Sorceress Silenced Chapter 1
Spent the last month or so working on and off on this. Not ABDL related *YET*, but I hope y'all enjoy anyways <3
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After weeks of wandering through valleys shrouded in mist and forests that twisted the mind as much as the path, the sorceress clad in crimson finally stood at the edge of a jagged cliff. Below, where the land sagged into the cliffside of black stone, laid the castle.
It was not merely built, it had grown from some sort of wicked magic. As if the mountain itself had decided to sharpen its innards into gothic architecture. Imps made of stone spiraled upward like claws raking at the sky, snagging the low, bruised clouds. Windows glimmered with an inner, malignant light. Some flickered as though something inside had just drawn back from the glass. The air around it smelled faintly of lavender and cold iron, and every gust of wind carried whispers that were not entirely wind.
The sorceress clenched their trembling hands into fists. Not out of fear, no. Out of pure unadulterated excitement. She had heard stories that seemed to venture more and more into urban legend and myth. But here it was, The Umbral Fortress in all its glory.
Fatigue pulled at her limbs, but the sight before her sent a fresh current of power surging through her veins. Every mission, every clue, every sleepless night of divination had pointed to this place, this fortress that legend insisted could not be found unless it wished to be.
And now it stood revealed, waiting.
A shiver of fear or triumph, it was hard to tell, passed through the sorceress as she took her first step toward the dark castle, ready to claim the answers buried in its shadowed heart.
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Inside the innermost tower of her castle, a witch lounged sideways across her throne, one leg dangling off the carved obsidian armrest. A scrying orb hovered lazily above her palm, drifting in and out of focus as if it, too, shared her boredom.
She sighed, a long, theatrical sigh that echoed through the empty halls.
“Another day, another century of nothing,” she muttered, flicking her fingers to coax the orb into showing something interesting. It only showed the dense fog surrounding her castle. It always showed fog.
The torches along the walls crackled, struggling against the castle’s natural gloom. Her familiars, a shadowy raven and a blood imp were asleep on the chandelier. Even the cursed suits of armor stood a little slouched, as if exhausted by inactivity.
“I swear,” she groaned, tilting her head back, “if another magic user doesn’t hurry up, I’m turning everyone in that village into frogs out of sheer principle—”
A thunderous BOOM shook the front gates below. A shockwave of heat rolled through the castle, rattling windows and sending her familiar shrieking into the air. The scrying orb snapped to clarity, displaying a plume of flame and the smoking ruins of her castle gates.
The witch blinked. She sat up. Raised an eyebrow.
“…Was that a fucking fireball?”
Another distant explosion answered for her.
A slow grin curled across her face, sharp and delighted. “Well,” she purred, rising from her throne and summoning her staff to one hand and a wand to the other, “it seems my day just improved.”
With a sweep of her cloak, she glided toward the stairs. Finally someone had come to entertain her.
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“Sorry about your front gate,” the sorceress shouted smugly to no one. “Couldn’t find a way in, so I had to make one.”
The sorceress stepped through the shattered remains of the front gate and into a hall that looked like it had been designed by someone who enjoyed confusing intruders for sport.
The first chamber of the castle stretched wide and tall, its ceiling lost in shadows that writhed like living ink. A grand winding staircase dominated the center, spiraling upward in a dizzying corkscrew of black marble. Each step gleamed as if freshly polished, though the air smelled faintly of dust and old spells.
On either side of the staircase, hallways zigzagged sharply, breaking off at impossible angles. One turned left, then right, then left again. Doors appearing and disappearing along the walls as if the corridors themselves were thinking. The other side mirrored the same chaotic architecture, giving the unsettling impression that the castle didn’t merely house dark magic, it was dark magic.
The sorcerer took one cautious step inside. That was when the maids appeared.
They emerged from both hallways at once, half a dozen of them, wearing crisp black-and-grey uniforms that swayed like shadows around their legs. But these were not ordinary servants. Each maid carried a weapon, a halberd, a curved dagger, a thorn-edged staff, and their eyes glowed faintly beneath lace-trimmed caps. Their movements were eerily synchronized, silent except for the soft scrape of boots against stone.
At their head strode a maid with bat-like ears peeking through her headpiece, leathery and sharp, twitching in the direction of the intruder. Her pupils were slitted, her smile far too calm.
“So,” she said in a voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, “you’re the one disturbing our mistress’s afternoon.”
The maids readied their weapons. The sorceress braced for the inevitable clash, a small chuckle leaving her lips. “You think lowly maids will stop me?” Her eyes glowing a bright red, the scales adorning her face shimmered with ancestral pride as she began casting.
The sorcerer lifted both hands, fingers gripping contained power. Arcane glyphs flared to life around their wrists, orbiting like molten gears. The temperature in the hall spiked; like a hot day of summer was just created in the room.
“Meteor Swarm,” the sorceress spat, her words cracked like thunder.
Above the grand staircase, the ceiling split open in a rift of burning sky. A deafening roar filled the entrance hall as four blazing meteors, each molten, mountainous, oozing trails of fire, surged downward. The patterned stone floor quaked under the heat alone. The maids froze, their shadows dragged long by the oncoming inferno.
The bat-eared maid’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s not f—.”
An elegant voice cut through the chaos like a blade of ice. “Counterspell.”
The meteors shattered into harmless sparks, as though someone had snuffed out a bonfire with a single breath. The roaring sky sealed itself with a soft whisper. All that remained was drifting embers settling gently onto the polished marble.
At the top of the winding staircase now stood the witch. Her silhouette was framed by the very shadows she commanded. Her wand rested lightly on the banister; the staff still glowed faintly from the spell she’d just woven. Her expression was halfway between amusement and mild disappointment.
“Now really,” she said, descending a single step, her eyes gleaming with delighted challenge, “must you start with the flashy ones? We’ve only just met.”
A smile, sharp and twisted like a predator that finally found its prey curved across her lips. “Let’s properly introduce ourselves.”
“I am Synthia Moongrim, breaker of heroes, bane of archmages, and the woman every prophecy is too afraid to mention. Consider yourself honored. Few meet me and remain standing long enough to appreciate it.”
Synthia descended the stairs not by step, but by floating, her heels never touching the marble. Her cloak billowed behind her as if underwater, shifting in colors too dark for any mortal dye. Each slow drift downward carried the weight of centuries where she had never once been defeated.
The maids stepped back instinctively, lowering their weapons in reverent formation. Their mistress didn’t acknowledge them; her golden eyes were fixed entirely on the sorcerer in the center of the room.
The sorcereress straightened, dusted off the ember sparks from their half-cast spell, and opened their mouth. “I am—”
Synthia raised a single finger. A silent command. The words died on her tongue like a snuffed candle.
Vespera’s smile curled, equal parts dangerous and amused. “No, no, little intruder,” she purred as she glided to the floor, landing with the grace of a cat and the menace of a storm. “Save your name. I’ll be giving you a better one when this is over.”
Her staff left her hand, hovering around her, seemingly made of shadows rather than solid matter. The torches along the walls dimmed, bowing to her presence.
She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with delighted malice. “Now then… let’s begin your education.” With a flick of her wrist, the magic of the entire chamber woke up, hungry and eager to obey.
The witch didn’t chant, didn’t gesture, and the air twanged like a bowstring pulled too far.
Time lurched. The torches stretched into smears of orange as light started bending around the witch. Dust motes froze in mid-air. The sorceress’s heart skipped a beat trying to keep up. Synthia vanished, not teleporting, but simply becoming faster than the common being’s ability to track her.
The sorceress barely noticed the flutter of that wicked cloak before Synthia was suddenly above her, leg raised high, heel poised like a guillotine blade. “She’s fast,” the sorceress internally panicked.
For one frozen heartbeat, the sorceress saw the witch’s face: sharp delight, eyes crackling with power, the euphoric look of a woman finally given something worth her time. Then that leg fell.
The sorceress dove, instinct over grace, her bloodline scales flaring up across her human skin just in time.
KRAAAAAACK. The stone didn’t break, it screamed. A spiderweb of fractures tore across the marble floor, dust exploding outward like a cannon blast. The shockwave flipped the sorceress mid-roll, skidding her across the polished ground. Her lungs seized from the abrupt violence as she scrambled upright.
The witch, floating inches above the ruin she’d caused, slowly lowered her kicking leg, smirk widening.
“Empowered Spell: Burning Hands,” the sorceress screamed frantically. Arcane surged through her arms as the normal glyphs burst from orange to blue. The energy seemed to draw into herself before a wave of sapphire flames erupted out towards the witch.
“Well,” Synthia purred, voice a silk ribbon wrapped around a threat, “you dodged. That already makes you my favorite guest this century. The sapphire blaze surged toward her, wide, furious, hungry. The temperature in the hall spiked, warping the air until it cried. Blue flames reflected off every polished surface like a hundred tiny suns.
Synthia didn’t dodge. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even step back.
Instead, her staff drifted into her hand. The runes carved down its length ignited, not with witchfire, but with a deep, earthen thrum, as if the old wood remembered something ancient and primal.
She slammed the butt of the staff against the marble. “Absorb Elements,” Synthia smugly declared. A shimmering distortion unfurled around her like a second skin. The blue inferno struck it head-on, and stopped. Not resisted. Not deflected. Not countered. Consumed.
The flames collapsed inward, funneled along the staff like water spiraling down a drain. The witch’s runes drank greedily, each symbol flaring brighter as the power flowed into them. Steam hissed off the marble where the fire had been stolen away. Synthia inhaled, a pleased little sound escaping her.
“Oh, that’s delicious,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction. “Dragon-touched magic always tastes better.”
The witch didn’t give the sorceress time to recover, the stolen dragonfire still smoldered along her staff, but she shifted her grip, wand snapping into position with a flick so smooth it bordered on insulting. “Magic Missile,” Synthia whispered happily.
Eleven sparks blossomed at the tip of her wand, small, bright, and impossibly precise. They shot forward in perfect formation, curving through the air like guided stars. Their hum was sharp, hungry, eager to strike.
The sorceress’ reaction was pure instinct, honed through duels, disasters, and a lifetime of being hunted by her own power. “Shield!”
A translucent arcane barrier snapped into place around her, rippling like molten glass. The missile slammed into it and shattered in a burst of white sparks. The sorceress smirked through her panting breath.
“Ha! You’ll need more than cheap tricks to-.” The witch was already gone. “Where’d she go?”
Synthia appeared directly in front of her with her fist drove back in a blink. Synthia wasn’t teleporting. She was simply faster than the sorceress could comprehend, Haste thrumming through her bones like a war drum.
Her fist drove forward, colliding with the barrier like lightning hitting glass. A single, awful cracking noise tore through the room. The magical shield buckled inward, bending under the impact. It spiderwebbed with fractures, glyphs flickering in panic.
Synthia’s smile widened as she leaned into the strike. Her fist burst through the weakened barrier, shattering it like brittle crystal, and slammed into the sorceress’ solar plexus with enough force to fold steel.
The sorceress’ breath exploded out of her in a soundless gasp. Her vision blanked white. Her body lifted off the ground from the impact before she crumpled backward, skidding across the marble and colliding with a toppled suit of armor. She wheezed, hands clawing at her chest for air that refused to come.
Synthia lowered her arm slowly, flexing her knuckles with delicate satisfaction. “Defense lesson one,” she said, floating forward with predatory grace, “never overestimate a spell…” She tilted her head, golden eyes glowing with wicked amusement. “…and never underestimate a witch.”
The sorceress lay sprawled amid shattered armor and cracked marble, every breath scraping like broken glass in her lungs. The world rang, a shrill, merciless whine that drowned out even the crackle of lingering magic. She forced herself to inhale, again and again, until air finally clawed its way back into her chest.
That was when she felt it. Something was wrong. Her fingers, trembling but precise even in pain, slid instinctively toward her throat. Empty. Her heart lurched harder than any blow Synthia had struck.
“No—” The sound came out hoarse, barely a whisper. Her gaze snapped downward. The ruby necklace lay several feet away, its chain snapped clean through. The gem, once a flawless, glowing focus of condensed arcane will, was now fractured straight down the center. A spiderweb of dead lines ran through it, the inner light guttering like a dying ember.
Not shattered by accident. Targeted. Cold dread washed over her, eclipsing even the pain.
“This was your focus,” Synthia said lightly, drifting closer, her voice almost conversational. “Mm. Ruby lattice. Dragon-bound resonance. Clever little amplifier.” She tilted her head, examining the ruined gem with open appreciation. “You channeled beautifully through it.”
The witch’s heel came down.
The ruby collapsed into lifeless shards beneath her boot, the last of its magic snuffed out in a pitiful hiss.
The sorceress let out a strangled screech, half fury, half panic. Power flared inside her reflexively, wild and unfocused without its anchor. Heat bled up her throat, pressure coiling behind her teeth.
Synthia’s golden eyes sharpened instantly. “Oh no,” she said softly, wagging a finger. “We are not doing that.”
With a flick of her wrist, shadows peeled themselves off the walls and rushed forward like living tar. They wrapped around the sorceress’s head before she could even turn, cold and burning at once. Arcane sigils flared crimson as the shadows hardened into iron-black metal.
A muzzle snapped into place around her mouth and jaw, runes biting into her skin with a hiss of binding magic. The inside glowed faintly, etched with suppression glyphs layered so densely they hummed.
The heat in her throat died instantly, strangled into nothing. She gagged, clawing at the cursed device as the magic drank her breath, her flame, her heritage.
Synthia crouched before her, eye level now, utterly pleased. “There we go,” the witch murmured, adjusting the fit with practiced ease. “Sealed jaw. Breath-lock runes. Anti-expulsion lattice.” She tapped one glowing sigil with a fingernail. “Try to exhale fire and it’ll rebound straight into your lungs.” She smiled sweetly. “Ask me how I know.”
The sorceress glared, fury blazing in her eyes, muffled snarl vibrating uselessly against the metal.
Synthia leaned closer, voice dropping into something intimate and dangerous. “Draconic mages always think their blood makes them unstoppable,” she whispered. “Claws. Fangs. Fire.” Her gaze flicked to the muzzle approvingly. “But you lot are so predictable.” She stood, shadows lifting her effortlessly back into the air.
The sorceress struggled to her knees, metal biting into her jaw with every ragged breath. The chamber felt different now, quieter, heavier, like the castle itself was leaning in to listen.
Synthia floated back into view, boots never touching the ruined marble. She regarded the kneeling figure the way one might study a rare creature caught in a trap: curious, appraising, entirely unhurried.
“Well,” the witch said at last, clasping her hands behind her back, “this is usually the point where you beg, threaten, or attempt something profoundly stupid.” She circled slowly, cloak whispering, eyes never leaving the sorceress’s face. “But I’m feeling generous today.” Synthia stopped directly in front of her and snapped her fingers.
The air thickened. Shadows pooled at the witch’s feet and rose, forming two fleeting images behind her, visions made of magic and implication.
On one side: the outline of a flayed hide stretched across a stone floor, scales dull, magic leeched away, power reduced to a trophy. A pelt, displayed like a warning.
On the other: a living silhouette kneeling in shadow, bound not by chains but by sigils woven into flesh and soul. Controlled. Preserved. Useful.
“You have two options,” Synthia said pleasantly. “You may become my pelt, a cautionary tale for the next idiot who kicks down my gate.” Her eyes flicked to the other image, glowing faintly. “Or,” she continued, voice lowering, “you become my pet.”
The word echoed, deliberate and heavy. “Alive. Intact. Owned.” A pause. “Trained.”
She leaned down until they were eye to eye, golden gaze burning through the sorceress’s defiance. “Your power is impressive. Your bloodline even more so. I could kill you and be done with it.” A smile curved her lips. “But I’d much rather keep you.”
The shadows dissolved. The silence that followed was absolute. The sorceress’s hands clenched into fists. Rage, humiliation, fear, all of it churned violently inside her. Her instincts screamed at her to fight, to burn, to die on her feet if she had to.
But she couldn’t breathe fire. Her focus was gone. And the witch before her was untouched.
Slowly, very slowly, the sorceress lowered her head. It was not a bow of submission born of weakness, but of survival.
Her eyes lifted again, burning with fury even as her posture yielded. She nodded once. Sharp. Decisive. The choice made.
Synthia straightened, visibly delighted. “Oh,” she breathed, clapping her hands softly, “excellent choice.”
With a flick of her wrist, glowing runes unfurled in the air between them, curling like living script. They sank into the sorceress’s skin, not painfully, but permanently. A bond, ancient and binding, locking power to permission.
Synthia reached out and lifted the sorceress’s chin with two fingers, forcing her to meet her gaze. “My pet, then,” she said warmly. “Don’t worry, I take very good care of what’s mine.”
She released her, turning away as the castle’s magic settled into place with a satisfied hum. “Welcome to the Umbral Fortress,” Synthia called over her shoulder. “Try not to disappoint me.”