House BlackWing: Awakening

Chapter Fifteen

The board between us wasn’t just wood and squares. It was carved obsidian and pale ivory, the pieces shaped like ravens and serpents—BlackWing against Vulkarin, locked in silent war. The chamber smelled faintly of oiled stone and old fire, banners of Raven’s crest stirring in a draft from the high windows. Twin suns leaked through the slits, one gold, one dying red, casting mismatched shadows across the table.

Within a dozen moves I recognized a Bobby Fischer match I’d once seen on Earth. By the time Derek slid his rook into place, I knew I was walking on its losing side.

It wasn’t the board that unsettled me. It was his voice.

“Lord Raven has told you about Vulkarin’s designs on your world,” Derek said, nudging a pawn forward with the precision of a soldier loading a rifle. “Ugly business. You’re cousins to us by blood, and to Vulkarin’s line as well—though I expect that thought curdles your stomach.

“We’ve drawn Doms from Earth before. You carry the potential of both Great Houses—good and evil. That Raven chose to test that in you is no small thing.”

His eyes, cold steel-gray, never left mine.

“You’re a warrior,” he continued. “Not skilled when you entered the pit, but spirited. My loyalty is to Raven first. But I owe you a loyalty too, as a brother-in-arms.”

“I don’t understand.” Pots clattered faintly in the kitchens beyond, the smell of honey and bread drifting. “Raven said Earth was under BlackWing’s protection. Vulkarin wouldn’t risk it. Gabriella told me the rivalry’s been going on for years. He wouldn’t dare provoke Raven—not with our crude nukes in play.”

Derek’s mouth curved humorlessly. His pawn advanced. My counter left a line open. His bishop loomed like a knife’s edge, my king already trapped.

“I’ve been to your world,” he said lightly. “Holley and I swam at your Great Barrier Reef. Strange creatures. One bloats when threatened, spines out, pretending to be deadly. Most predators pass it by.

“I speared a few. Delicious.”

His smile never touched his eyes.

He tapped a knight against the table, each beat like a drum. “Did you hear of the plague that struck BlackWing?”

“Gabriella mentioned it. Said it was need-to-know, and I didn’t. People died. Then the vaccine. I was given the shot when I arrived.”

“Scuttlebutt says we didn’t make that cure. We bought it. Raven chose to save his people and let the army weaken rather than watch the House die. If that rumor’s true—how long could we hold Earth if Vulkarin pressed?”

The chill cut deeper than the game. “You’re saying BlackWing couldn’t defend Earth.”

“I said nothing of the kind.” Smooth words, but his gaze stayed locked.

The knight landed before my king. Checkmate.

Derek leaned in, voice low. “Sometimes survival looks a lot like bluffing, my friend.”

The silence pressed heavy—until the kitchen erupted.

Ciara’s shout: “Mousy brown roots!”

Holley’s reply: “Trying to kill my Master!”

Then the crash of iron pans.

We were moving before thought.

Derek hit the door first, sidearm drawn. I caught up with a throwing knife in hand. He gave me a glance, I nodded, and he kicked the door open.

Flour burst outward in a choking cloud. The heat of the ovens made it hang like smoke.

As the haze cleared, details snapped into place: Holley’s neat braid had unraveled, hair jutting in flour-dusted tufts. Ciara’s Black Disc gleamed stark against her throat, a black mark in the chaos.

They were locked on the floor, fists in hair, hands at throats. Honey gleamed amber on their skin, egg yolk ran across the flagstones, milk soured in a spreading pool. Blood striped their arms in thin lines.

No intruder. Just fury.

“Holley—release her!” Derek barked.

“Ciara—let go!” I echoed.

They pried apart, ragged and dripping, their eyes still burning.

Derek and I shared a look: Now what?

I lowered the knife. “Ciara, Holley came to help you cook, not fight. Explain.”

“She tried to sabotage my honey-dust cakes, Master.”

Holley snapped back, voice sharp: “She tried to murder you, Master!”

The word murder cracked the silence like a whip.

“This better be good,” I said.

Ciara’s jaw tightened. “She changed the recipe. My mother’s recipe. A gift for Lord Raven. She would have ruined it.”

“Master,” Holley cut in, eyes wet but blazing, “she would have killed you. She was going to use ginger.”

Derek’s sigh told me the truth before his words did.

“And that matters why?” I asked.

His smile was grim. “I’m allergic. The turn-blue-and-die kind.”

Ciara’s lips parted. “Uh-oh.”

For a heartbeat, we all stared at each other—two women dripping with honey and flour, two warriors standing armed in a kitchen battlefield. Then the absurdity broke me. A laugh slipped out. Derek followed. Then Holley. Then Ciara. Soon, the four of us were doubled over in the wreckage, laughter shaking the walls.

But even as it echoed, I knew the laughter couldn’t reach deeper wounds. Flour could be swept away. Scars could not.

When it faded, Derek’s voice was iron again. “You will scrub this kitchen spotless. Cakes for Lord Raven, original recipe—one batch without ginger. The room, the tools, yourselves. We’ll inspect with white gloves. If it’s not perfect, it’s your ass. Sir Wildcard—anything to add?”

“Only this: repeat it, and my submissive faces thirty lashes in the square.”

“And mine beside her,” Derek added.

Both lowered their heads.

Derek holstered his pistol, voice easing. “Come, Sir Wildcard. There’s a tavern nearby serving a new drink. I’m buying.”

“What’s it called?”

He smirked back at the wreckage. “Honey mead.”

---

Hours later the kitchen had gone quiet. Only the scrape of cloth on stone and the hiss of the oven remained. Honey baked into stubborn streaks that smelled sweet-sour in the heat. Lanternlight stretched their shadows long across the floor.

Ciara finally broke the silence. “I guess I owe you an apology, huh?”

Holley wrung out a rag, water dripping onto her bare feet. “No more than I owe you. I should’ve explained Derek’s allergy instead of just forbidding you.”

Ciara’s hand rose to the Black Disc at her throat, cold against her skin. “You have to understand… when I was the property of Master Kael—” the name made her flinch, “—had I changed something like that, I’d have been beaten bloody. Things are different here. Better. So much better.”

Holley scrubbed at a honey stain. “Mind if I ask? What was it really like under Vulkarin?”

Ciara’s voice turned flat. “You weren’t trained. You were broken. Here, they guide a submissive. There, you were beaten into whatever shape your Master wanted. Your own wishes meant nothing.”

“And yet you stayed?”

“Because the collar meant someone was responsible. I thought it meant someone cared.” She wrung her rag until water ran between her fingers. “The Great Hall taught me otherwise.”

Holley set the bucket down with a thud. “The beatings you must have taken…”

“In Vulkarin, a sub is judged by how much pain she’ll endure. And I was one of Kael’s best.” Her mouth twisted. “Words that still taste foul.”

The silence after was thick. Only the drip of water filled it.

Finally, Ciara’s mouth curved faintly. “Strange. They call BlackWing weak. Say a sub can run roughshod over her Master, that he’s powerless to stop her. But I’ve seen no weakness here.”

Holley’s grin spread. “I know. Once Derek told me to wash dishes before he came home. He came back early. I got bratty and told him if he wanted them done, he could give it his best shot.” She rubbed her backside, laughing. “He gave it his best shot. Quite a few of them. Nothing that broke the skin, but I could’ve heated bathwater by sitting in it.”

They laughed together, the tension loosening.

Holley caught her breath. “So how long until you get that black abomination off your neck? You strike me as about as untrustworthy as I am a switch.”

Ciara’s hand lingered on the Disc. “That’s up to Raven. Only he can change a collar. Until then, I’ll serve Wildcard however he allows—on my feet, my knees…” She trailed off. Holley understood without the last word. “But not while I wear this.”

“Why not?”

“Because he may not change it. I may wear this till I die. Even that’s better than another hour under Vulkarin. But he deserves pride in his submissive. This mark takes that away. Once it’s gone, all things are possible. Not before.”

“You love him already, don’t you.”

Ciara’s eyes softened. “He found me broken. No one else would’ve touched me. He gave me shelter, food, work—demanding nothing. I wondered if he even liked women until Dr. Harry told me he’d ordered him not to touch me. Damn him.”

They giggled, the heaviness breaking for a moment.

“My health improves every day,” Ciara said. “When Dr. Harry gives the okay… then I’ll serve him as I’ve dreamed.”

Holley muttered, scrubbing. “Fragile, sure. I’ll have a black eye tomorrow to show how fragile you are.”

“Sorry, sister.” Ciara passed her a fresh cloth. “If it helps, I’ll have a few new scars for my collection. Not that I need any more.”

Holley smiled faintly, shaking her head. “Sometimes I wonder why we do it.”

“Do what?”

“Serve them with such devotion. Doms in general. Don’t you ever wonder?”

Ciara scrubbed slower, eyes distant. “I did once. But then I remembered what an older Sister told me.”

Holley leaned closer. “What?”

Ciara’s voice dropped, certain.

“She said: For women like us, it’s hard to live with the collar… but far harder to live without it.”

Her fingers brushed the Black Disc again. It pressed cold into her throat, heavier than iron, yet the faintest tremor of hope stirred beneath it. Someday, she thought, the weight might fall away. Until then, she carried both burden and promise.