth in his chest whenever he remembered the mark. How naked he felt without his collar. The way his heart leapt whenever a note ended attend at once. Moths filling his ribcage when he thought of Rizeth smiling; when he drew that rare, soft laugh from his Master. The way it felt when Rizeth stroked his hair, let him stay in his lap after a scene and fade into reverie.

Why do I want him so much when I’m already his? I don’t need anything more, this doesn’t make any sense!

“Good, because you deserve someone nice.” Keszriin helped him finish packing everything away, and linked her arm into his as they headed over to the others. No moths had been caught—instead, Vuzree had Dresvan in a headlock, whilst Pella cackled in delight.

“Master Velkon’yss can be nice,” Ashenivir said. “If I was interested, which I’m not.”

“No, he can’t; he’s mean and sour and he doesn’t let anyone get away with anything. I’ve never seen him smile, not once! You need someone who fits you, someone sweet and caring,” Keszriin told him, thoroughly certain of her assessment of his needs. “I’d say Tolothan, but he really is too old for you. Just find a younger version of him.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Someone who fit him—fit him like what? Like an enchanted cloak and expensive jewellery?

Or like manacles and a collar?

---

The assembly hall had been rendered into a glowing shrine to success. Driftglobes illuminated the large stage at the far end, and the walls on either side were decorated with banners depicting the eight schools of magic. Behind the stage itself hung the Arcanum’s banner: Mystra’s star amidst a galaxy of smaller points of light; magical knowledge and those who flocked to it. The rising rows of seats that ringed the auditorium were crammed with the friends and family of those graduating today, and before the stage were rows of benches that had been brought out of their extradimensional storage space and filled with nervous, excited apprentices.

Ashenivir wished Keszriin and the others were with him. He knew many of the students around him, though none could be called close friends. Most had entered the Arcanum long before him; he might have been older, but he hadn’t studied as long as they had. What if there had been a mistake? Had he somehow tricked his Masters—the Archmage!—into letting him graduate so quickly? How could he possibly have learned all he had to learn, be as skilled and powerful as he should be—it hadn’t even been a full decade!

Just breathe, he told himself, pressing a hand to the back of his neck. His hair hung in a loose half-braid, completely covering the mark, but it was good just to feel where it lay. Not as good as his Master’s hand, but good. Could Rizeth feel his nerves? Probably not, and Ashenivir couldn’t see him anyway—the Masters were up on one of the risers, too far for him to make out any individual faces.

Archmage T’sonri stepped out onto the stage, and a hush fell over the hall. Ashenivir tried to pay attention, really he did—the speech just washed over him, something about success and hard work, the precious gift of magic and Mystra’s blessings. And in no time at all, apprentices were being called up, one by one, to receive their Master’s mantles and pins.

Ashenivir already had one Master’s mark and now, as he shook the Archmage’s hand, he received another.

“Congratulations, apprentice Zauvym,” Archmage T’sonri said, eyeing him intently. “I look forward to seeing what you do next.”

Ashenivir thought he said thank you. He hoped he said thank you, because the next thing he knew he was off the stage, and he’d been almost last because they’d been called up by House name and then there was Keszriin and Pellanue and Dresvan and Vuzree and he couldn’t even breathe, Keszriin was squeezing him so tightly.

“I’m so proud of you!” she squealed. “My clever little Shen!”

“I’m older and taller than you,” he said, laughing.

Pellanue ruffled his hair. “You really went and did it! Way to make the rest of us look bad.”

Ashenivir extricated himself from Keszriin’s arms and accepted hugs from the twins, a handshake from Vuzree. He rubbed at the back of his neck, his smile as much for that as for the silver star pinned to his new, midnight-blue mantle.

All around them, the hall was shifting; benches cleared away, drow flooding down from the auditorium seats as musicians took over the stage. Snippets of bright, sweet tunes wound around the rising chatter—the ceremony was just one part of the graduation, and it was the party afterwards most were more excited for. The driftglobes shifted their hues down to low blues and soft lavender as laughter and conversation filled the room.

Keszriin tugged his hand, pulling him down to better hear her over the noise. “I really am proud of you,” she said. She was misty-eyed, which he didn’t point out because he knew she’d hate it. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He kissed her forehead, a little misty-eyed himself. Loving her just made sense—she was his best friend, had been by his side almost his whole life. Why couldn’t all his feelings be so clear and easy to understand?

“Ashenivir! There you are! And Lady Eilist’tra, how lovely to see you again—it’s been far too long.”

Ashenivir straightened up, and returned Matron Illiavra’s smile with something false enough to pass for real. Her knowing look told him she’d seen him kiss Keszriin and had misinterpreted it, as usual.

“Matron Illiavra. Priestess Nilaena, Master Zauvym the elder.” Keszriin bowed politely and gave Ashenivir’s arm a brief squeeze. “I’ll fetch us something to drink.”

Ashenivir didn’t blame her for slipping away. Besides, he was used to dealing with his family alone.

Nilaena—preciously beautiful in her white dress and silver bracelets—flung her arms around him. “Ashenivir, I’m so happy for you!” she exclaimed, beaming until Matron Illiavra cleared her throat. At once she drew away, head down, all exuberance gone. You won’t have to do that anymore, not once I’m home.

Dirius, dressed for the occasion in his own Master’s mantle, his Arcanum pin somewhat tarnished, offered a hand. “Welcome to the ranks, little brother,” he said, shaking Ashenivir’s hand with a faint smile and fainter grip. “Enjoy the party while you can, it’s all hard work from here on out.”

“It was all hard work to get here in the first place,” Ashenivir said. Dirius chuckled.

“True enough. From what I hear, you put in far more effort than I did. It’s clearly paid off—there are whispers even the Archmage has an eye on your progress.”

Ashenivir ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Exaggerated, I’m certain.”

Matron Illiavra stepped between them and took Ashenivir by the shoulders to examine him. Crystal beads on silver filigree glinted in the coronet of her braided hair, matched by a waterfall of them over the bodice of her silver and white gown.

“How wonderful you look,” she declared. “A real wizard at last, and second of our House. Truly a momentous day for House Zauvym!”

“Yes, mother.”

She embraced him lightly, giving him a brief waft of her perfume—some sharp, expensive scent—and brushed her lips dryly against his cheek.

“I’m so looking forward to your coming home,” she said. “Go and enjoy your party now, and see if you can’t find where Lady Eilist’tra has gone—I’m certain she’ll be missing you already.” She smoothed out his mantle, brushing off imaginary specks. “Perhaps I shall find you again later. I’d like a few words with the Archmage first, if he will deign to share them with me. As Dirius says, it seems he has some interest in your progress, which may be beneficial to us.”

“Of course, mother. Please, don’t let me keep you.”

Matron Illiavra patted his cheek and swept away, motioning for her children to follow. Dirius gave Ashenivir a nod as he passed, but Nilaena hung back.

“I’m glad you’ll be coming home soon,” she said. “I…I’ve missed you.”

“Nilaena!” their mother called, and both of them winced.

Ashenivir took her hands and kissed her knuckles. “Go on, don’t get in trouble because of me.” She nodded, flashed the barest glimmer of a smile, and scurried off after Matron Illiavra. His family vanished into the crowd, and Ashenivir sagged, letting out an exhausted sigh. Goddess, he wanted a drink.

No, he wanted more than that. Music washed over him, louder now, spawning pockets of dancing across the floor, while driftglobes wove trails of magical light around servers with gleaming trays of food and drink. He couldn’t see Keszriin or the others anywhere, but he wasn’t really looking for them. As the graduation party surged around him, Ashenivir tangled his fingers into his collar and went in search of his Master.

---

Lyzira plucked two flutes of shimmerwine from a passing tray and pressed one into Rizeth’s hand. He swirled the glass idly as she threw most of hers back in one swallow, unbuttoning the collar of her formal shirt as she did so. Below, the celebration portion of the ceremony had bloomed into full swing—the two of them were still up in the Master’s seats, though many of their colleagues had already wandered down to join the party and congratulate their students. Rizeth was already contemplating slipping away. Large, loud gatherings were not his favoured events, though he supposed he had best make his rounds and congratulate his own students before he vanished for the evening.

Lyzira nudged him with her elbow, motioning at the crowd with her chin. “I think your pet project is looking for you.”

“I do wish you would not keep referring to him like that.”

“And lose out on the face you pull whenever I do? Not a chance.” She grinned. “You must be pleased he finally made it, after last year.”

“He recovered quite well,” Rizeth said. He had worried regardless, and been hideously relieved when Ashenivir had proven unharmed by his modified spell, and had progressed through his examinations without incident. They hadn’t had a scene since the marking, though, for the exams took precedence over all else, and Rizeth longed to lay hands on his Ra’soltha again.

“This stuff is good.” Lyzira threw back the last of her shimmerwine and immediately looked around for another. All the servers had gone, moving on to places with more than two people in them. “Shame they never break it out except for celebrations like this. Almost makes me want a wedding for the excuse to indulge.”

“Do not develop a drinking problem, Master Xiltael, it would be most inconvenient.”

“As if I’d dare, with a friend like you looming over my shoulder.” She set her glass down on the seat behind them, then stole his. “Not for much longer though, right? Are you still planning on going to the surface after this?”

Rizeth hesitated a moment, not long enough for her to notice, then nodded.

“Good. You deserve a break. How long are you going, do you think—quick bit of fresh air, or multi-year sabbatical? I need to know if I can get away with stealing your good office supplies.”

“I have not yet decided,” he replied, ignoring her nonsense. The music swelled, magical amplification filling the hall with a rising melody, and Rizeth watched Ashenivir dodging around clusters of revellers. His dark blue mantle set him apart now, and Rizeth couldn’t help picturing how it would look discarded on his bedroom floor.

“You should take him with you.”

“Excuse me?” He turned back to Lyzira.

“Apprentice Zauvym. Take him on your trip—make it a research jaunt or something. It’d be good for him to see the surface. And getting out of the city might get that nonsense about House wizardry out of his head.”

“It is what he wants.”

Lyzira snorted.

“No it’s not, it’s what his mother wants. Have you met Matron Zauvym? I have—that woman is a little dictator.” She polished off Rizeth’s drink and rolled up her sleeves. “Right. I’m going to dance and get ill advisedly tipsy. You’re obviously not coming with me, so enjoy your evening. Give Master Zauvym my congratulations if you run into him before I do.”

Master Zauvym. Rizeth chewed the phrase over as Lyzira made her way down to join the throng. Ashenivir had earned the title, of course, but it sounded strange to him regardless. A quick scan of the crowd and a brush of divination to the mark and Rizeth found him again, in a huddle with his friends. The five of them were clinking glasses, all smiling.

You could just ask. She’s right, it would be good for him.

He glanced at the empty glasses Lyzira had left behind, briefly wishing he’d drunk his now. He couldn’t, he shouldn’t, he’d been over this with himself time and again, but…

Just ask. Don’t expect anything, don’t demand, just ask.

Rizeth set his shoulders, and headed down into the hall.

---

Ashenivir stumbled into Keszriin and the others before he managed to track down Rizeth, and his search faltered as he found himself caught up in music and drink and general celebration. He didn’t dance when they asked, though. Dresvan and Pellanue complained bitterly, whining and pulling at him until Keszriin shooed them away. She slipped her hand into his and they tapped fingers in time, pad to pad, watching Dresvan trip over himself trying to keep up with Vuzree. Keszriin had loaned them a dress for the night, and they looked so happy, spinning the skirt around their legs in a wild dance, that it made Ashenivir ache in a way he hadn’t for years.

“Maybe one day, huh?” Keszriin said, leaning against him.

“Maybe.”

“You know it’s not going to do anything, right? There’s no magic in it.” That was what she always said when he refused to dance. She wanted him to try again, knew how much he’d loved it, what it had meant to him. He shook his head.

“I know, just…not tonight.”

Ashenivir plucked another drink from a passing tray. He’d had more than a few already, and Goddess knew he was a lightweight, but that could go hang. He had no classes tomorrow, no classes ever again, and nothing more pressing in his future than preparing for his brother’s wedding. He swallowed half the glass—he’d rather not dwell on that tonight.

Pellanue whirled back to them, curls flying, eyes bright above a wide grin, and clinked her glass against Ashenivir’s. “Three cheers to the loss of our collective motivation!”

Dresvan swept up beside her, face shiny with exertion, and unfastened yet another button of his shirt—it was open almost to the navel now. He smacked a kiss to Ashenivir’s cheek, then stole Pellanue’s drink before she could take a sip.

“To our most beloved bookworm,” he said. Pella glared at him until Keszriin snatched another glass of shimmerwine from a passing tray and pressed it into her hands. Vuzree joined them, far less sweaty than Dresvan but still flushed, his hair in long tangles over his bare shoulders.

“Are we toasting you? Where’s my drink?”

Ashenivir laughed, and once Vuzree had been provided with a fresh drink, they all knocked their glasses together and downed the contents. His head was swimming, and when he lowered his glass, he went indescribably dizzy for a moment, his heart stuttering.

Rizeth.

His Master drew to a halt by their group, and for a moment it was as though a silencing spell had fallen. All Ashenivir could do was stare at him. Then Keszriin stepped defensively between them.

“No. No work tonight. He’s done working.”

“I am aware, apprentice Eilist’tra. I merely came to offer Master Zauvym my congratulations.”

Master Zauvym. He had to get used to that now, didn’t he? It sounded so wrong, coming from Rizeth. Ashenivir gently pushed Keszriin out of the way.

“Thank you, Master Velkon’yss.” Great Goddess, he wanted to kiss him. Ashenivir swallowed the urge and tried not to stare too obviously at Rizeth’s mouth. He was already flushed from drink, so at least he didn’t have that giveaway to worry about.

“You have been an exemplary student, and I hope your fellows will follow in your footsteps,” Rizeth said. “Aside from congratulations, however, I also have an offer for you, if you should be interested. I will be visiting the World Above in a few month’s time—a research trip, of sorts. I will have need of an assistant, and you are a fine candidate for such a position.”

Ashenivir blinked at him, wishing his head was clearer. The surface? Rizeth was leaving?

“I shall leave you to your celebrations,” Rizeth finished. “Consider the offer at your leisure. Good evening to you all.”

The second he was gone, Keszriin grabbed Ashenivir’s sleeve. “Don’t even think about it!”

“You’re done here, the Archbastard can’t order you around anymore.” Dresvan clung to his other arm, as if the pair of them could anchor him to the Underdark.

“I won’t, I won’t,” Ashenivir said, laughing. Considering. “Besides, I promised my Matron, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but when Master Velkon’yss calls, you come running,” Pellanue said.

Vuzree nodded their agreement. “You’ve been hot for teacher for years.”

“It was just tutoring,” Ashenivir protested. “And like Dresvan said, I’m done now, I graduated. I’ll be House Zauvym’s wizard, and that’s more than enough for me.”

It wasn’t. He knew it, they all knew it, and he’d probably never sounded less convincing in his life, but they were all also drunk enough not to care. They fell easily back into dancing and laughter, and Ashenivir joined them as much as he could.

The surface…

What was more, the surface with Rizeth. His hand drifted to the back of his neck. I don’t want it to be over.

It wasn’t just about the Arcanum. It had never been just about the Arcanum.

Ashenivir took another drink from a passing tray and searched out Rizeth in the crowd. His Master didn’t leave, not right away. He had other students to congratulate, presenting a polite front even though Ashenivir knew he’d rather be anywhere but here, among the noise and the crush of bodies.

Three drinks later, he was thinking that he would very much like to celebrate with his Master and wondering just how much trouble he’d be in if he kissed him right there in the middle of the hall, when he realised Rizeth was leaving. He was cutting through the crowd with purpose now, making for the door, his Master was leaving!

“I’m gonna…going to get some…air,” Ashenivir told Keszriin, who only grinned and waved him off, engrossed in her cavorting with Vuzree. Ashenivir stumbled across the hall, losing sight of Rizeth long before he made it to the exit, but that was no matter—his Master would only be heading for his quarters.

Ashenivir knew his way there well enough.

---

Rizeth was halfway to the south staircase when Ashenivir caught up with him. He was flushed, eyes shining; he tried to bow politely and stumbled, catching himself with a scuff of his foot. When he straightened up, a too-delighted smile tugged at his mouth, erasing any attempt at formality.

“Master Zauvym,” Rizeth greeted him. He pulled a face.

“No, no, thank you—I didn’t like that the first time around, I still don’t like it.”

“It is your title now, you had best get used to hearing it,” Rizeth said, enjoying the frown that creased Ashenivir’s face as he tried to work out if he was being teased or not. He shook his head, a little too wildly.

“Not from you. You can’t…you’re not allowed to call me that.” He moved closer as they neared the stairwell. “I’m your apprentice.”

“Is that so, Master Zauvym?” Rizeth said, and Ashenivir attempted a scowl that came out more of a pout.

“Yes. And I’m your…your…” he stumbled over his words until his hand found his collar. “Ra’soltha.”

“Behave yourself.” They were alone at the edge of the stairwell, but Ashenivir’s voice was too loud, echoing off the walls. Rizeth fixed him with a sharp look, and he bit his lip over a coy smile, his fingers now firmly hooked into the links of his collar.

“No,” he said. “I graduated. I don’t want to behave, I want to celebrate.”

“It seems to me you have celebrated enough.”

Ashenivir was no more than a foot away from him now. Too close, for where they were. Not close enough, for what Rizeth wanted.

“Not with you,” Ashenivir’s voice dropped to a low whisper, husky and delicious. He had new moonstone studs in his ears, a gleaming invitation for Rizeth’s teeth. He shifted his weight and angled his neck, letting his hair spill over one shoulder. His collar glittered in the low sconce light.

Goddess, he was dangerous.

“I believe,” Rizeth said slowly, “that I have a book of yours in my quarters. You ought to collect it before you vacate the Arcanum.”

It took Ashenivir a moment to realise what he was saying—his face lit up when he worked it out, glorious as a sunrise, and Rizeth wanted to pull him into his arms and kiss him senseless.

“At once, Master?”

“At once,” Rizeth said, and dropped into the stairwell.

---

He was supposed to kneel, and he was supposed to take his clothes off. Those were the rules, and Ashenivir followed neither because as soon as he stepped through the door he threw himself at his Master, capturing his mouth in a clumsy kiss.

“Ra’soltha.” Warning in his tone, heavy with the promise of repercussions. Ashenivir didn’t care. He’d wanted to kiss Rizeth for hours and now he was and nothing mattered but the taste of him. He wrapped his arms around Rizeth’s neck.

“Master, are you pleased with me?”

“I am rapidly becoming less so, you disobedient creature,” Rizeth said. But his hands were at Ashenivir’s waist, holding him close—he wasn’t in trouble, how could he be tonight?

“When my Master is pleased,” he said, rocking his hips, grinding against Rizeth in a way he never would have dared to sober, “he rewards me.”

“Does he now?”

Rizeth made no move to stop him as Ashenivir tugged at his robes, cursing the layers of formalwear with their too many fastenings that conspired to mock his clumsy fingers. “My Master is fair.” Finally, bare skin, a warm and perfect expanse beneath his palms. “He rewards me when I’m good.”

“And what does he do when you are not?” Rizeth caught his hair and yanked his head back, making him gasp. Ashenivir found his gaze, held it, skin prickling with heat. Just that look was enough to make him hard.

“He punishes me,” he whispered.

“Bed, now,” Rizeth said. “And if you are still clothed by the time I get there, you will lose your voice, your hands, and your eyes for the night. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

His Master’s mantle and pin ended up scattered on Rizeth’s floor along with the rest of his clothes—he nearly tripped face-first into the dresser in his rush to undress. He flung himself to the bed and wrapped his hands around the frame, shaking his already tangled hair out of his face as Rizeth entered. He had removed the rest of his clothes whilst Ashenivir had been scrambling to undress, and Ashenivir greedily drank in the sight of him.

“Tie me up, Master,” he begged, as Rizeth knelt between his legs. He spread them eagerly to Rizeth’s firm touch, his cock twitching in anticipation. “Please?”

“Not whilst you are like this.”

“I’ll be alright, you won’t hurt me, you can’t—I have your mark now, remember? I can’t even lie that it doesn’t hurt, but I wouldn’t anyway, I don’t lie to you because that’s the rule, and I trust you, I’m safe with you.” For the love of Mystra, shut up, Ashenivir! You’re making an idiot of yourself! But the words just kept coming, tumbling out of him. “It’s my graduation, I want to celebrate—you always say I should think about what I want, and I want my Master to tie me up and fuck me.”

“I am not putting you in rope right now,” Rizeth said firmly. His eyes flicked to where Ashenivir still gripped the bedframe. “But as you say, it is your graduation. Do not move.”

Someone who fits me, he thought dizzily, as Rizeth fastened the manacles carefully around his wrists. Then there was a hand between his legs, slick fingers pressing perfectly into him; he moaned and rocked up into Rizeth’s steady motions, the manacle chains clinking softly at his movement. But despite his increasingly breathless pleas, Rizeth kept his pace and held him down until he writhed with the want of more.

“Fuck me,” he panted, “Master, I want—”

Rizeth cut him off with a kiss that made his head spin, biting at his lip. “You think you’ll get what you want, after the way you behaved tonight?”

“Yes.” Ashenivir bit him back, bold and drunk and hungry. Rizeth’s mouth left a hot trail along his jaw, then came the sharp sting of teeth at his ear, worrying the stud there. Ashenivir’s breath stuttered, fluttering on a whine—there was something doubly delicious in Rizeth doing that tonight, tormenting him with the gift Keszriin had given him. Rizeth held him still like that, with teeth sunk into the soft flesh of his ear as he pushed into him in a sweet, slow stretch.

“What do you say when you get something you like?” Rizeth’s voice vibrated deliciously against his throat. “Remember your manners, Ra’soltha.”

“Thank you, Master,” Ashenivir said, and was rewarded with a snap of hips and the twisting rise of pleasure that accompanied it. He strained against his bonds—he wanted the restraint, he wanted to touch, he wanted Rizeth so badly it almost hurt.

“Harder, Master, please,” he begged. Rizeth obliged and tangled a hand into his hair, pulling hard. The spray of pain across his scalp was blissful; the hot, firm hand on his hip more perfect than anything. Why was it no-one else could ever do this for him? Why did no-one else ever understand that he wanted to hurt like this, feel like this, be like this?

And he was just supposed to leave it? Finish at the Arcanum, go home, never have this again, never see Rizeth again?

Actually, he thought, fuck that.

“I’m coming with you,” he gasped out. Rizeth didn’t slow, so Ashenivir wrapped his legs around his Master’s waist, holding him deep, forcing him still. “To the surface.”

“You should make that decision sober, Ra’soltha.”

“No. Sober Ashenivir is an idiot. I want to go. I want…I want…” There was something caught in his mouth, something too large to get out over his drink-heavy tongue. “It’s my choice, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Rizeth confirmed, and kissed him. Ashenivir greedily licked at his Master’s tongue, straining against the hand in his hair to make Rizeth pull him back into place. The fingers on his hip dug in harder—nothing felt as good as his Master’s hands on him, nothing ever had. Why did they ever have to stop touching?

He was breathless when Rizeth broke away.

“You do want me to come with you, don’t you?”

“I do,” Rizeth said. His mouth crooked up into that brief smile Ashenivir liked so much it made moths flutter in his chest. “I want you to come for me now.”

“I need you to touch me, Master.”

“I do not think you do. I think this is enough.” Rizeth slowed his pace to something beautifully agonising, each thrust hitting deep with perfect control. Ashenivir canted his hips in time, dug his heels into Rizeth’s back, and tried to find his breath through the white stars filling his head.

“Master, please,” he moaned. His hands clasped and unclasped, almost a spasm, and Rizeth put a gentle hand to his face. The thumb that brushed along his cheek, just beneath his eye, was so tender it didn’t seem to belong to the same person who was inflicting so much torment upon him. But that was it, though, wasn’t it, that contrast. Torment and pleasure, suffering and desire, all of him bending to his Master’s will.

The mark on the back of his neck seemed to burn. Tense heat gathered in his stomach, all his limbs heavy with it, desperate for release. Goddess, if Rizeth would only touch him, he’d be gone!

“Come for me, Ra’soltha,” Rizeth commanded again, and Ashenivir remembered in a rush all the times he had obeyed that command, a lightning bolt of recall that had him obeying it again now. Rizeth kissed him, swallowing his cry down to the last whimper. He clenched his fists against the overwhelm of the release, tugging at the manacles in short, sharp jerks, but his Master wasn’t done. For a moment he was free, then he found himself face down, screaming into the pillow as Rizeth fucked him hard into the bed.

Rizeth’s thumb brushed over his neck, across the mark, and Ashenivir was his and it was so impossibly good to belong to someone like this. He clawed at the sheets, the sounds of his delight muffled in the ruck of them, babbled thanks spilling from his lips as his Master came inside him. A moment later, Rizeth hauled him up by the hair so Ashenivir could see the fierce look on his face.

“I am so proud of you,” he growled, before dragging him into a deep, ferocious kiss. Ashenivir lit up all over, head spinning, heart pounding.

Sometimes it’s almost like terror, but a good kind, you know?

Oh, he could worry about what that meant later. He melted into his Master’s touch; Rizeth’s hand curved over the mark, and Ashenivir hummed happily against his lips. He had graduated. He was Rizeth’s.

He was Ra’soltha, and what could fit him better than that?

---

Ashenivir was a warm, pliant, foolish thing in his arms as Rizeth checked him over. Flickers of prestidigitation danced over his skin, cleaning him up, and he pawed at them with clumsy fingers until he toppled onto his back amidst the tangle of sheets.

“I’m coming with you,” he said again, words slurring—fuck-drunk now, on top of his intoxication. Impossible boy.

“Decide when your head is clear,” Rizeth said. He didn’t want him to. He wanted to snatch Ashenivir up and race to the surface right now, so he couldn’t take it back. Ashenivir shook his head.

“No. I’m going. I don’t…I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t care what my Matron wants.” He made a rude gesture at the ceiling, then flopped his arm over his face. “Fuck what my mother thinks.”

Rizeth suppressed a laugh. He’d never seen Ashenivir like this before. It was distressingly endearing.

“She’ll be angry, I expect,” Ashenivir continued, “but I don’t care. That’s a problem for Sober Ashenivir and he…is a long way away.”

“I can see that.”

“You see lots of things.” Ashenivir raised his arm and blinked at him with beautifully hazy eyes. “You’re very smart, Master, did you know?”

“I had an inkling. Come on, up now—you need to get to your bed and rest.” Rizeth tried to lift him, but he was suddenly a dead weight.

“Got a bed,” he mumbled, “m’staying here.”

And then, of course, he passed out.

Rizeth sighed. He contemplated shaking Ashenivir awake, packing him off to his quarters or at least into the care of his friends, but…

He gently brushed Ashenivir’s hair back from his face. In all the years of their arrangement he’d let him stay the night only once, after the marking, to make sure he was alright. He could do the same tonight.

It was something of a struggle to manhandle him under the covers, and he didn’t stir at all during the process. Oh, xi’hum. You are going to feel quite wretched in the morning.

He perched on the edge of the bed, watching Ashenivir sleep. He had asked, and in a miraculous turn, Ashenivir had said yes. Rizeth couldn’t stop a pleased thrill running through him at the thought of Ashenivir on the surface with him. There was so much he could show him, he could take him to—

No. Better not to get ahead of himself. One thing at a time, and there was much to organise before he could leave. He’d told Ashenivir a few months when he’d given the offer, and it would take at least that to arrange everything—time enough for him to change his mind.

He won’t. You know what he’s like when he sets his mind to something; he’s the most determined apprentice you’ve ever had.

Ashenivir mumbled something in his sleep, rolling to his front in a tangle of blankets. His hair spilled across the pillow, exposing his neck. Exposing the mark. Rizeth’s chest clutched at the sight of it; hot, possessive pride mixed with affection. My Ra’soltha.

He tugged the blankets back up over Ashenivir’s shoulders, then went to take reverie on his couch. Even as he lay there, he felt the urge to go back to the bed, curl around Ashenivir and hold him close—was bringing him to the surface really a good idea, when he craved so much more than what he could safely have? Probably not, but desire had long ago outweighed sense when it came to Ashenivir.

It took a while for reverie to come. His mind was too alert, and his gaze kept drifting to the bed and how good—how right—Ashenivir looked sprawled out in it. At last, though, fatigue won out over all, and his eyes drifted closed.

What the future held remained to be seen, but for now, he was content.

---

Dirius got married in Kuttragarten. The private grove had been transformed into a fey wonderland—fungal blooms sprouted in elaborate formations under the skilled hands of the kuttra’ih’aras druids, and a dozen or more driftglobes floated amidst glittering spores, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. From the delicate silk banners strung overhead, to the elegant blend of incense curling through the air, to the gentle plucking of lyre strings; every last element was arranged precisely and exactly to Matron Zauvym’s specifications.

Ashenivir tugged again at the too-tight sleeve of his new robes, and his mother batted his hand away.

“Stop fidgeting.” She went back to adjusting his hair, a frown creasing her brow. “I do wish you’d worn this up. You and Nilaena were supposed to match.”

“It doesn’t suit me like that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve always looked very nice with your hair up.” She finally stepped back, still not looking pleased. “Have it your way, I suppose, as you must have everything these days.”

This referring to the fact that he’d refused to take off his collar to match her gold-and-azure colour scheme. Silver didn’t suit, either the event or him, and she’d very nearly thrown a fit when he’d shown up with it on. The fact that he’d also refused to give a satisfactory reason as to why he wouldn’t remove it hadn’t helped matters, though he doubted the truth would have made things any better.

“After today, we’ll move your things into Dirius’ old room,” Matron Illiavra said. “It has his sanctum adjoining, so it’ll be easier for you to work.”

“Yes, mother.”

His stomach cramped with unease. He still hadn’t told her about Rizeth’s offer. Just under two months now until they were supposed to leave for the surface—time still to change his mind. To take the easy way out; not tell her, not go, do as he’d always intended and she’d always wanted. Make her happy.

His mother cast her eyes over him one last time, and sighed. “You’ll do, I suppose. Come along, they’ll be starting in a moment.”

He followed her to his place at the top of the grove, alongside Fellanistra’s parents. He stood to her left, Nilaena to her right—her golden children in their golden finery, the perfect picture of a perfect family. Ashenivir almost wanted to tell her right then and there, just to make the image shatter.

The presiding priestess stepped to the centre of the grove, hand raised, and a hush fell as the ceremony began. Ashenivir clapped along with everyone else as Dirius took Fellanistra’s hands, keeping their rhythm for the joining dance. The happy couple themselves lost it often enough, but both were so enamoured with one another that the lack of grace didn’t matter in the slightest. All that mattered was they were bound together now at last.

Though it was neither the time nor the place for such bitter emotions, Ashenivir couldn’t help feeling jealous of his brother. Free of their mother, with the woman he loved in his arms, finally forging a life of his own. Did guilt knot his stomach at leaving Ashenivir to take his place, or did only relief touch him now?

Those gathered soon joined the dance, and Ashenivir took himself off to one side to watch. He gnawed the inside of his lip, his eyes constantly drawn eastward to the towering column of the Arcanum. Less than two months. Could he slip away in the middle of the night, leave a note? Leave no note, even, just go? His mother would have a conniption, his sister hysterics, and his Master would march him right back to Mythen Thaelas to explain himself. Rizeth would never approve of such cowardly behaviour.

Dirius found him a half-hour later, and thrust a plate of food into his hands. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

“No,” Ashenivir admitted. Dirius chuckled.

“Some things never change, do they, little brother?”

Across the grove, Matron Illiavra had pulled Nilaena from the celebration to fuss with her hair. Ashenivir sighed. “No, they don’t.”

“Ashenivir.” Dirius drew his attention back. “Listen, you’re a better wizard than I am.”

“What? No, I—”

“You are. I’m not too proud to admit it,” Dirius said, though his smile was rueful. “You’ve done an incredible thing, and I know you only did it to please mother, but that doesn’t change the fact that you did it. You can take this House further than I ever could. Make something of us. We’ll never be House T’sonri, but with you…” He clasped Ashenivir’s shoulders. “With you, we might try. Right now everything’s wrapped up in the mines and that’s all well and good, but ore veins run dry. Build us a better foundation, Ashenivir. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“I…” Ashenivir looked at his brother’s face, all expectation and pride and hope, and the best he could manage was a half-truth. “I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I ask.” Dirius let him go. “Now, where’s that new wife of mine got to? I know I left her around here somewhere.”

Ashenivir picked at his food as his brother walked away. He could do it. He was a Master now, and powerful; even the Archmage had acknowledged his abilities. He could find a way to have House Zauvym make its mark, and all it would mean was giving his entire life to it, just like he always had. Once he returned from the surface, that would be his life. There was no escaping it.

His hand went to his collar, fingers tangling in the links.

Your life is yours to decide what to do with. You are the only one who gets to determine your future.

Perhaps his Master was right; perhaps not. All he knew was that if he didn’t go to the surface, he’d live with the regret burned into his bones forever. Once the wedding was over he’d tell his mother and she’d accept his decision because he’d give her no choice. No matter what future she had planned for him, it could wait. He was going to the surface with Rizeth—he was going there with his Master.

And when Ashenivir submitted to his Master, there was nothing in the world he couldn’t do.