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Chapter Text

A touch. Still. Protective. 

Lan places his hand on Moiraine's arm, a solid, familiar weight, even before she fully registers it. 

And yet, it's all for naught. 

The usually crystal-clear air of Tar Valon feels different today. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift caresses her skin and sends a shiver down her spine. It's like a strange, intimate, and disturbing premonition, a hiss in the silence of her soul. Her fingers, hidden in the folds of her dress, tremble imperceptibly. The faint, unmistakable scent of jasmine pricks her nostrils, an essence that makes every nerve ending tingle. And when she senses that summons, she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the figure moving with unnatural grace through the city streets is

her. 

The hood slips through her fingers in a slow, deliberate gesture, almost an invitation. And then she reveals herself:

Lanfear. 

Her lips curve into a merciless, magnetic smirk as she looks up. Moiraine feels that gaze on her like cold fingers caressing her skin. Her stomach twists into a painful knot, yet at the same time, it sends an exciting jolt through her. 

The Aes Sedai elegantly pulls up her hood with two fingers, a last futile gesture of protection, but she's too slow. When she turns, the other is already there, materialized in front of them in the blink of an eye. A breath catches in her throat. A blow to her gut steals her air, leaving her breathless. Lanfear's eyes are locked on hers, an abyss of night that swallows her mercilessly. 

"You didn't even embrace the Source," the Daughter of the Night's voice is an elegant murmur, full of knowing. 

The insinuation of her possible unpreparedness tightens Moiraine's features. The sensation of being a novice reprimanded, caught off guard, strikes her. And, for a fleeting, utterly unexpected moment, she likes it. 

"That doesn't mean I'm unprepared," she replies, her image sculpted by iron self-control, perfect in its cold determination. But a bead of sweat tracing her spine reveals how fiercely adrenaline is pumping through her veins.

Lan stiffens slightly beside her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

Lanfear tilts her head slightly. Her smirk widens, revealing a nearly childlike glint of mischief in her eyes, an unsettling contrast to their depth. Her attention is solely on Moiraine, as if Lan doesn't exist "You do know he's not going to Tear." 

It's a statement, not a question, and there's a hint of mockery in her voice, an almost obscene pleasure in witnessing the failure of Moiraine's efforts, the futility of her planning. 

The woman holds her gaze, her eyes as cold as fragments of a winter sky, but inside, a whirlwind of thoughts tries to decipher every intonation, every gesture, every subtle message hidden in Lanfear's words. This isn't a mere skirmish but a true dance, an equal duel between unyielding wills, challenging each other on a razor's edge.

"I'm surprised you'd want him, to be honest," the Aes Sedai replies, her voice now a calculated whisper, a dangerous game, a tightrope stretched between two precipices. "Didn't he kill Ishamael?" The dead Forsaken's name is a challenge, a reminder of a failure Lanfear should have suffered, a sore spot Moiraine hopes to exploit.

Lanfear's lips thin just barely, her face becoming a mask of ice and beauty. "The others aren't like Ishamael," she answers, her tone now as sharp as a blade, devoid of any glimmer of weakness. "They want Rand dead one way or another."

Then she takes a step, closing the distance between them, a movement so fluid it's almost unnatural, an invitation to dangerous intimacy. A wave of unexpected heat envelops Moiraine's body. That invasion of personal space destabilizes her more than any direct attack. She lets her lips curve into a bitter smile that doesn't reach her eyes, a reflection of her awareness of the brutality of the game she's trapped in. Her gaze, however, doesn't break from Lanfear's eyes.

There's no escape. But the problem is, she doesn't even want one.

"It's a good thing they haven't found him yet, then," she says. Lanfear draws closer still, another step. "Yes... but I know them," she pronounces, further reducing the distance between them with lethal grace.

She's close. Moiraine feels the warmth of her body, the slight pressure of her aura.

Lan watches it all in silence. He can feel the hostile energy radiating from the Forsaken, and it's likely due to the danger that he can't decipher the undertow of attraction devouring Moiraine.

"And I know Rand too," the Forsaken continues, her voice almost a breath that reaches out to Moiraine like an invisible thread. Despite her iron will, the Aes Sedai can't stop looking at her. An unbearable wave of heat washes over her, sending unequivocal, intimate signals to her belly.

Damn it, she's seen women, she's loved women, she knows how they're made, even how they like to be touched, the rhythm of their bodies, the taste of their skin.

But this woman... she's unnaturally beautiful.

Her face is sculpted from night itself, and her power, the sensual energy she emanates, is so overwhelming, so absolute, that it makes her feel like an inexperienced girl, just starting out, drained of all strength.

Her eyes slide involuntarily over Lanfear's full lips, curved in a silent, provocative invitation, then return to those dark pools that scrutinize her. 

In that moment, the other woman leans slightly toward her, her warm breath caressing Moiraine's ear. "I know the dark parts you wish you could ignore," she whispers.

The Aes Sedai holds her breath, unaware of it. She feels as though she burns with fever. Her body responds before her mind, betraying her. She moves slightly forward. The wetness spreads between her thighs, unbearably. That forced intimacy is like an invasion that shakes her to her core, a pleasure that tortures her, an agony she wishes to prolong. 

But then the Forsaken pulls back. Slowly.

Her gaze dances over Moiraine's wide eyes, over the tension in her features, savoring every sign of her reaction, every slightest emotional betrayal. For her, it's a game, and the woman is the most captivating prey she's ever encountered, the one promising the most gratifying hunt. 

With superhuman effort, Moiraine recomposes herself, careful not to betray the weakness that would make her vulnerable. Every movement, however, is agony. "We want the same thing," she says, her voice almost a hiss, an admission of their forced alliance, but also a desperate attempt to regain a glimmer of control. 

"I know," Lanfear's reply is another seduction, a faint smile that promises pain and pleasure in equal measure. "But the boy keeps postponing things." 

"What's wrong? Can't you figure out why?" Moiraine lets a thin veil of irony shade her voice, an attempt to provoke, to deflect attention from her own reaction. 

"Oh, I know why," Lanfear murmurs, her voice a seductive caress, a whisper that insinuates itself under the skin, penetrating Moiraine's defenses. "And you know it too." Her eyes gleam with a knowing that lays Moiraine bare, revealing her to herself in a way no one ever has, touching the most secret and forbidden part of her being. 

"Do you truly believe I would eliminate his friends to get what we want?" the other woman asks, her voice thin, an almost innocent tone that makes Lanfear shiver.

The Daughter of the Night's smile widens into an almost predatory curve, her gaze a consuming fire. Her eyes devour Moiraine. It's an assertion of power, the realization of having found the perfect crack in Moiraine's armor, the fissure where she can insinuate herself and destroy everything that defines her.

She leans forward, just a breath, her warm air again on Moiraine's face, her lips mere inches from hers, almost wanting to steal her breath. "Oh, I know you would," she whispers, and the way her words caress Moiraine's skin makes her shiver, a tremor that is both terror and ecstasy, a wave that courses through her body.

Lanfear is a violation of her senses, an assault on her will.

"Honestly, it's the only thing I appreciate about you," She concludes, though a certain burning possessiveness in that gaze implies quite the opposite.

A fire blazes on Moiraine's cheeks. Her body burns. She shivers. The intensity of Lanfear's eyes pins her, trapping her in an attraction as lethal as it is irresistible.

But the moment lasts too short, because a few seconds later, the Forsaken vanishes.

One moment she was there. The next, the air is empty, her presence only a lingering echo, a fragrance that remains to torment her. The air on the balcony grows cold, and Moiraine realizes only then that she had practically been holding her breath the entire time. The tension had locked her lungs.

She feels like wood rubbing against wood, the friction generating the most voluptuous heat before the flame ignites.

The wetness between her legs is unbearable. It pulses. As she begins to walk, the need to press her thighs together for some sort of release is urgent.

And in that moment, she knows that…

the game has just begun.

The city's noise around them is like a beehive.

Tar Valon is a chorus of pulsating life, immense and industrious. It beats to the relentless rhythm of the thousands of lives inhabiting it: the constant rattle of cartwheels on cobblestones damp from the night's humidity, the thick, earthy scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the light smoke from chimneys, the lively chatter of merchants.

Moiraine walks through that cruel normality, but every step is an exercise in balance, an attempt to realign her body with reality. Lan, by her side, is a constant, vigilant presence. His sharp gaze scans every corner, every face in the crowd flooding into the streets.

The forced stillness of the woman beside him doesn't fool him.

"We can't trust her," he murmurs, but the logical warning grates against the turmoil still swirling within Moiraine.

She inhales, the cool air filling her lungs, but it doesn't alleviate the pressure.

"I know," she replies, her voice controlled, barely a whisper.

"She betrayed the other Forsaken. She'll betray us too," Lan presses her. He cannot understand the subtle, perverse dance that has transpired, and this makes him impatient.

Moiraine clenches her jaw, a sharp frustration biting at her stomach. He's hitting a raw nerve, not just because of his impeccable logic but because of the pure, disarming truth screaming inside her.

"I know," she repeats, her voice now an impatient hiss, tinged with weary resignation.

"Then why are we doing this?" Lan lashes out with his voice, relentless.

A shiver runs down the woman's spine, cold and sharp. "Because we want the same thing," she snaps, her voice rising barely above the city's murmur, betraying her tension. A wave of exhaustion, almost despair, washes over her. "And besides, it's better to keep Lanfear on our side, where we can control her." The words flow out smoothly, almost automatically, but a hysterical awareness grows within her.

Between the two of them, she is certainly not the one in control.

Lan looks at her, his expression a wall of skepticism. This irritates her even more. It's as if his fears are a finger pointed at her unspoken weaknesses.

Moiraine straightens. She fills herself with icy authority, unwavering and unequivocal. "I know what I'm doing, Lan," she says. "And if she proves to be a threat, if her intent should change... we will kill her." The threat is a whisper, but it's imbued with a chilling finality, an assertion of her power, not only over Lanfear but also over her own reactions.

Lan says nothing. He tenses slightly, but in his gaze, there's a subtle assent.

"Well, well, fancy digs." 

Lanfear's voice is a low murmur, slithering into the night's quiet. 

Moiraine flinches, a cold shiver running down her spine as her heart leaps into her throat. She clutches her dressing gown tighter. Her back tenses, muscles contract, breath hitches. 

Every one of her senses is heightened. 

The Daughter of the Night surveys Moiraine's bedroom with a slow, indulgent gaze, like a master inspecting a new acquisition. Her eyes settle on the other woman, and a predatory smile curves her lips. 

"No lackeys, Moiraine. I want to speak with you alone." The last word is enunciated with lethal precision, her lips moving slowly, almost a silent invitation to desecration. 

Moiraine swallows as a wave of tension tightens her chest. Her heart pounds against her ribs with unprecedented violence. Through their bond, she sends a quick, reassuring signal to Lan, a whisper of power that warns him without words. 

The night outside is still, stars dotting the dark velvet of the sky through the wide, open window of her room. Lanfear steps out onto the balcony. Her figure, bathed in moonlight, makes her even more supernatural. 

Moiraine, against her will, admires every detail of her. 

The curve of her neck, the perfect line of her jaw, the unnatural grace with which she moves. They are a stab at Moiraine's self-control. Every rational thought that should focus on survival is diverted from her mind. 

"What do you want, Lanfear?" 

The Forsaken doesn't turn. Her voice, a sweet and dangerous sound, spreads through the air like smoke. 

"I want to ensure you won't betray me. At least not until Rand has retrieved Callandor." 

Moiraine presses her, though the syllables are torn with effort from deep in her throat. "I'm not the one who usually betrays, Lanfear. Perhaps you should worry more about your own word." 

A soft sigh escapes the other woman's lips. "Oh, but I don't swear oaths, Moiraine. I'm not one of you Aes Sedai." She turns, slowly, with the sinuous grace of a snake, her gaze pinning Moiraine. "I only follow my desire. And, right now, we are on the same side."

Her eyes drop, caressing Moiraine's lips, her neck, her chest, with a brazen slowness that steals her breath. "We both desire the same thing..." Lanfear's voice is a whisper that promises inextricable pleasure and pain.

Moiraine feels her blood race, a heat expanding throughout her body, a subtle tremor shaking her thighs, an involuntary contraction tightening around her. Her shoulders are tense, her back straight in an act of pure will. She crosses her arms over her chest to contain the turmoil coursing through her. 
"We have the same objective," she retorts, her composure a thin wall that the other seems determined to breach, a barrier she herself struggles to keep intact. "I wouldn't exactly say we're on the same side." 

Lanfear's eyes gleam with ancient malice, almost bored by Moiraine's resistance. "Ah, right, your inflexible righteousness. So rigid. And yet here you are, breathing the same air as a Forsaken." Her voice is a veiled reproach. 

"Only out of necessity," Moiraine enunciates, each word an act of self-imposition. 

Lanfear draws closer, a slow step, like a predator closing the distance. "Is that your way of telling me you need me?" The provocation is blatant. 

Moiraine doesn't answer. She can't. 

Her oaths, her rules, the entire framework of her life should compel her to reject Lanfear, to scream no. But in this moment, all she feels is an overwhelming surge of desire, a sharp excitement piercing her gut, and a hatred for the limitations that prevent her from playing on equal terms, from throwing herself into this game with the same brazen freedom as Lanfear.

"To me, it looks more like your version of begging for help," the Forsaken continues, her smile widening.

But Moiraine doesn't have time to get flustered or retort because Lanfear wants to break her on all fronts, psychologically and physically.

"You know," the Daughter of the Night murmurs, her voice a whisper that caresses Moiraine's exposed nerves as she strolls languidly around the room, her gaze resting on every object, defiling it with her attention. "This room... it's much more interesting than your miserable cell at the Tower. So essential. So empty."

Moiraine shivers, an uncontrolled tremor running through her, leaving her breathless. Lanfear has entered her private chamber. She has savored Moiraine's intimacy, her most personal belongings.

Lanfear's eyes settle on the bed, on the red wine-colored silk sheets that contrast so starkly with Moiraine's austere discipline. "It looks more like you," she says, indicating them, a statement that is also a seduction, an invitation to a part of herself Moiraine desperately tries to keep hidden.

Then she draws closer, and the Aes Sedai can do nothing to stop it. Her senses are a battlefield.

"You are so imprisoned, Moiraine..." Lanfear's voice is a sensual breath, the most inviting condemnation Moiraine has ever heard. "I too like to impose limits on myself, but only if the pleasure of overcoming them is even greater..." Her fingers rise, barely grazing Moiraine's cheek.

The woman flinches and stiffens, but as Lanfear's fingers descend slowly and deliberately along her neck, caressing the sensitive skin down to her collarbones, she parts her lips to breathe, exposing herself slightly to the touch.

Every point touched ignites, a trail of fire leaving a whisper of shivers.

Lanfear is toying with her, but the truth is that in this moment, as the light shapes Moiraine's perfect cheekbones into an icon of forbidden desire, even Lanfear isn't entirely in control anymore. Her gaze, usually so measured, becomes intense, almost hungry. Moiraine's lips are too close and tempting.

The tiny crack she's exposing ignites the Aes Sedai’s senses even further. The awareness of a subtle current of mutual yearning devastates her.

"You love to play, Moiraine," Lanfear whispers, her voice a wisp of smoke and honey. 

The other woman finds her voice, a shadow of her usual authority but imbued with a spark of defiance.

"Not with everyone." Her eyes, burning with fever, meet Lanfear's. She leans forward slightly, subtly closing the distance, a bold move. "We could both have fun, don't you think?" She murmurs, her voice a whisper promising an even darker game. The provocation is direct, unexpected, an admission of her desire to play and to play with her. 

For an instant, the Forsaken's eyes widen just barely, a fleeting surprise crossing her face, her mask of control faltering for a microsecond. Then she recomposes herself, her smile widening, but there's now a hint of a cruder, more intense longing. 

"Good, but remember that I don't have all your restrictions, your oaths..." Her lips, warm and soft, brush against the sensitive skin of Moiraine's neck, lingering a moment too long, a scorching pressure of what could be. "I don't have your rules... Moiraine," she concludes. 

And then, in the blink of an eye, she vanishes, leaving the air vibrant and thick with her scent. 

Moiraine gasps for air, a choked sob tearing through the regained silence of her bedroom.

Her body is on fire, every nerve ending vibrating. The contact with the red wine-colored silk sheets makes her jolt. She lies on her back in bed, her chest rising and falling rapidly in a wild rhythm, hands clasped over her stomach as if to contain the inner chaos, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if her brain couldn't, wouldn't stop thinking, reliving every moment of those forbidden instants.

The iron discipline that demands she erase everything that happened from her mind, that she restore order, only pushes the encounter with Lanfear even deeper into her senses. Instead of calming her, the excitement for this brazen violation of her composure grows within her, amplifying, threatening to swallow her whole.

The wetness between her legs is unbearable. It spreads like an intolerable tide of heat and desire.

She needs this release.

And so, her hand moves slowly. It slides between her thighs, beneath her clothes. She parts her legs slightly, and with Lanfear's image clear and cruel in her head, there in her sheets, Moiraine surrenders to her.

She hates herself for it.

She clenches her jaw as her fingers slowly begin to touch, as if wanting to deny herself that right. But the pleasure comes anyway, and it's intense. And so, she deepens her touch, with precise, obsessive movements. She can do nothing but indulge that desire as her mind slips away.

Lanfear's lips are now caressing her inner thigh. They are eager to devour her.

Every image that appears in her mind ignites her even more. And the more she ignites, the more she punishes herself. The rhythm quickens. She arches her back. She bites her lower lip to stay silent. When her orgasm hits, she muffles a desperate moan with the palm of her left hand.

It's fierce, sudden, like a slap.

She falls back onto the mattress with a broken whisper. This isn't true relief. It's just a dirty truce gained in silence.

But for now, Moiraine clings to this false peace, hoping it's enough to keep her from truly, madly desiring that

forbidden fruit.

Chapter Text

Her tea is cold. 

Moiraine cradles the cup in her hands. The Altaran white-leaf infusion carries a delicate scent that fills her nostrils. Usually, it calms her mind, but today, it offers no solace. The taste on her tongue is bitter. The glazed ceramic provides no warmth to her fingers. She sinks back against the velvet of her midnight blue chair, her bare feet brushing the knotted geometric patterns, red and blue against a sandy ground, of the rug spread beneath her desk. 

Around her, the study remains silent. A cedar bookcase lines the west wall, filled with dark leather-bound volumes, sealed with golden threads. On the polished wood before her: stacks of documents, an inkwell, drying sand collected in a silver bowl, a bluish wax seal, a finely etched paper knife. 

Moiraine picks up a colored glass pen, veined with amber. She dips it. The gesture is precise, a ritual. Black ink gathers at its tip with the same density as the thoughts she strives to contain. Before her lies a sheet of parchment, already outlined in azure. 

Yet, when the nib touches the paper, the way the script caresses the sheet is subtle, involuntary, too soft. It echoes the warm whisper of Lanfear's voice in her ear. That low, insidious tone, tracing the very edges of her thoughts.

The association is unintended, and yet... Moiraine stiffens.

Her hand, though, continues to write an automatic sequence of words. When her gaze drops, the pen still hovers mid-air. On the page, a single word, sharp and stark, isolated at the center: 

Lanfear. 

The ink still gleams. A drop slides from the final stroke of the "r," like a breath held too long. Her pupils contract. For one drawn-out moment, everything remains utterly still: her hands, the pen, her breath. But the name, only the name, continues to pulse on the parchment. It pulses within her. A subtle chill traces down her spine. She feels violated. 

Not by Lanfear. 

But by herself. 

The tension shatters all at once. With a sharp snap, she furiously crumples the page and hurls it against the wall. But the name lingers in her throat like poison. 

Lanfear is not in the city. She is in Moiraine's very skin. 

She sees her. She feels her. 

For an instant, Moiraine believes it is a mind game, a trick spun by that damned Forsaken, but even this thought, that it is all manipulation, offers no solace.

She shakes her head. Then, with a nervous gesture, she presses a hand to her forehead. The "dirty truce" wrested from the night is a persistent, throbbing echo, a pleasure so profound and forbidden it burns her to the very bone.

Shame bites at her throat, a bitter taste, yet beneath it, subtle and insidious, a more dangerous current coils: desire. 

The summons to her weakness is constant. Each breath carries Lanfear's image, so vivid, so real, that at times Moiraine fears she feels the tremor of laughter deep in her belly. It is not like her to permit such violations. The Forsaken's presence is an obsession that hollows her. But it is not merely the prospect of possible pleasure that consumes her; no, it is more the affront of that violation, that surrender of her discipline. 

Since when has she softened so utterly? 

Weak. 

The word reverberates. It screams at her from the walls of her own consciousness. She is betraying herself. She allows that woman to insinuate herself into her very veins, to soil her mind with her lust, with the mere thought of her.

Control, her very essence, slips away, and the sensation is worse than any dagger thrust. 

The muscles of her shoulders contract. Her skin feels cold, taut. She closes her eyes. Breathes slowly. But she cannot. Her pupils fix on an empty point on the desk's polished wood. Her hands descend along her thighs. She clenches her fists. Her nails slowly dig into her palms. It is not an impulsive gesture, but a deliberate act. 

Calculated. 

She wants it to hurt. 

She yearns to believe she still holds control, that she can impose her will upon herself. She feels her nails tracing paths into the fragile skin of her palms, little by little, leaving small white crescents that sting. 

But even that is not enough. 

And so Moiraine... snaps. 

In an almost animalistic movement, she bends her right arm, agitatedly pulls her sleeve up to her elbow, and brings the skin of her forearm to her mouth. 

She bites. 

Without a sound.

Her teeth sink in. Her breath hitches, brief and sharp. She chokes back a cry of suffering in her throat. The pressure is acute, sudden. Her jaw clenches. 

But Lanfear, now, at least, vanishes from her mind. 

When she loosens her grip, a reddish circle of teeth marks emerges starkly on her skin. A clear impression, almost a bruise. She knows it will darken, turn purplish, but it holds no importance. It is a discreet self-punishment, invisible to those who know nothing of her inner fury, easily concealed beneath her sleeves. 

Her guilt is a heavy burden. 

This small gesture is a way to bear its weight, to discharge it, at least in part, onto a body she feels has abandoned her, a body that has betrayed her. A body that continues to betray her, making her desire whom she should not. 

She needs this pain, real pain. It is the only thing that steadies her. Whether physical or mental, the self-imposition of duty, the obsessive command to never be completely happy, to always resist letting go, is the only thing she truly comprehends. 

She remains motionless for a few seconds. 

Her breath slowly returns, though still ragged. The skin beneath the bite pulses, alive. She pulls down her sleeve with deliberate slowness, as if each motion must reclaim a composure her body has lost. 

She forces herself to straighten. She gathers the cup with hands that barely tremble.

A sip. The tea is even colder than before.

In the profound silence, the beat of her heart has grown deafening.

Then, almost imperceptibly, a delicate gesture of a hand sounds at the door.

Three knocks.

Light.

Measured.

Moiraine does not stir immediately. Her eyes flutter slightly beneath her lashes. A familiar voice, low and contained, enters the room even before the figure itself.

"Moiraine?"

Lan closes the door with discretion. He stands, arms at his sides, still as a sentry. His eyes do not leave her, measuring, scrutinizing.

She sits, motionless and composed, her chin held high, her back straight. Her fingers nervously trace the sleeve of her right arm, a faint tremor concealed within a clenched fist.

"You've been shut in here all day," he observes.

Moiraine slowly sinks back against the chair once more, her arms extended along the armrests in a pose both elegant and flawless.

"I had much to attend to."

Lan takes a step forward with calm ease. "What troubles you?"

She inclines her head, feigning incomprehension.

"You are unsettled."

"Could I not be?" she counters. Her voice is sharp.

Lan remains silent, fixing on every minute detail of her face. He knows a tempest brews beneath that outward calm.

Moiraine inhales slowly, her chest barely rising and falling. "You always worry too much."

"It is my function," he replies, his tone unwavering.

She barely tilts her head. She pauses subtly. She looks at him only from the side, granting him no full glance. "Mine is to make decisions."

The air grows subtly tenser. "And it seems I have already made one. Or am I mistaken?" Moiraine's voice hardens, unyielding.

"It is an unnecessarily perilous decision," he says.

Moiraine knows an irrational impulse within her propelled her toward that contact, toward Lanfear. Yet, to hear it voiced by Lan is like seeing herself reflected in an unsparing mirror.

For an instant, her gaze darkens. She turns abruptly, fixes him with her stare. Her voice trembles. "What do you expect me to do? Refuse... so she might kill me more swiftly?!" The outburst is sudden. Her voice is louder than she intended. The words emerge sharply.

She knows he is not the target, and yet her irritation falls upon him.

The silence, however, causes something in her gaze to contract. She lowers it. Takes a breath.

"Forgive me." She adds nothing more, but her eyes speak volumes. They are vulnerable. As ever, they make requests without uttering a sound.

Lan says nothing. He approaches with caution. He stands beside her, remaining upright, but both look respectively toward the opposite side of the room. He extends a hand, touches her shoulder. She permits it.

But when he bends slightly as if to embrace her, she recoils. A subtle yet distinct gesture, like a boundary drawn in silence.

"Don't..." she whispers. The contact destabilizes her more than she would wish. The gentleness unnerves her more than she would wish. Affection is always too much for her, especially in this moment.

Then Moiraine looks at him with visible effort. Her voice emerges softer, broken by a weariness that has nothing to do with her body, a tone that almost does not belong to her, as if something is being torn away.

"You know how I am..." she murmurs.

Then she turns slightly, as if to escape her own gaze. "I can’t. I... these..." Her hands remain in her lap, clenched. Her back still straight.

Lan does not move away. He does not come closer.

"I know."  

It is all he says, and it is all that is needed.

The first thing Moiraine perceives, in her sleep, is a faint shift in temperature.

A subtle, almost imperceptible variation in the air, growing slightly cooler. Then something fragrant pricks her nostrils. Poppies... no. Jasmine. A white, full, sweet scent.

Her scent.

And as her eyelids lift, she knows she is no longer where she believed herself to be. She is in a new place, a place unknown to her, yet she knows she has been summoned by someone.

The light is diffused, without origin. It falls everywhere like luminous mist. It is neither cold nor warm. The air simply exists. Large, transparent drops detach slowly from the ferns. They fall upon her shoulders, her arms, the nape of her neck. They are warm. They vibrate. They slide down like small, living fingers. Moiraine watches them tremble but then feels them adhere to her skin, merging, as if her body is less form and more a receptive surface.

All around her is life, a life she has never known.

Flowers encircle her everywhere: in the folds of the grass, upon the fronds, even on the pale trunks of trees that seem to grow weightlessly. The lustrous, taut fruits gleam like wet stones beneath her fingertips, almost on the verge of yielding.

One falls.

The sound is crisp, yet inviting. It splits precisely in two. It almost oozes gold, honey, and peach. The aroma invades her nostrils and she does not know why, but she plunges her fingers within. She brings them to her lips.

She tastes.

The flavor is unbearably sweet.

Moiraine simply closes her eyes and breathes, until something brushes her cheek.

Something light.

Soft. Damp.

Then again, just beneath her eye. It glides along the curve of her nose and pauses on her lips. She holds her breath. Then she feels it a third and a fourth time.

Petals.

She senses them not with her eyes, but with her skin. The contact is real. It is intimate. It is like being caressed. Only then does she lift her face, and only then does she see them. They fall from above. But there is no tree. There is only sky. It is from there they descend. They float in the air as if the world holds no weight.

Whole petals. Entire corollas.

Red. Pink. Crimson. White. Deep blue.

Damp with sap, freshly plucked. They settle in her hair, on her eyelids, on her bare shoulders. In her open hands. Between her fingers. She feels their gentle weight. But it is a light weight, like a breath. And the fragrance grows more saturated, settling beneath her tongue. She longs to drink it but cannot.

She knows only that something within her opens: a tenderness without protection, without defense. An emotion she cannot contain, full, childlike, primal. It rises to her throat, and she yearns to laugh but holds back tears behind her eyes. For the pleasure is slow, inexorable, like infinite gratitude: the cruel sweetness of finally being everything or absolutely nothing.

"It's wondrous, isn't it..." Lanfear's voice reaches her, velvety and melodious, unfolding in the air before Moiraine even recognizes it. But when she sees her, the woman's smile is so complete it compels Moiraine to do nothing but nod.

The Daughter of the Night brushes past the trees, the wet ferns, the open flowers. She walks barefoot, no, she does not walk, she almost dances upon the grass that stretches and recedes beneath her feet.

"What is this place, Lanfear?" Moiraine's voice is soft, softer than usual, despite her will.

"It exists not in the real world, but only in the realm of dreams. I shaped it."

Moiraine fixes her gaze on her, her mind locking onto those words.

She shaped all of this?

A shiver courses through her, but it is not fear. It is the recognition of a greatness that overwhelms her, of boundless power, of the capacity to weave entire worlds within the mind, to sculpt nothingness into such vivid reality. Power, true, immoderate power, is something that draws her with an irrational, almost painful force.

"I used to come here often to breathe..." Lanfear's voice grows particularly melancholic, "when my name was still Mierin."

Moiraine shrugs. The name Mierin weighs in her stomach.

It is difficult to accept that from Lanfear, from what appears to her a creature ravaged by night, an ineffable goddess, all this could have sprung: this warm silence, this beauty overflowing effortlessly, this sense of beginning that seems endless and serves to comfort, to bestow peace.

And yet, it is true.

She is not only capable of destruction. She is also capable of crafting a beauty one cannot even conceive, a beauty she could grant, a beauty she could make one experience. For a second, her heart aches for the woman she was, for the one she could have been, for whoever caused her such immense suffering as to transform her so.

Love gives. Love can take away.

And Moiraine feels almost angry at whoever caused her harm, an unexpected emotion that deeply troubles her. This empathy, this slipping toward a comprehension that dissolves the barriers she has erected, is unacceptable. It disquiets her, almost terrifies her, this new perspective that forces her to view Lanfear no longer as a pure monster, but as something more... human. She resists the thought; she cannot allow it, yet every attempt to focus, every effort to fight it, shatters against a more immediate and undeniable reality: the woman before her eyes is simply

enchanting. 

And it is not merely a mental impression. It is something profoundly physical. She feels it nesting in her stomach as she gazes upon her. The form in which she appears this night is different. It is not one of the usual illusions designed to intimidate. It is a manifestation of pure, disarming perfection, the most splendid Moiraine has ever witnessed from her. 

Her skin, luminous as wet stone beneath the moon, does not seem to reflect light. It is pure light. Her long, pitch-black, soft hair, veined with tiny dark purple, burgundy, and blue blossoms, caresses her shoulders. Her face, almost carved from stone, is like that of an ancient goddess, so perfect it appears otherworldly, beyond mere beauty. Yet, now an almost imperceptible flaw at the base of her lashes reveals a restrained tenderness Moiraine has never perceived. And her eyes... to gaze too long into them makes her feel as if she is about to be drawn away. 

She wants... she needs her to draw closer.

And as if compelled by Moiraine's thoughts, Lanfear does, unhurriedly.

She barely brushes Moiraine with her fingers, beckoning her closer, and instinctively, almost without conscious will, Moiraine's hand gently caresses hers, and she holds her breath. But then her pinky finger pursues, stretching out as Lanfear pulls back, seeking her fingers in an instinctive, almost childlike game that reveals an unwitting need for contact. 

"Sometimes I still return here..." she continues, circling Moiraine, her voice almost a whisper that brushes the air. "When I need to remember there is still beauty deserving of life." Her eyes gleam as she surveys the world she has created, with an innocent, almost melancholic sweetness. 

Moiraine, instead, feels a pang course through her ribs. The woman's words resonate within her like a bitter echo.

Lanfear gazes at her. Her look slides over Moiraine from head to foot.

And there is desire in those eyes, a lust that does not even seek to disguise itself. She is splendid, and in that ethereal white, so immaculate and yet so sensual, she is the precise vision Lanfear has yearned for. Her hair frames her face, softening her features, yet maintaining her intensity. To Lanfear's eyes, she appears so composed as to be utterly irresistible. 

The Forsaken knows it is all a game of seduction, yet she wonders why she felt compelled to lead Moiraine here, to this secret sanctuary of her soul. Why she felt that irresistible impulse to reveal it, to witness how Moiraine's eyes would light up at such enchantment, how her lips would slightly curve into a smile, how she would attempt to mask the effect this place would have upon her. The necessity of that profound connection shakes her inwardly, especially now that Moiraine is looking at her as if she longs to touch her again. 

And yet, Lanfear desires more.

She seeks not merely a taste of Moiraine's vulnerability but her utter freedom. She wishes to be the one to dismantle every one of Moiraine's barriers, for it is in those rare, potent moments of disarray that she glimpses Moiraine's darker, more seductive strength, a hidden essence merely awaiting release, which makes her even more exciting. 

She approaches the woman. She glides behind her, with a calculated slowness that is itself a seduction.

Moiraine senses the shift in the air, the jasmine scent of Lanfear, now denser and enveloping. It fills her lungs even before Lanfear's form. Then the woman's body draws nearer, a warm, almost impalpable presence that envelops her. And as Lanfear's soft cheek brushes Moiraine's from behind her shoulder, the Aes Sedai closes her eyes. Not to retreat, but to feel more profoundly. Lanfear's breath caresses her nape, her ear, a warm, damp whisper that makes her skin tingle. 

"Can you feel it, right?" the woman whispers. "The way the flowers surrender."

Moiraine nods, an almost imperceptible movement, but she shudders when Lanfear's body melts against her back, adhering like a warm, living second skin, her hands firm on the Aes Sedai's shoulders to hold her closer.

The Daughter of the Night pauses. She perceives every slightest reaction. She revels in the way Moiraine's body contracts. Her voice is low, hypnotic, infused with both tenderness and power.

"The corollas open slowly, without sound," her lips brush the curve of Moiraine's ear. "It is like a breath. Or a body a moment before it allows itself to be touched."

Moiraine holds her breath. "You feel how beautiful all this is. You feel everything." 

And it is true that she feels everything.

She perceives every minute detail: the dull throb of her heart pounding in her ears, the precise, firm pressure of Lanfear's fingers on her shoulders, the tingling that spreads from the base of her nape along her spine, down to between her legs where the warmth gathers, pulses, and becomes unspeakable. 

So much so that as soon as Lanfear deprives her of contact with her body, the cold behind her back is a sudden, unbearable void that makes her gasp, a choked sound. The contrast is so violent that it makes her act on instinct: her hand extends, grasping Lanfear's wrist as she pulls away, to prevent her from slipping.

With an almost imperceptible smile on her lips, the Forsaken indulges her. She remains there, her hands now slid to Moiraine's hips. The pressure is firm, and Moiraine feels something bloom within.

It is like a slow, unstoppable, warm expansion that fills her chest until she feels breathless. 

Pure joy.

A full, absolute, almost childlike joy, and because of that, devastating. It is not merely lust or desire; it is something more.

"No worries here," Lanfear's voice caresses her soul, a whispered promise that penetrates every barrier. "No guilt." Every syllable absolves her from what enchains her, crumbling her convictions piece by piece, just as Lanfear's lips do. 

They absolve her as they settle upon her skin, behind her ear. The damp, light touch makes her lobe tingle. Then they descend to the joint of her jaw. Then to her cheek.

Lanfear's objective is to make her fall at her feet, to dismantle her forced composure, but it is in that moment that the Forsaken tastes the salty flavor of tears on her lips. She pulls away from Moiraine, a swift movement, her eyes widening in a flash of disbelief. 

"Damn Moiraine... you are..." Lanfear's voice is a guttural whisper, a question that resonates in the air, charged with an unexpected revelation.

Moiraine meets her gaze. Her vision is blurred. Tears stream down her face, tracing warm paths on her cheeks. It is not merely the result of frustration. It is like the breaking of an ancient dam, an irrepressible deluge of regret and sorrow. A dull, relentless ache gnaws at the walls of her stomach. She is in a marvellous, timeless place, and she realizes, in that instant, that she has fought so fiercely to save the world that she has left absolutely nothing within it to savor. 

What was the purpose of her absolute dedication? The answer is raw and ruthless, and so she weeps.

She weeps for all she could not live, for every joy denied, every caress withheld, every laugh not given, while the landscape around her vibrates inhumanly.

“Don’t cry, please, I can’t… these…” Lanfear looks at her, her eyes, usually cold abysses of control and power, now uncertain. Millennia have unaccustomed her to any form of tenderness, and Moiraine’s tears, now, are disarming. They remind her of a life she herself chose no longer to live. She doesn’t know what to do. She approaches, an uncertain step, awkward in a gesture of comfort that is profoundly alien to her.

“Not like this, cmon it is no longer amusing this way…” She extends a hand toward Moiraine, lightly brushing her arm, a contact almost shy, hesitant, unusually devoid of lust. The steel of her will cracks, revealing an unexpected fragility.

“What can I do for you…” she whispers, her voice having taken on a sweet tone, laden with an anxiety and concern the Aes Sedai has never heard from her.

The woman clasps the other woman’s hand, her long, perfect fingers enveloping Moiraine’s trembling ones. She guides her into the shade, beneath a tree. The cool, damp grass caresses the skin left exposed by their garments, an infinitesimal relief.

The Aes Sedai allows everything to happen. Her resignation is total, unconditional. She offers no resistance even when Lanfear draws her closer, her touch delicate but firm on her back, gently pressing her against herself.

And at that point, the Daughter of the Night encircles her with her arms. She holds her close, with an unusually protective strength. Moiraine does not care. It matters not if Lanfear exploits this moment of weakness.

She simply needs to release everything.

So she lets herself be cradled. She clings to her, like a lost child. She buries her face in the hollow of Lanfear’s neck, letting tears dampen her skin. Lanfear holds her tightly, an unexpected wave of warmth radiating from her arms. She feels Moiraine’s body trembling against hers, her breath irregular, and perceives the silent weeping that shakes her shoulders. She is unprepared for this raw vulnerability.

“Just hold me please,” Moiraine murmurs, her voice broken by sobs, her face still buried in the hollow of Lanfear’s neck, the words almost indecipherable.

A strange, almost childlike tenderness stirs in Lanfear’s chest, an emotion nearly unknown that disorients and captivates her. Moiraine’s scent, mingled with the salty taste of her tears, invades her nostrils, binding her to the present.

The hand caressing Moiraine’s back grows slower, more conscious. And gradually, the woman’s breath becomes more regular, her shoulders less tense. The slow, steady beat of Lanfear’s heart is an unexpectedly reassuring rhythm, a silent lullaby.

“I am here.” Lanfear’s voice is firm, devoid of any echo of mockery or malice, an unexpected counterpoint to her volatile nature, a promise that, for an instant, Moiraine believes with a force that frightens her, for it signifies complete surrender, and she knows not why she yields.

She knows only that she yearns for someone to care for her.

To such an extent that with a fluid, almost unconscious movement, she stretches out in Lanfear’s lap, seeking renewed contact, offering an even greater fragility. For an instant, the Forsaken is motionless, utterly surprised. Her eyes widen, reflecting the light in a way Moiraine has never witnessed, like an entire boundless sky, almost blinding in its unexpected, revealing clarity.

Moiraine settles more comfortably against her, and beneath her nape, she feels Lanfear’s lap pulse gently, a quiet, organic rhythm that cradles her.

Mierin slowly begins to caress her hair, her fingers moving slowly and precisely through the dark strands, a gesture that endures for a very long time, almost an eternity suspended in that enchanted place.

Moiraine closes her eyes. She sighs. She perceives every single touch, every caress, as if Lanfear’s hand is unknotting not only her hair, but also her soul, dissolving tensions and defenses accumulated over an entire lifetime.

It is only after a few minutes that Lanfear notices the mark on Moiraine’s right forearm, abandoned on the grass. Her eyes lower, focusing on that dark mark with sudden curiosity. She caresses it with two fingers, a light, almost probing touch, resting on the exact spot. Moiraine senses it, her body stiffening slightly. Lanfear’s fingers insist on her arm, a subtle pressure, a silent question, an insistent invitation that requires no words, but a deeper assent. Moiraine opens her eyes. She looks up at her, then rises, seeking her gaze as if wishing to give her an answer, but her throat is tight, her mouth incapable of articulating any expression. The words die in a deafening silence, filled only by the wild beat of her heart.

Lanfear takes her forearm, her long, tapered fingers delicately squeezing the warm skin, in an unbearably gentle possession. She chains her eyes to Moiraine’s, a magnetic gaze that permits no escape. Then she lowers her head and gently kisses the outline of the bite with her lips.

A warm, damp, perfect touch that makes the nerves beneath Moiraine’s skin tingle.

Lanfear’s beautiful eyes, now veiled by an almost ravenous intensity, rise again to meet hers, and in that gaze, in that tenderness so close, Moiraine reads an explicit invitation, an irresistible call to surrender completely into that abyss.

All within her is an offering, an unconditional surrender.

And so, she lets herself live the thing she most desires to do since she first saw her.

She kisses her.

Initially, the touch is hesitant, almost timid, but then it deepens, becoming voracious, famished, a primordial urgency that consumes every thought and every lingering inhibition. Moiraine is not at all surprised by the way Lanfear's lips move with insatiable hunger, taking with avidity, savoring every fragment of her, pulling her into a vortex of burning and intoxicating sensations.

It is as she has always thought it would be: deep, intense.

The tongue caressing hers in a bold and complicit dance, the hands sinking into her hair, pulling lightly, increasing the pleasure, stealing her breath.

Moiraine gasps softly into her mouth when one of Lanfear's hands slides onto her thigh, gently squeezing it, while the other rises on her back, pushing her with clear intention toward her lap.

The desire to feel every curve of Lanfear's body adhere to hers, to close that minimal distance, ignites every fiber of her being. She does not even think about it.

She obeys.

Her legs slide one after the other onto her. And even before consciousness forms in her mind, Lanfear's arms immediately tighten around her back, drawing her even closer.

Moiraine rolls her hips, an instinctive gesture that ignites the fire between them, amplifying the pressure and desire. She needs that friction.

Lanfear kisses her neck, creating a fiery path on her sensitive skin. Then her hand rises to her breast, playing with her nipple above the thin, light fabric of the dress, an exquisite torture.

Moiraine moans and arches her back, desperately yearning for more of her touch, but Lanfear is taking her time, savoring her reaction, delaying the inevitable.

And it is then that Moiraine transforms.

With a sudden, almost furious movement, she pushes her away, takes her chin between her hands, forcing her to look. Her eyes are black with desire, an unquenchable fire. "

“Touch me," she orders, her voice hoarse, imperative, imbued with a hunger that brooks no refusal.

Lanfear grins, a slow and satisfied smile that does not reach her eyes. This is the Moiraine she wants to see: brazen, demanding, completely given over to passion. She fixes her eyes on Moiraine, challenging her, a subtle yet fierce power game.

Then her hand descends with calculated slowness. She gathers the dress between her hands, lifting it just enough, a silent but eloquent invitation. Moiraine's hands rest on Lanfear's shoulders, almost as if to anchor herself, to find balance. She parts her lips to take a breath when the other's hand insinuates itself beneath her dress and her fingertips brush her bare skin.

The contact is electric, and the way the other woman does not break eye contact, examining her every small reaction, ignites Moiraine's every nerve.

Mierin's fingers slide inward, caressing her with millimeter precision. They trace circles on her inner thigh, torturing her, teasing her, exasperating her.

Every fiber of her body screams with frustration.

She needs more.

And therefore, with an impatient moan, she seizes Lanfear's hand and boldly guides it between her thighs, pressing it against her core.

"I said touch me!" She commands again, their lips almost brushing, their short breaths mingling.

The Forsaken smile, willing to obey, turned on by the display of dominance of Moiraine. But when her fingers brush the burning dampness between her folds...

“Mhh Yes!" a deep and satisfied sigh escapes, involuntary, the Aes Sedai’s lips.

At that point, Lanfear leans into her ear, bites the joint of her jaw. "Just like that. This is how I want to see you..." she whispers, her voice a sensual growl. "This is how I want to hear you." She emphasizes the last word while her thumb presses exquisitely against Moiraine’s clit.

That phrase, however, triggers something in the Aes Sedai.

The moment is too real, too consuming, too pleasurable. So, she must deny herself that. The discipline of an entire lifetime rebels against the abyss, erecting a sudden and insurmountable barrier.

"I can’t..." she says. "I can’t." The words are broken, a breath of desperation that escapes her lips. Lanfear stops touching her immediately.

And when Moiraine looks her in the eyes and implores her: "Make me wake up", her lips withdraw with wrenching slowness.

"Please,"

Moiraine adds, and the gleam in Mierin's eyes becomes veiled once again with a certain silent, albeit regretful, understanding.

She knows that a moment like this: true, intimate, almost sweet, cannot exist between her and Moiraine.

Not in the real world.

Not in the world of dreams.

But for a very brief instant, she didn't just want it. She almost yearned for it. 

Chapter Text

The air smells of wet earth and mud.

Dense and cold, it slips into her nostrils and fills her throat. Beneath the hooves, the clods of earth open slowly. Every jolt of the saddle climbs her spine, snakes between her shoulder blades, vibrates through the tense muscles of her neck. Her wrists are stiff, petrified from hours of holding the reins. Her fingers have gripped the leather for so long that she can't even feel its texture anymore.

Moiraine loves riding. Usually.

The horse's calm, steady breathing, the ground flowing beneath her, that fleeting sense of being able to hold the whole world within her gaze... but not today.

The saddle digs into her hips. The dampness clings to her clothes, the rough fabric scraping her skin with every movement. Her hips ache. Her shoulders are tight. Her jaw has been clenched for hours.

And because of this, in that fragile corner of her mind she always keeps locked away, where her self-control frays into instinct, a need slips in, almost obscene in its absurdity.

Warm hands undo the knots in her shoulders. Skilled fingers work their way up the muscles of her back, slow, certain. Lips brush the curve of her neck, stealing away the tension that's been building for hours.

And before she can stop it, memory gives that mouth a shape.

Soft. Warm. She can taste it on her tongue.

Lanfear.

Her body remembers more than her mind, even if it all happened in the Tel'aran'rhiod, where physical sensation feels less real. And now the grass swaying by the roadside, the trees bending to the wind, everything throws that unbearable image back at her.

Moiraine shifts slightly in the saddle, as if she could shake the thoughts off. She lifts her gaze. Rand is riding just ahead. His back rigid, shoulders tense, chin held high. He hasn't spoken to her since they set out.

"He'll get over it. He's just a boy," Lan says at her side, his voice restrained, mixing with the muffled sound of hooves.

Moiraine doesn't turn to him. "We don't have time to let him grow up," she replies. The tone is flat, but weariness sharpens its edges.

"He knows going to Tear is the right thing to do," Lan answers. "He just doesn't like admitting you're right."

"Am I?"

A flicker of hesitation crosses Moiraine's eyes. The uncertainty in her voice holds a trace of self-condemnation for the lack of control she's felt these past days.

But Lan's gaze steadies her. "You're not the type to second-guess your choices, Moiraine. We just need rest."

She nods, a barely perceptible dip of her head.

Then Lan urges his horse forward, reins brushing the sleek mane as he moves to the front of the group.

"We'd better stop," he says, raising his voice just enough for Rand and Egwene to hear. He takes a side path and leads the horses down the slope toward the nearest village. Moiraine follows.

The brutal, relentless exhaustion is the only thing that never betrays her.

Her boots touch the ground.

The worn leather sinks into the churned-up mud.

For a moment, Moiraine stands still. Air slips from her lips in a slow sigh, almost a tremor caught between her ribs for too long. The solid world beneath her feet, uneven as it is, feels almost like a blessing. Her legs, stiff, tremble slightly, as if the memory of the horse had stitched the gallop beneath her skin.

She forces herself to move. Gloved fingers slip along the fabric of her cloak, still damp with mist. She stretches one leg, then the other, easing the tendons with a low groan caught in her throat. The village winds around her like a messy maze: narrow alleys, low houses, thatched roofs glistening with dew. The smell of burning wood mixes with the sharp scent of hot iron, smoke, and wet earth. Her eyes half-close, watchful.

"I'm going to take a look around," she says to Lan, her voice steadier than her tired body should allow. Her eyes search for the dark ones of her Warder. "I want to make sure... everything's in order."

The excuse is fragile, clear as glass. But with him, there's no need for more.

A shadowed crease cuts between his brows, but Moiraine reassures him silently, leaving the bond open between them. Then she flicks her chin toward Rand. The boy is already off his horse, Egwene speaking to him in a low voice. Lan gives her the faintest knowing smile.

And so Moiraine walks away.

Her steps are measured. The cloak brushes her ankles, the light weight of her thoughts gathering in her shoulders. She lifts her hands, loosens her gloves with methodical gestures. Her fingers, finally free, spread and flex. They touch reality. Then she uncovers her head, letting the cool, thin air slip behind her neck.

She walks.

No destination, no immediate purpose. She lets the alleys swallow her, the streets twist without logic, like veins under the city's skin. Each step lands on the uneven cobblestones, damp with dew and dusted with fine dirt. The dull clang of a hammer striking metal mingles with the gentle hum of people, the squeak of carts. The sun fades the roofs, painting the rotting wood with pale copper.  She knows she should check every corner, every shadow, searching for threats, yet her eyes settle on people with a simple, almost childlike curiosity: a farmer pushing a cart of hay, hands caked in dirt; a woman at a doorstep beating a rug like a sail in the wind; children chasing a mangy dog.

Normal life.

She craves it.

A hidden longing, yet too painful to bear. The sense of an approaching war, the thrill of playing with the world's fate, it's a dull anesthetic. Watching those people, she lets the awareness of her difference sink in. She relishes having more power, more knowledge than they ever will.

And yet, she wonders if that knowledge is, in the end, her curse, if all of it is just another lie, she clings to, to hide the envy for those who find happiness in ordinary things.

The very same people she’s allowing herself to watch now.

She stops beside a stall.

The rough wood of its frame is blackened at the edges, worn from use. The fabrics hanging sway lightly, colors faded by the sun, washed-out blues, reds dissolving into dusty pinks. Copper pots gleam under the flickering light. The scent of spices mixes with the more metallic tang of the cookware.

The seller is young. Pretty, by Moiraine's strict standards. She has long, dark hair, loosely braided over her shoulder. When their eyes meet, the girl gives her a hesitant, almost shy smile, but the look that follows is anything but naive. It lingers a moment too long on the line of her throat, the elegant angle of her face.

There's appreciation. Veiled, quick, but knowing.

And without meaning to, Moiraine thinks of it.

The idea slips in without warning. A distraction. A warm, ordinary body. Trivial words, inexperienced hands. A temporary relief that leaves no trace, that doesn't linger for days.

Not like her.

The thought of Lanfear slips between her ribs, suffocating, sticky. She knows her too well. She knows that no fleeting, faceless touch could ever compare. And yet, she considers it, with surprising clarity.

She breathes deeply.

Her fingers move almost on their own. They brush the objects laid out on the girl's stall. They choose an engraved amulet, about the size of her palm, smooth and cold under her fingertips. Moiraine lifts it to eye level, seeking refuge in its carved details, the dull metal.

And that's when she sees her.

Just a reflection, distorted on the curve of the amulet.

The profile is unmistakable.

The world keeps going, unaware: a bucket clattering to the ground. Hooves striking cobblestones. The sharp hiss of hot metal meeting cold water.

Inside Moiraine, only silence.

Her heartbeat grows stronger, faster. Her blood thickens, adrenaline tightening in her veins. Her fingers close around the amulet, knuckles whitening. A thin smile touches her lips, bitter, perverse, as the cold thrill of this cat-and-mouse game crawls under her skin.

She allows herself one breath, long and controlled, while the city's noise runs over her like rain. Then her fingers slip from the amulet, light.

She ignores her.

She starts walking.

Her steps are measured again, as if nothing happened. She doesn't need to look to know that, in an instant, Lanfear is beside her. Her presence is impossible to ignore.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Moiraine's voice comes out sculpted, steady, but the tension hums under her skin like a wire pulled taut. "You just have to appear out of nowhere."

She keeps looking straight ahead. A boy passes by, carrying a basket of eggs. A dog brushes against them, trotting after the children. For a moment, the world ignores them.

There are only the two of them.

Lanfear laughs softly. The sound is velvet but sharp. "I like catching you off guard." Her voice has that inevitably seductive note that seems to slip out of her without control. Without meaning to, Moiraine allows herself a moment to listen to the sound of it.

"I'm not here for you... anyway," the Forsaken adds, her tone abruptly harsher.

Only then, finally, do their eyes lock. A contact more intimate, more dangerous than any word. Lanfear's lips curl into an ambiguous smile. Her eyes glitter like wet glass. 

"I didn't think you were so... methodical," Moiraine presses, lifting an eyebrow. Her tone is flat, but a shadow of irony curls on her tongue. 

"I'm just cautious," Lanfear replies, scanning alleys and shadows between the houses. Her voice is suddenly more serious, almost impersonal. 

Moiraine stays silent. 

It's almost amusing that they've had the same idea: to hide their restlessness behind caution. 

But the awkwardness is there, palpable, thick. 

She feels it between them. The humiliation of having almost given in still burns, along with something that refuses to die. The more she denies it, the more it grows. And yet, Lanfear doesn't seem to want a fight. 

Their shoulders brush. The contact is slight. Barely there. But it exists. 

It's real.

Warm. 
Irritating. 
Inevitable. 

Moiraine's breath catches slightly in her throat. She hates being so sensitive to her presence. She slowly rotates her wrists in a nervous gesture. Lanfear, meanwhile, seems completely indifferent. 

Better that way. 

She repeats it to herself. A flicker of confirmation that it was all just manipulation, a distraction, it anchors her back to cold reality. What they have is a bond of convenience. 

Fragile. Paper-thin. And that's how it must remain. 

For now, they just have to check this place. Assess. Watch. And above all, avoid drawing attention.

An almost impossible task with the woman at her side.

Because the Daughter of the Night never goes unnoticed. 

Even today, in this pathetic attempt to look more ordinary than usual, the dark cloak hiding the curves of her body, her soft hair trailing down her back, she remains a vision that steals the breath from anyone who crosses her path. 

There's something in her presence that overwhelms the gaze. She's too beautiful. Too out of place to

ever look like an ordinary woman. 

And even Moiraine...

With her sculpted features, that severe, composed beauty, that ancient grace she wears like armor, she is anything but invisible. 

Even if they wanted to, they could never blend in with the crowd. And in fact…

 A little girl approaches. Small, big-eyed, cheeks red from the wind. She stops in front of Lanfear, chin lifted slightly in bold innocence, curiosity shining in her eyes. 

"Are you a princess?" she asks, her voice thin, curious. 

Moiraine and Lanfear exchange a look. A fleeting flicker crosses the perfect face of the Forsaken. For a moment, Moiraine expects her to do something. Something wrong. Something dangerous. 

Instead, Lanfear kneels. With an unnatural, almost disarming grace. Her black eyes soften, turn liquid.

Almost... human. 

"No..." Her voice is a whisper, soft, almost wistful. "I can't be one." She pauses. Then, lighter: "But you could be." The smile that follows is disarming.

The girl giggles, eyes half-closing. She puts her hands behind her back, swaying on her toes. 

Moiraine doesn't know why those words tighten her chest. She only knows they do. Lanfear could be far more than a princess. Perhaps more than anything any other woman could ever be. Yet in her voice, there's no arrogance. Only that uncomfortable, slippery sadness that Moiraine would rather not recognize. 

"And her?" the girl adds, pointing at Moiraine with a tiny finger. 

The Aes Sedai, caught off guard, stays silent. She is more like Lanfear than she'd like to admit. She doesn't know how to handle such disarming innocence. 

"No, not her either..." Lanfear answers, her voice returning to neutral, but with a hint of something Moiraine can't quite read.

The child doesn't give up. "But she's very pretty... like you..." 

Lanfear turns to Moiraine. Her eyes burn, filled with a dangerous intensity. Her lips curl into a slow smile. Then she looks back at the girl and, in a tone so direct it feels like a caress, says: 

"Yes. You're right. She's beautiful."

Moiraine feels the heat rise to her cheeks, a banal, human flush that surprises her more than the compliment itself. The praise is a blade disguised as gentleness. A dull warmth spreads through her chest, a simple emotion, yet devastating in its power. 

"Come here right now!" An unmistakable tone breaks that delicate balance. 

The little girl's mother approaches, her steps brisk, eyes stern.

But when her gaze lands on them, something shifts. The expression changes. Arrogance shatters into respect. That instinctive submission one feels in front of figures too much to comprehend.

"Forgive me..." the woman murmurs, her voice dropping, shy.

With barely a nod, Moiraine and Lanfear shake their heads, as if nothing happened. 

The mother lifts the child into her arms. The tiny protests melt into a spontaneous wave of her little hand when the two women smile at her kindly. Then mother and daughter disappear into the crowd. 

Silence falls between them again. But it's different now. Heavier. More aware.

"I didn't think you were..." 

Moiraine's voice trembles slightly. She doesn't know how to finish that sentence. Or maybe she doesn't want to. 

Lanfear cuts her off, sharp. Her tone is like a painful scratch on skin. 

"No one does." 

The Aes Sedai says nothing more.

But something inside her tightens. An emotion writhes under her skin, shapeless, restless. 

They start walking again in silence.

The damp cobblestones creak under their soles. Shadows stretch, creeping through the alleys. They cross a square. The sun glints off window glass. People, unconsciously, move aside as they pass until Moiraine slows just slightly, no more than a held breath, an imperceptible tightening of her shoulder muscles.

Lanfear senses it immediately. Her body stiffens like a blade, ready to strike. Ahead of them, a disordered line. Soldiers in uniform frisking women and men with arrogance. 

"No theatrics," Moiraine murmurs, without looking back. 

Lanfear lifts a corner of her lips. "It only takes a second," she replies. 

"Just behave yourself." The Aes Sedai's words are a command, but also a provocation. 

And Lanfear knows it. The irritation coils under her skin. Moiraine giving her orders always has the effect of arousing her in inconvenient, dangerous ways. But she holds her tongue. 

For now. 

The line thins out. In front of them, a woman steps aside, pale, her hands trembling after the search. Her eyes lowered, her cheeks flushed with humiliation. 

When it's their turn, Moiraine steps forward first. 

She walks gracefully, head held high, her cloak opening slightly with each step. The man watches her. His lips twist into a crude half-smile as his gaze slides over her without hiding a thing. Then his hands begin to pat her down: over her shoulders, down her back. His fingers dig in. 

Moiraine stands still. Her eyes fixed past her aggressor, as if she could dissolve him into nothing with just her mind. But tension snakes under her skin, her breath slows, her heartbeat pounds just below her throat. She grits her teeth. 

Lanfear watches her. Her outward facade shows a kind of restraint that Moiraine knows all too well. But her breath shortens, her body goes rigid, her hands at her sides clench into fists. The air vibrates around her, charged with something ancient and dangerous. 

And when the man's hands slide, with deliberate slowness, lower, over Moiraine's hips, feeling her narrow waist…

"Enough," the Forsaken hisses, her lips barely parted.

Moiraine glances sideways at her. Their eyes brush. She knows she's about to explode. She knows their cover is hanging by a thread as thin as Lanfear's control. 

"What did you say?" the man asks, turning toward her. His voice thick with arrogance, his fingers stroking the curve of the Aes Sedai's hips with obscene slowness. 

"I said enough," Lanfear repeats. Her tone is calm, but with that coldness that can freeze blood in veins. 

The man turns to a guard beside him. He bursts out laughing, a crude, mocking sound. "Did you hear her?" 

And that's when Lanfear acts. 

The gesture is minimal. Elegant. 

A barely noticeable movement of her fingers, as if she were adjusting a fold of her cloak. Nothing an ordinary eye would catch. But Moiraine sees everything. 

The man staggers. It happens in a single breath. 

His eyes widen, the pupils dilate until they swallow the iris. His mouth opens, a strangled sound that never quite becomes a word. His hands clutch his chest, then his throat. His face flushes red, then turns an unnatural shade of purple. 

He gasps. His breath breaks, a wet gurgle slips from his lips. His eyes roll back, his body collapses into itself like a puppet with its strings cut. 

He falls. 

The thud of his body hitting the cobblestones is dull, humiliating. The noise of the square breaks.

Conversations stop, as if time itself had held its breath.

A single moment of absolute silence.

Then chaos. 

Someone screams. People press in, push, trying to flee or get a better look. One of the guards kneels beside the man, shakes him, calls his name. No response. The man's face is livid, motionless. His mouth half open, his eyes glassy. 

Dead. Just like that. For no apparent reason. 

The crowd closes in.

Moiraine doesn't wait. 

Her fingers clamp around Lanfear's wrist, cold and firm. She pulls her away. 

The two of them vanish like silent shadows in the confusion. They slip into a narrow, shadowed alley, cut off from the world, swallowed by dark stone. Somewhere, in the distance, the crowd still murmurs around the man's lifeless body. 

But here, the silence is thin, sharp. 

Moiraine leans back against the rough wall. Her cloak still open, the fabric clings to her, heavy with air and tension. Her heart beats against her ribs like a drum. The bond with Lan pulses in her head. 

Anxiety. Worry. 

She tries to steady her breath and reassure him, but calming her emotions is nearly impossible. 

Lanfear stands in front of her. Motionless. Under her skin, the energy coils like an animal ready to strike. Her hands at her sides are too still. Her fingers slightly curled, still soaked in power. Her black, unfathomable eyes study her. 

Light filters from above in thin slashes, illuminating only part of her face: cheekbone, temple, a corner of her mouth. The rest is shadow. 

And Moiraine feels her skin heat up. Her hands itch. Her blood pulses. That thin, uncomfortable wave of arousal that always sweeps through her when they're alone. 

Every breath grows shorter. Every glance longer. Then finally, the words slip from her lips, low, rough, scraped raw by exhaustion. 

"You can't hold back." 

It's not an accusation. It's a fact, and a reprimand. 

Lanfear doesn't move. But something inside her coils tight. A latent irritation spreads slowly. Her lower lip twitches just slightly. Her breath grows shorter. Her throat constricts. 

Why does she keep allowing her this? 

Why, when she could destroy her, when she could reduce the entire village to ashes with a single glance, does she still crave Moiraine's approval? Why does she keep trying to please her? 

The Forsaken inhales slowly. The tension drips down her spine. 

"I obeyed you." The answer comes like a blow, flat, precise, calm only on the surface. 

Moiraine clenches her jaw. The line of her neck tenses. The control she wields pulses through every fiber of her body. Her eyes pin Lanfear in place like a nail. 

"You said no theatrics," Lanfear adds, leaning in just slightly, her movement charged with intention. Her voice turns more dangerous. 

Moiraine lifts her chin just barely, her ice-blue irises burning cold. "He's dead." The word drips into the air like poison. "You think that's not theatrical enough?" she asks, never raising her voice. 

Lanfear feels her skin prickle. Her lips part in a breath caught halfway, frustrated. She wants to wipe that damned look of judgment off Moiraine's face. 

Yet it's exactly that look that consumes her, makes her restless, makes her feel... small, a child craving approval. Straining, restraining, controlling herself, just for a scrap of praise. The awareness infuriates her. 

"He should be grateful. I gave him a quick death. He didn't even have time to suffer." 

Moiraine draws a long breath. Her chest rises in what's more an act of containment than a necessity. Her eyes lift briefly to the sky. Patience fractures on her lips in a gesture thick with frustration. 

"What was I supposed to do?" 

Everything Lanfear has been suppressing to behave properly explodes in that moment, full of rage. She steps forward in quick strides, her gaze flickering with barely restrained power. "Was I supposed to let him keep touching you?" 

Moiraine's breath catches in her lungs. Her chest tightens. Her stomach knots. The sharp awareness of the possessiveness pouring off Lanfear slips sweetly between her thighs without asking permission. 

"Do you think I'm a child?" the Aes Sedai hisses. 

Lanfear goes rigid. The smile dies on her lips. And for the first time, she loses control. "And do you really think I'm the type to hold back, Moiraine?" The words slip out like a bite. Her pupils dilate, her breath shortens. "You've already taken too much. Don't test my patience." 

Moiraine's heartbeat drums in her temples. She knows she's walking a razor's edge, spinning the most powerful woman she knows around her little finger, but the game is too tempting. 

"I don't need your protection, Lanfear," she snaps. Her body is rigid, but the control is only a facade. "I could have handled it." Her chin lifts, defiant. 

Lanfear watches her, her mouth curving into a slow, infuriating smile. She's one breath from Moiraine's face. 

"I know," she whispers. "It was me... who couldn't handle it." 

The admission lands like a clean blow, but she doesn't give her time to react.

She leans in. The space between them dissolves. Her lips brush the edge of Moiraine's ear, a touch just damp enough to make her shiver. 

"So, Moiraine... did I behave well enough for you?”

And in that second, the cord snaps. 

There's no diplomacy left, just pure desire, laced with anger and the simmering need Moiraine has to punish her. 

Her hands seize Lanfear hard, slam her against the wall, and her mouth is on hers.

Their lips collide, teeth clash in a dangerous game, their tongues tangle too fast, with a hunger that knows no brakes. The Forsaken gasps, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in her throat, a sound that tastes of surrender but also challenge. 

So, she answers. 

Her hands slide along Moiraine's hips, yanking her close, fusing their bodies together. She tangles her fingers in her hair, forcing her head back to expose her throat so she can drag her lips down the delicate column of her throat, swirling her tongue around the spot where her heartbeat pulses. Moiraine is forced to let out a sound of pleasure that makes Lanfear smirk into the hollow of her neck. 

For a moment, Moiraine decides not to return the favor. She wants to surrender to her will, because Lanfear’s hands pressing into her back, between her shoulder blades, and her tongue tracing cruel circles along her throat feel like a perverse blessing she’s been craving all day. The confidence in that touch makes her thighs tremble. And every weight, every tension, every lie melts when she kisses her again, deeper. 

Lanfear is her forbidden luxury, and she wants to savor it. Oh, how she wants to savor it. 

But when Lanfear's hand starts to slide lower along her body, eager to please her, Moiraine stops her. She pushes her away just a heartbeat before she can reach the place she craves most. She doesn't have the self-control to pull back from this entirely, but she wants it on her terms. 

She prays it won't shatter her completely. 

Her fingers twist into Lanfear's hair at the nape, forcing her head back as she wedges a knee between her legs. Lanfear jerks violently, breaking the kiss to breathe. 

When she opens her eyes, she sees an entire fire blazing in Moiraine's. 

She smiles. 

"You want to take me " she says, "to fool yourself into thinking you still have some control." Her voice cracks, hoarse, warm, splintered by desire as Moiraine's knee presses harder into her hot, wet center, punishing her. The provocation only sharpens her frustration. 

Lanfear holds her breath, chokes back a moan that turns into an almost feral laugh. 

Moiraine sinks her teeth into her neck, marking her. But it's not enough. Her hand slips under the Forsaken’s clothes, cruel and sure, sliding between her thighs to touch bare skin without a pause.

She feels her. 

Hot. 
Wet. 
Unacceptably ready for her.

Lanfear's lips brush her ear. Her voice is a whisper held back with effort.

"Doesn't it turn you on..." she tries to say, "knowing this is what you do to me?"

She is soaking wet.

Moiraine's breath catches. She feels her blood pounding, hot, violent, through her veins. She is turned on, desperately so, but she will never say it.

She wants her. She wants, full stop.

And her palm pressed flat against that brazen heat is a delicious sensation, but not enough.

"Open your legs." The order cuts out, sharp, bitten off between her teeth.

Lanfear's back arches, a moan slips from her lips, thick with deliberate provocation. Her hips tense, offering themselves to Moiraine's touch without even trying to resist. She locks eyes with her. The Daughter of the Night radiates power even with the other woman's hand literally between her thighs.

"I knew it," she whispers. Her hot breath burns against Moiraine's mouth. "I knew there was a fire under all that icy composure..."

Moiraine's thumb presses down brutally on her clit but doesn't move.

"Show me," Lanfear tries to order, but her voice is more a plea. She grabs at Moiraine's clothes, pulling her closer, her breath short, but the smile on her lips is shameless.

The other woman matches it. Her lips curve in a sadistic line, but she doesn't touch her.

"I said open your legs." She repeats, her hunger to make her obey dark and unstoppable.

The Daughter of the Night bites her lip in a seductive little gesture, locking eyes with her. She wants to play. She won't impose her will. She won't touch her... not until Moiraine herself caves in. She knows Moiraine expects her to resist, and that's exactly why she doesn't.

In fact…

She obeys gladly.

She parts her legs, slowly, savoring every second. And when Moiraine's fingers trace her length, Lanfear sighs.

"Oh... take me, Moiraine."

It's a provocation.

But the game is already devastating. Moiraine can't breathe. Her body betrays her. She feels she could come just from the things this damned woman is saying, arousing her more than anyone ever has.

Lanfear has that power over her. She knows her: the one who wants others to kneel at her feet. But the darkest thrill seizes Moiraine then: the knowledge that Lanfear would be the perfect lover even for that other self, the one who wants to be tied up and punished.

And then, without warning, two fingers slide inside her.

Cruel.

She needs to touch her. Touching her eases that maddening desire that claws inside her: to be touched.

Lanfear moans. Loud. Her lashes tremble, eyes flutter shut, her head tilts back against the damp wall of the alley.

She is perfect like this. So exposed. So hers.

Moiraine bites the inside of her cheek. She tries to hold back her own need, focusing all of it on the woman in front of her, taking her, forcing her to cry out her name.

Her fingers move. The rhythm is relentless. Lanfear's hips rock into her touch. Asking for more. Always more. Begging for it.

"Look at you riding my fingers... You're so desperate." The whisper is caressing, but brutal too.

Lanfear's eyes snap open. Deep, black as midnight. This side of Moiraine, so commanding, ignites every fiber of her body. Her hair slips over her shoulders like silk. Her breath shudders out between parted lips. But even as she wants to give in completely, she never backs down from this dirty, delicious display.

"Moiraine..." she moans. A sound vibrating between her teeth, full, rough, filthy.

"They feel so good..."

Moiraine's heart stops. The need is a sharp blade wedged between her thighs. A sweet, painful desire that can only get worse.

"Please... please don't stop." The words melt into her broken moans.

Real? Fake?

It doesn't matter.

Every syllable sets her on fire. Hits every weak spot. The throbbing ache between her legs is so strong she wants to touch herself right there, right then.

And Moiraine can't resist.

Her fingers thrust harder, deeper inside Lanfear, like she's touching herself.

The woman's body trembles, contracts. Her breath comes in short, ragged bursts.

The Forsaken is about to break. And she wants to see her shatter.

"I could make you feel so... good" Lanfear splinters over that last word, her voice cracking as Moiraine curls her fingers with cruel, precise skill.

Those words are her ruin. But she doesn't stop.

One more thrust of her fingers, and Lanfear's thighs clamp tight, her walls squeeze around Moiraine's hand.

She feels her come. Moiraine feels it everywhere.

It's almost her own orgasm. She rides it with her, holds her through it. Watches her collapse under the waves of pleasure she's dragged out of her.

When she finally pulls her fingers free, the Aes Sedai can barely stand. Her body is on fire. Her breath shreds in her chest.

She wants. She desperately needs to be touched.

And Lanfear knows it.

"Let me please you..." the Forsaken whispers. Her hands move on her, slow, offering, ready to give her everything she wants. "I promise I can be so good."

Her voice is so tempting. Her hands feel so good on her. Moiraine can only imagine how good she really is. She knows she is.

And yet

she denies herself.

Her gaze freezes, sharp, masochistic. Desire burns under her skin, but she smothers it.

"I have to go." Her voice is flat, surgical. She straightens her cloak with quick, mechanical movements. "Lan will be here any moment."

It's the truth. But it's also the perfect excuse.

Lanfear stares at her, her eyes incandescent, breath still ragged. A sound slips out of her, low, thick with frustration and unmet desire. She doesn't even seem human. The way Moiraine refuses to bend to her will drives her mad, more than she'll ever admit.

She's terrified of how perfect this woman could be for her.

And Moiraine is just as afraid, because the way Lanfear craves her now is less and less human. It’s something raw, feral, almost animalistic.

"The time for games is over, Moiraine." The threat slides between the words. "Next time, I'll take what's mine." Her words fade into the air.

And Moiraine knows.

Oh, she knows.

Next time... will be her last.

Chapter Text

A dull, dry thud.

A wooden chair, unbalanced, tips backward. Its legs slam onto the floor, dragging down a drunk who tumbles to the ground. A roar of raucous laughter splits the air. Hoarse voices tangle with the graceless clatter of mugs and the scraping of chairs dragged across the floor.

A minstrel strums a lute, stumbling over the strings. The wood of the tables is greasy with old ale. Rough hands meet halfway to slam worn cards down onto the boards. The smell of wet wool mixes with that of cloaks thrown in a heap to drip by the door.

Moiraine stands by the fireplace. Her fingers glide along the edge of the rough stone. For a moment, she stays still. She focuses on the sharp crackle of the embers. The warmth brushes her pale cheek, pushing away the shiver lodged at the base of her neck.

It's a relief.

The hot water was too. The steam loosened the guilt knotted in her chest. Lanfear's voice grew muffled, almost drowned.

"I won't ask what you were doing in town this afternoon." Lan's voice is low and hoarse.

Moiraine runs a hand over her neck, her shoulders. They're still warm. "The bath was good," she whispers.

Lan shakes his head slightly. He lifts his eyes to the soot-darkened ceiling. His lips twitch into an amused grimace at her incredible talent for slipping around any conversation.

"It helped ease the tension," she adds, her voice trying for casual. But the words stick between her teeth, heavy.

Lan adjusts the sword on his back, more out of habit than need. "I'm glad you're feeling better." He says it quietly, his voice carrying a warmth that's almost affectionate.

Moiraine sighs. The noise of the common room hums behind her skull: the rustle of cards, the dull thud of a mug hitting the table, Rand staring at Egwene and not speaking to her, the instinct not to open herself up to anyone, Lan's silent worry pulsing through the bond.

So, she decides to let a crack show. "Sometimes... to release the tension, I need certain distractions ."

Lan tilts his head to the side, the shadow of a smile on his lips. "Distractions?"

"Someone..." Moiraine spits it out.

The word scrapes her tongue like something dirty, but she doesn't take it back. "I see someone to... get rid of some of this tension."

The words snag together. The half-truth burns like a drop of hot wax on bare skin. Moiraine can't tell him everything, but she can give him at least this much.

Lan looks at her. His Warder eyes flash for a moment. Then a spark of amusement breaks the tension.

"Light," the man murmurs. "About time."

"Excuse me?" Moiraine narrows her eyes, eyebrows drawn tight, like she might actually hurt him.

He shrugs. A laugh bursts from his throat. "Twenty years, Moiraine... I can feel it when you need it."

She hits him. The punch she plants on his shoulder isn't really a punch. But the laugh that spills out of her, sudden and rough, is real.

Lan laughs with her, louder than she does.

"It's good to hear you laugh," he says when his voice settles back in his chest, steady.

"Shut up," Moiraine hisses through her laughter. She shoves him again, lighter this time, like she's shaking off the rest.

Lan grabs two chipped clay mugs filled to the brim with something amber, thick, heavy with the smell of spice and smoke.

"Here," he says, handing her one.

Moiraine stares at him for a moment, then lifts the mug and takes a sip. The warm liquid scrapes her throat. She almost spits it out, coughing. Lan squints and laughs again. He leans in, ready to take it back, but she clamps a cold hand around his wrist. She drinks it all.

"Another," she says.

Lan arches an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Another."

Her voice is low, firm. Her eyes sharp as slivers of ice. The alcohol burns through her, unwinding the barbed wire that keeps her pinned to reality.

Lan shakes his head, amused. He'll probably have to carry her to bed in his arms, but he doesn't care.

The tavern's racket, the minstrel's off-key notes, washes through Moiraine's ears like the liquor down her throat.

And for a moment, she doesn't hear Lanfear.

She doesn't feel the shame.

She feels nothing .

Only a strange kind of lightness filling her head. And for tonight, at least, she believes she can mistake it for

freedom .

The sharp aftertaste still lingers on her tongue.

The warmth of the alcohol seeps slowly through her veins, like a bite that melts from the inside out. Her body unwinds. Her shoulders drop, free of tension. The edges of things blur just a touch. Colors blend together.

Around her, the tavern is a small inferno of noise and heat. For once, Moiraine wants nothing more than to lose herself in the frivolity slipping under her skin, in the cheap wine stinging her lips, in the racket that makes her thoughts go soft and sluggish.

She's not vulnerable. She never is.

But that thread of tension that keeps her spine straight, always ready to strike or flee, loosens just a little.

And it's a dangerously pleasant feeling.

Her eyes drift lazily across the room. They skim over flushed faces until they land on a soft profile, the rim of a glass lifted by slender fingers. It takes her a second, the noise droning through her head, to bring the face into focus…

The girl seller.

And when the girl's eyes meet hers, the noise muffles even more, like a thin veil dropping around her.

The lightness turns into a hunt.

There’s something in the girl’s eyes, caught in Moiraine’s, an inexperienced yet sincere invitation, the way her mouth curves into a hesitant, half-formed smile, that makes Moiraine’s pulse flicker and spark.

And now, as the girl looks away, tracing her own fingers nervously on the table, Moiraine knows.

The warmth under her ribs flares hotter. Boldness slides into something slipperier. Sharper.

She studies her with surgical precision: the plain dress, the slender waist, hair pinned up in a rush.

She's not the prettiest girl in the room, not even the most practiced. And yet it's that unknowingness that catches her.

It's enough... for the need now pulsing under her skin, glowing like coals beneath ash. With the alcohol thrumming through her, it's harder to ignore. Her senses are softer, more sensitive than usual.

This is why she doesn't drink.

Moiraine's smile is almost imperceptible. The decision already made.

She moves toward the girl, her body swaying with quiet confidence, shoulders back, chin lifted just slightly. She crosses the room, as if she means to reach her, maybe trade a few words. But at the last moment, she slips past.

Her hand brushes the girl's arm, silent, the touch light as a command. She pauses just long enough to leave her scent clinging to the girl's skin.

And then she walks straight toward the stairs leading up.

She doesn't need to look back to know the girl is already rising.

In the brief space between herself and the door, she flicks a glance at Lan. He's sitting nearby, his watchful gaze skimming the room. Moiraine shoots him a sly smile, tilting her head just enough toward the girl. 

He laughs.

A few more steps. Then he feels it.

The bond between them thins. It fades like a soft mist settling between them. But he isn't worried.

Though maybe he should be.

The hallway leading to the rooms is dimmer than the tavern.

Shadows stretch across the floorboards. The sounds from downstairs grow muffled, as if they belong to another world entirely.

When Moiraine rounds the corner, the girl is already there. Leaning against the wall, arms at her sides, her chest rises with a quick breath. Her eyes gleam in the dark, a thread of fear woven with raw excitement. She's probably too young to be playing games like this.

Yet, she's already tangled up in Moiraine . The Aes Sedai is the kind of thing that slips down your throat and never lets go. It's the kind of thing you have to taste, no matter the cost.

So, when Moiraine kisses her, unhurried, the girl's mouth opens without hesitation. She tastes sweet, like apple cider. She smells real, grounded, a faint trace of lavender.

Moiraine needs this: something that doesn't taste like danger. Something that isn't laced with power, poison, and obsession.

Something imperfect .

The girl is pliant, or seems to be. Moiraine deepens the kiss, her hands gliding down the girl's narrow waist, touching, guiding with a kind of tenderness that's only the illusion of kindness. A softness that still says: I'm in control.

But it's the girl who surprises her. With a clumsy yet bold motion, she grabs Moiraine's hips, and in a blink, the woman finds herself pressed against the wall, the rough, cold planks biting through her clothes.

It's the girl kissing her now.

Her cheek, her jaw, her neck. The movements are unsure but full of wanting, a pure, eager kind of desire, the kind that wants to prove itself.

And Moiraine closes her eyes. She lets go. Just this once, she wants to receive.

She lets herself believe she's someone else. But the illusion doesn't last.

The girl's nose brushes her cheek. She smiles. "I thought you'd be colder than this," she whispers.

Moiraine's body stiffens. Her blood stops in her veins. The seller's voice overlaps with an echo she knows too well. The words are too familiar.

Cold licks down her spine, but her blood burns. Her mind betrays her body.

The girl keeps going. She has no idea what she's invoking.

None .

Her hand moves up, gently cupping one of Moiraine's breasts, fingers teasing her nipple. The moan that escapes Moiraine's lips is low, choked. Her back arches against the wall, offering her body without restraint.

But the hands touching her… they 're no longer hesitant.

They're long-fingered, strong, and sure. One slides up her back to cradle the base of her skull. The other roams her body with confidence, like it knows every inch of her better than she does.

The mouth grows hungrier, cruel. The scent now reeks of ruin and obsession. Moiraine's breath falters. Her eyes stay shut. Desire knots between her thighs. It becomes hunger.

A hand slips between her legs. It finds her without asking, with a kind of audacity no one else has, no one else could.

Her heartbeat is a frantic drumbeat.

It's Lanfear touching her. Lanfear possessing her. Lanfear giving her exactly what, deep down, she's always wanted.

It's in her blood.

Her breath catches. A moan tears out of her throat. She doesn't stop it.

" Yes " she gasps.

Her voice cracks, full of surrender, burning her from the inside.

The girl's thumb circles her clit. The pressure isn't enough. It'll never be enough. She needs more.

But then …

A laugh slices through the silence. Moiraine's eyes fly open. The girl's face is buried in her neck, unaware. Her fingers keep moving between her thighs.

But Moiraine's gaze slides past her.

To the end of the corridor. And she sees

her .

Leaning against the wall, body like a blade, arms crossed, that breathtaking face.

Lanfear is watching her.

Those black, liquid eyes locked onto hers. They shine like spilled ink in moonlight, but beneath that stillness, Moiraine sees it all: the hunger, the fury, the sick possessiveness that wraps tighter every time she denies her.

Desire detonates in Moiraine's core. The wall behind her seems to pulse. Her cheeks burn. Her skin tightens. Her legs spread. The want becomes unbearable.

And Moiraine doesn't look away. She can't.

Lanfear's aura curls around her like smoke. It grazes her, tempts her, smothers her. She meets her gaze, straight on.

And it turns her on. Seeing her there. Trapped. Watching. Forced to witness another girl touching her, making her moan.

And in her eyes. Oh , in her eyes…

Moiraine reads everything: the held-back desire, the rage seething beneath the surface, the need. The kind no amount of pride, not even centuries' worth, can hide. Not the way her power thrums in the air around her like a silent threat.

" Please ," Moiraine begs.

She would never say that. Not to Lanfear.

And yet, it's to her that she says it. It's only to her that the plea truly belongs.

The girl smiles, oblivious, her lips grazing the hollow of Moiraine's neck. It spurs her on, her fingers finally ready to slip inside.

But Lanfear doesn't allow it.

She moves.

Her arm shoots out. She grabs the girl, yanks her away.

A low, guttural sound of frustration slips through Moiraine's teeth. The broken contact tears at her more than it should, because she's been waiting to be touched for so long.

"Light!"

It's a prayer, or maybe more a curse. An insult flung at whatever cruel thing delights in dragging her back into Lanfear's hands. As if she's the only one who can ever truly give her that release.

Her skirts fall back over her thighs, smothering that raw, exposed heat. The air doesn’t hit her skin like a cold slap anymore.

The girl gasps, confused, arousal dissolving into pure bewilderment.

" Go ."

Lanfear's voice is a whisper that promises ruin if she doesn't obey.

The girl stumbles back, breathing hard, her eyes darting between fear and bruised pride.

"Who... who are you?" she stammers. Her fingers curl around her freed wrist, gaze flicking from Lanfear to Moiraine, hunting for answers that won't come.

Lanfear doesn't spare her so much as a glance. Her eyes remain locked on Moiraine.

Only her.

The only one who seems to matter, who's mattered for centuries. The only one who can match the secret, wretched hunger coiled up inside her.

"I said go." The command cuts like a knife.

The girl hesitates, eyes lingering on Moiraine, confused, disappointed. Then she turns and slips down the corridor, vanishing into the shadows.

What's left is the sound of Moiraine's breathing. The hammering heartbeat under her ribs. Her body still thrumming, strung out and empty.

And Lanfear.

Those eyes on her.

That face carved out of arrogance.

Out of hunger.

The sound of the door closing behind her is sharp. Clean.

It slices through the air, or better yet, it slices through her breath. Moiraine feels it echo in her skull. But it's in her bones that she feels the force of Lanfear shoving her forward, not even letting her turn to face her.

She slams her against the wall, her hot cheek pressed into the cold, rough surface, the grit imprinting into her skin.

She has no time to think.

Because behind her, Lanfear's breath spills warm across her nape. And even through her clothes, she feels,

everything .

Every curve of Lanfear's body pressed into hers. Every tiny shift. Every heartbeat.

"You could've let me have a bit more fun..." she breathes. Her voice comes out low, rough, but brazen.

Especially now, pinned like this. Especially now, when it's clear Lanfear wants her to know exactly who's in control.

And the Forsaken's left hand reacts. She shoves Moiraine's face harder against the wall. The other hand snatches her wrists, pinning them behind her back.

"I should punish you for what you did." The whisper slides into her hair, her ear, her throat, a sweet venom that drips down between her legs.

Moiraine squeezes her eyes shut. Swallows the quickening pulse. The air grows thicker.

She can't move. She can't turn around. She can't run.

She's trapped .

And yet…

A shiver skitters down her spine.

She's aroused. She wants to press her thighs together for any kind of relief, but she can't. Her body betrays her. Her back arches. She pushes into Lanfear's hold. She offers herself, clear and helpless.

Lanfear freezes for a heartbeat. Her breath snaps sharp against Moiraine's ear. Fingers knot in her hair. She yank her head back, rough, sudden. Lanfear's mouth drops to her ear, her hot breath coiling there, savoring every second.

" Oh ... you like being punished."

The rough, filthy observation drips with satisfaction.

Moiraine doesn't answer. Her breath splits in her throat. A low, raw sound of want tears free from her lips.

Crude. Uncontrolled.

Lanfear has struck something raw, a nerve she keeps buried. She loves control, but being forced, tied up, pushed past her limits is…

It makes her tremble.

It turns her on, ruinously so.

It's exactly what she wants.

She feels Lanfear's teeth graze the hot curve of her neck, her shoulders. The mouth seals on her skin. Sucks.

Moiraine gasps. She can't help it. The feel of Lanfear restraining her is exquisite.

Lanfear drinks that sound in. A laugh rips from her throat.

And in an instant, Moiraine feels something strange tighten around her wrists. No more warm hands, but fabric. The texture is soft, smooth.

Silk.

The contrast is delicious. It doesn't bite too harshly, but it will leave a mark.

"Do you like being punished, Moiraine?"

The question is low and filthy.

Moiraine bites down on her lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, just to keep from giving her an answer. To stop herself from confessing that this thing with her is one of her strongest, most secret fantasies.

A truth that should never see the light.

But Lanfear's hand slips into the space between the wall and her body. It trails over her stomach. It dips lower, gathering her skirt.

Moiraine sucks in a breath. Lanfear's fingers brush bare skin behind her knee, a slow, shameless touch that lights her nerves on fire. Then they climb, ivy, like a bite trailing up her thigh.

"So do you like it, or not, Moiraine?" Lanfear murmurs, hypnotic.

The silk tightens just a little more. Lanfear's fingers press into that last strip of skin between the inside of her thigh and her center.

An inch, but it's enough to make her quake. 

" Yes ."

The word slips out, strangled.

Moiraine waits. Tenses. But Lanfear doesn't move. Doesn't touch her where she needs it.

"Oh, Moiraine..." Her name is a sin, whispered. "You have no idea..." Lanfear purrs. Her mouth skims her skin, kisses her. Her tongue traces the edge of her ear, her jawline. "...how good I am at this ."

And Moiraine knows she is. She knows she hasn't even started playing yet.

Before she can think, her back is slammed flat against the wall's rough surface. She wants to move. She wants to lean in, but she can't. Lanfear keeps her pinned.

Her eyes lock on the Forsaken. She sits perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, body relaxed in a pose dripping with power and control. Like it's all hers. Like Moiraine is hers.

The urge to drop to her knees bites at her joints, hot, humiliating.

Light, why does she want to?

Moiraine doesn't get the chance to untangle the thought. The snap of Lanfear's fingers is sharp, merciless.

Her clothes, the barriers, the illusion of being able to hide anything is gone.

The Aes Sedai stands there.

Naked.

Exposed.

Lanfear's eyes pin her in place. The Forsaken tilts her head, savoring every detail of her. Her eyes drift down her legs. Her narrow waist. They linger on her breasts, her collarbones, the porcelain skin. Her hair falls loose down her back, fine strands brushing her arms.

Perfect .

Moiraine feels her heart pounding in her ears. She's always been composed, even bold at times, but now her bound hands twitch behind her back, a useless instinct to cover herself.

"Come here."

The command is low, controlled. Sharp.

Moiraine moves.

There's a part of her, small, filthy, achingly real that prays to obey.

In just a few steps, she's standing before her. A breath away. Already split in two.

The silk around her wrists has climbed higher along her spine. Her arms are pinned, pulled back, her shoulders forced open in a tension that's equal parts painful and exquisite.

Lanfear lifts her chin. Meets her eyes. Moiraine swallows hard. Her legs tremble, just barely. The want pooling between her thighs grows sharper.

The Forsaken's hand brushes the inside of her left thigh, a light, indecent touch.

Moiraine spreads her legs instinctively, thoughtlessly.

Lanfear's eyes never leave hers. Not for a heartbeat. Moiraine's lower lip quivers. Her mouth hangs open, breath short and ragged. Her chest rises and falls, uneven.

"You'd look so beautiful on your knees for me."

The words drip down her skin like honey and poison all at once.

For a moment, Lanfear is tempted,truly tempted, but no. Not yet. She wants to play.

"But I have something else in mind for you. Don't you dare sit on my lap, Moiraine."

Moiraine's lips press tight. Her breath catches in her throat. But she nods, the tiniest tilt of her head, when Lanfear's hand slides higher.

A shiver of anticipation races through her.

And the Daughter of the Night finally touches her.

That warm palm settles between her thighs. 

Moiraine's eyes fly open. The moan that spills from her lips is low, broken, impossible to hold back. Her lips part for her, trembling slightly.

It's the first time she's really touched her.

No teasing glances. No half measures. Skin on skin.

And Light , it's glorious.

Devastating.

Her body knows it before her mind does. It wants it. It's always wanted it.

"Is this how that pathetic little girl was touching you?"

Lanfear's voice is calm, almost absentminded.

But two fingers graze her slick length, back and forth, maddeningly slow.

A torment. A delight.

"Mhhh..." Moiraine whimpers, without giving her a real answer. The friction is delicious, even if the position is

humiliating .

But that's what makes it better.

The shame. The waiting.

Lanfear stays seated, fully clothed, savoring every twitch, every shattered breath Moiraine can't hold in.

Moiraine is naked, a standing offering. Legs parted. Body tight with need. She gives Lanfear space to touch her. Welcomes it. Shudders for her.

She tries to lean in closer. She shifts her hips against that hand, a desperate, instinctive plea. Her whole body is on fire.

This pleasure is something she's never known. And Lanfear… Lanfear isn't even truly trying yet. She's just playing.

"You're soaking my fingers."

Lanfear's voice is low, amused.

"Lanfear..." she moans. The name slips out, cracked open.

Moiraine looks down at her, breath in tatters. She can feel Lanfear's warm breath ghosting over her stomach, sending goosebumps racing across her skin. Her breasts are so close to the Forsaken's face she can almost feel the tip of her nose brushing against them.

She wants to touch her so badly. To grab her hair. To cling to her shoulders. Her arms strain against the silk. She leans, but she can't.

“Were you thinking of me while she was touching you?” Lanfear mocks, coaxing her with her fingers playing between her thighs.

She deepens her tease,circling her clit, tracing her entrance, but never, ever pushing inside.

"You'd like that," Moiraine sighs. Her voice still slips out with a hint of swagger. Defiant. The last scrap of control she has.

“Tell me."

Lanfear's voice is low and coaxing. She flicks her tongue over a nipple, quick, sharp, punishing.

The hot lick makes Moiraine's knees buckle. One drops onto the mattress, the only thing keeping her from falling. Lanfear's left hand catches her, steadying her.

But this new angle…it offers her more. Makes her more open.

And Moiraine feels it.

She feels Lanfear's fingers slip deeper between her thighs, bolder. Crueler.

"Tell me, Moiraine..."  The whisper wraps around her breath. “And my fingers will be inside you."

Lanfear's lips close around her left breast, sucking, tasting her.

Moiraine arches into it. "Oh Light," she gasps.

She wants to give herself over, all of her. To her mouth. To her teeth. To her.

But Lanfear pulls back. Her lips leave her skin with a soft, obscene pop, a promise that the torture isn't over yet.

Moiraine feels like she might die from how badly she wants it. She bites her lower lip, hard.

Part of her mind screams to give in, to beg, to plead for the satisfaction Lanfear's denying her. Another part wants to see how far Lanfear will go. How far she'll push her. How much she can break her.

"You want me to beg?" she asks, her voice shattered, barely a whisper. “Then you should offer me something more... than your fingers..."

She doesn't know where that courage comes from. Probably just desperation wearing a mask of defiance.

Lanfear laughs, a clear, sharp sound that cuts through her. "Who would've thought you'd be so foul-mouthed..."

She shoves her back, a steady, unyielding hand on her stomach. But she never lets her go. Not for a second.

In a heartbeat, she's behind her again. Her hands slide over Moiraine's shoulders, down her arms. They should hurt. They should feel numb, strained, but they don't. The ache is just sweet enough to make her shiver. Her skin burns under every touch.

“Moiraine..." she breathes, hot against her ear. "You know I can slow time..." Her hands roam up, molding her like warm clay. "Make this night last for days... until you're begging me."

Moiraine's eyes flutter shut. Her head tilts back, helpless, when Lanfear's fingers close around her breasts, teasing her nipples. Her legs press together in a desperate attempt for relief. The wetness is spreading down her thighs now.

“I can do things..." Her voice drops, like a drug that digs deeper every second.

"Things you and your Sisters wouldn't dare to even imagine."

Moiraine's heart skips a beat. Her breath catches in her throat. Every fiber of her body knows she's not lying. That boundless knowledge, maybe that's what's always drawn her most.

She wants to shut her up. She wants to grab her, force her to touch her properly.

But she can't.

She can only listen. She can only let Lanfear do whatever she wants with her.

"I can give you more and more and more..." The words fall like an enchantment. "Let me show you..."

And the world shifts. The illusion blooms before her eyes. On the bed.

Them .

So real that Moiraine shivers.

She sees Lanfear's mouth close over her breasts, sucking, licking. Down her stomach, a trail of slow, open kisses.

The Moiraine in the illusion gasps. And the real one... gasps too.

She stares. She can't look away.

She doesn't know how it's possible, but she feels it. Not fully, like the shadow of real pleasure, but it's there, tingling on her skin.

“You feel it, don't you?" Lanfear's voice curls around her ear, soft, wicked.

Moiraine nods. A slow, heavy motion.

“My tongue... warm... wet... on your belly..."

Lanfear's real hand slides over her skin, tracing the illusion's path. Moiraine leans back into her, as much as she can. Her bound fingers clench in the fabric of Lanfear's clothes.

She feels consumed by this game,endless, relentless, yet always promising more.

In front of her, the Lanfear in the illusion slides between her legs. Her mouth hovers so close to her center.

And the real Moiraine... clings to her.

She feels the light scrape of teeth on her inner thigh.

A warning. A promise.

Then, finally…

Her tongue.

Warm.

Wet.

Perfect .

It wraps around her clit.

She moans, loud.

It takes her a heartbeat to realize the real Lanfear is touching her again.

Her real fingers, skilled, precise, work between her thighs, layering over the ghost of that phantom tongue.

The pleasure is too much. Her knees buckle. If it weren't for Lanfear's arm braced around her, she'd already be on the floor.

“You feel that too, don't you?"

Moiraine can't stand anymore.

She doesn't know if it's a trick, but the want is in her ribs, coiled along her spine, down her legs…

everywhere .

So much that her vision goes blurry at the edges.

“ Yes ... yes”

The word breaks out, desperate.

And finally, Lanfear's real fingers sink into her.

Moiraine almost screams.

A filthy, ragged sound tearing from her throat.

The Forsaken doesn't make her wait. She moves at once, her fingers thrust deep, ruthless and steady.

“Oh, Light ... Light, just like this..."

“Tell me how good it feels…” Lanfear purrs, her voice so suffocating it's unbearable.

Moiraine wants to grab her hair, wants to pull her closer, hold her there.

“So good..." The words spill out in a trembling whisper. " So good..."

Her head drops back, limp against her shoulder.

Lanfear is breaking her, piece by piece.

Her fingers move inside her, faster, crueler.

The gasps of the Moiraine on the bed, Lanfear's mouth between her legs, overlap with the real Moiraine's obscene cries, eyes shut, lost in the delirium of it.

Her body bucks, frantic. She doesn't know how to get closer. She wants Lanfear's weight crushing her, the heat, the skin, all of it. She squirms. She rubs her nape against the curve of Lanfear's neck like an animal. Then bends forward, desperate for more pressure, to take her deeper.

" More ”

Her voice comes out high-pitched, almost childlike, full of need.

Lanfear grants her wish.

She curls her fingers with merciless precision. Her left hand wraps around the Aes Sedai's throat… she could kill her like this, and Moiraine wouldn't care. Because she feels like she's already dying right now. 

She feels her orgasm rise, swell inside her like a tide. She's frantic against Lanfear's fingers. She can't control herself.

She's about to come.

Finally.

After days and days and days.

But Lanfear does the cruelest thing she could possibly do. She stops her.

“No... no... no... Lanfear... please." The words break apart on her lips, splintering into a sob. Moiraine is nearly crying.

There's not a shred of pride left in her, just raw need, pulsing between her legs, devouring every breath.

Those fingers, frozen inside her, hurt worse than any torture. They tear her open from the inside out.

The Forsaken swallows a ragged breath. Her whole body is on fire. She hasn't given an inch, not yet, but Moiraine is destroying her too.

Her voice still shakes. "I promise... I promise I'll be good..." she murmurs, rolling her hips, trying to grind against her hand. "I promise..."

But Lanfear pulls her fingers out, though she doesn't stop touching her. She fists a handful of her hair, rough.

“Oh, I know you will." Her voice is a molten sneer against Moiraine's throat. “Did you really think the punishment would be that easy?"

“Please. I need this. I'll do anything you want." Moiraine is wrecked.

She'd imagined the ways Lanfear could break her, but nothing compares to

this .

"Then start by telling me with that pretty mouth of yours, how you want me to fuck you."

Moiraine feels like she has nothing left to lose.

“Like that," she whispers, voice raw.

She nods toward the illusion on the bed: herself sprawled out, one hand tangled in Lanfear's hair, the other clawing at the sheets, mouth open, screaming her name, toes curling with the spasm as the Forsaken lets her come.

“Say it, Moiraine!" Lanfear growls. Her voice slams into her like a slap.

This is her point of no return.

“Fuck me, please. I need your tongue, I need you inside me, your mouth, your mouth, please, Lanfear..." Moiraine’s words are half-broken, nearly incoherent, but they drip with raw, unbearable need.

"Good girl." The Forsaken breathes it out, but her voice trembles just a little. The words scrape her throat like a blade turned inward too.

“Now sit on that bed," she orders, voice sharp as iron. "And let's see if you can be good enough to earn what you want..."

Moiraine obeys. There's no hesitation, not a flicker of resistance. She sits.

Lanfear watches her. Her arms still bound tight behind her back, her face burning. The plea bleeds from every flutter of her lashes.

And yet her eyes, they're still alive, bright, a fire that never dies.

Lanfear wants to kiss her.

She moves closer, slow, savoring every inch of this new, raw obedience. She lifts her hand, palm up, as if to caress her cheek, but it's not a caress.

It's a silent command.

And Moiraine is eager to obey. She leans forward, nuzzles against her touch like an animal in heat, shameless, pressing her cheek into her palm.

“So perfect for me." Lanfear's words come out as a ragged gasp of strangled desire.

Moiraine's nose, her trembling lips brush her palm, her fingers, in a submissive, almost worshipful way. Lanfear can feel the tip of her tongue too.

“You're driving me insane..." she whispers, and for an instant, even Lanfear seems fragile inside her own ferocity. Her throat tightens. Hunger flares behind those black eyes.

“You have no idea how much I want to make you come... I’d make you drown in so much pleasure you’d forget who you are.”

She can't help it.

She's seen kings and queens kneel before her, whole empires crushed under her feet, but Moiraine...

Moiraine is something else entirely.

She can't escape her, and deep down, she knows it, even if it looks like the opposite now.

Moiraine's mouth stays open against her, warm breath misting over her fingers. Her eyes rise, slow, searching Lanfear's, asking for more, anything, as long as it comes from her.

And Moiraine knows, down to her blood, she'd do anything not to lose that touch. She'd do anything not to go back to being just a tool of the Light, bound by duty alone.

And this… this is the point she swore she'd never reach.

But Lanfear has cracked that lock wide open.

Inch by inch, until everything that should have stayed hidden spills out…

She has unlocked the…

dark part of herself she wishes she could ignore.

Chapter Text

Lanfear kisses her.

It's a slow kiss, languid, intoxicating, like wine poured in a thin stream across her mouth. Her lips are soft, almost tender. She holds her still by the jaw, fingers pressing just enough to claim her. It's possessive, but not like before, there's something strangely sweet in it:

Lanfear is kissing her the way a lover would.

Moiraine feels that truth burst open between her ribs. She does everything she can to lean closer. She's still sitting, hands bound behind her back, but she bends forward out of sheer need.

Before, not being able to touch her had been a sweet kind of torture, now it's a void that eats her alive.

The kiss grows deeper: Lanfear's hands are both on her now, cupping her cheeks, thumbs brushing her warm skin. Her tongue traces Moiraine's lower lip, a soft stroke that begs her to open. Moiraine moans into her mouth, a muffled, hungry sound. Lanfear swallows that noise, letting her tongue slide against hers.

There's no rush.

Lanfear pulls back just long enough to breathe. But Moiraine doesn't wait. She misses her. Her swollen, wet lips reach for her again, desperate, needing. She doesn't dare stand, doesn't dare break the order to stay seated, but the tension in her body says everything.

And something shifts in Lanfear's eyes, something older than any thirst for power. It's there in the way Moiraine responds to her, in the way she looks at her, as if...

as if she could feel something for her.

The illusion cracks her open, burns her from the inside. It opens up something she hasn't been for centuries: 

Soft.

Gentle.

Not to seduce. Not to manipulate.

She needs to love. And she needs to be loved as well.

She catches Moiraine's lips again, but Moiraine breaks the kiss halfway through, splitting the words on their mouths.

"Lanfear..." It's a broken whisper, almost childlike, wrecked by need.

Her thumb drags across Moiraine's lips, slow, round, almost worshipful. Her eyes... they're almost black with twisted devotion.

"Tell me... what you want."

Lanfear's voice isn't just a whisper, it's a velvet blade cutting her open from the inside. Her lips burn against Moiraine's cheek, on that warm spot where her pulse beats. It's not an order. It sounds more like a promise to give her everything, if she'll only ask for it.

Moiraine feels her voice catch in her throat as she tries to speak.

"Let me... let me touch you."

Lanfear looks at her and smiles. She snaps her fingers. The silk unravels like a shadow-serpent, sliding off Moiraine's arms, caressing her skin one last time before it fades.

She knows she could run. It would take a heartbeat to embrace the Source. But she doesn't.

The moment she feels free, she lunges for her. She clings to her, pulling her down. Her hands bury themselves in the folds of Lanfear's dress, gripping her like claws. Her mouth finds hers, biting, taking.

It's so good... too good.

Their breath tangles, wet, ragged with need. Moiraine's fingers climb up Lanfear's neck, burying themselves in her hair, pulling it back until she feels the tension hum through her bones.

And Lanfear laughs. A low, satisfied sound dissolves into a hoarse, torn moan she can't swallow. Her lashes flutter. Her tongue slides against Moiraine's teeth as the woman kisses her again, this time with the smallest flicker of hesitation.

Moiraine catches that second like an open door. Her hand slides down, frantic, until she finds Lanfear's hand.

Her fingers clamp around her wrist with a desperate, almost brutal strength. She feels her pulse beating under her skin, warm, alive, real.

Then, without a second of doubt, she guides that hand upward. She grabs two of Lanfear's fingers and brings them to her lips. She takes them into her mouth.

A wet sound slips out between her parted lips. Her tongue welcomes them, curls around them, sucks them in with an almost obscene hunger. Moiraine's eyes rise to meet Lanfear's, bold, dark, a flicker of defiance. Her spit glistens in the dim light. Her lashes tremble.

"Please..."

Moiraine's voice is broken, but never graceless. No, she could never be graceless, not even when she begs. But the part of her that Lanfear has unleashed refuses to be locked away again.

Lanfear looks at her, her eyes burning. A low sigh, a soft whimper vibrates in her throat.

She's too beautiful to resist. There's no way back now.

Moiraine doesn't know why she does it, but she buries her face against her, her nose brushing over her stomach, a gesture almost childlike and feral at once. Her arms wrap around Lanfear's waist in a hold that's nothing short of needy.

Lanfear's hand drifts down, slow. She strokes the length of Moiraine's hair, gathers the thick strands in her palm. Then she leans forward, her lips brushing the woman's forehead, feather-light.

At last, she takes her chin between her fingers, her thumb sliding to the corner of her lips.

"Lie on the bed." 

She pushes her down gently, her open palm flat at the center of Moiraine's chest, a steady pressure that doesn't allow for arguments. 

Moiraine backs up, obedient, her legs giving out. She lets herself fall onto the mattress, her hair fanned across the pillow like a crooked crown, her mouth parted, her eyes swollen with too much want. 

Lanfear devours her with her gaze. The Aes Sedai is so hungry for her that she almost looks fragile. 

But Moiraine doesn't want to wait any longer. Her fingers clutch at her, pull her down again, her mouth crashing against hers. Her body arches without shame, her back straining, her hips grinding up against her. 

The feel of Lanfear's skin under her fingertips is warm, smooth, real. The scent of her hair fills Moiraine's nose like a drug. And now that she can finally feel her body pressing down on hers, every inch she grabs seems to scream mine. 

But Lanfear doesn't allow it, not really. Her hands snap around Moiraine's wrists in a flash, pinning them to the mattress above her head. An iron grip, warm with power.

Moiraine struggles, her legs trying to wrap around Lanfear's hips, to steal space, heat, control. She's too starved. 

"What did I tell you about behaving, Moiraine?" 

Lanfear hisses it against her lips, biting down and sucking her lower lip until it nearly bleeds. Her voice is hoarse, but the ferocity is stained with a sick kind of affection, a tenderness that's even more terrifying. 

Moiraine lets out a growl of frustration, but it's useless. In an instant, her hands are bound again above her head in a silk knot.

And the way Lanfear looks at her while she does it, like she's the most precious thing she's ever trapped, makes her tremble. 

"Don't make me tie your legs too..." The words explode in her ear, a steel shiver down her spine. Lanfear lingers there, her mouth almost brushing her skin. "Though... I have to admit, I'd rather enjoy that." 

Moiraine tries to kiss her, but the Forsaken pulls back. 

Two inches. Two damn inches of distance. 

She denies her mouth. 

And Moiraine understands. She nods, just a small, imperceptible dip of her head. 

Tasting her own surrender is becoming a flavor she doesn't know how to give up anymore. 

She's getting used to it. She's getting used to Lanfear. 

This wicked game isn't over yet, but somewhere deep inside, she knows it will never be just this once.

It can't be.

Lanfear's fingers trail down, a brush of nails, a slow tease of fingertips that makes her shudder. They play along the curve of her breasts, drifting across her taut stomach in a lazy path.

Moiraine arches her back as if she's being touched inside. Every inch of her skin is on fire, flayed raw under that touch. A moan slips from her throat, wet, broken, freer now, with no shame left to choke it down.

She shivers when Lanfear's body, still clothed, brushes against her. The heavy fabric, the silk, the embroidery scraping across her bare skin. She wants to tear it all off her, but somehow, it's worse this way.

Raw skin against royal fabric.

Every fold of cloth rips a new shiver from her.

Lanfear's fingers slide over her knees, then drift up the outside of her thighs, slow. When they reach the inside, they linger there, insistent, stroking the line that parts her.

Moiraine spreads her legs without any control left. A high, strangled moan, almost childlike, catches between her lips.

Lanfear watches her. Her eyes lock on the way Moiraine's face twists, caught between anticipation and pleasure. She watches her writhe, drinking in every detail.

"You want this, don't you?" she whispers. Her voice is molten honey pouring over Moiraine's skin.

"More..." Moiraine moans.

Lanfear laughs, but it's a scraped, warm sound.

"I like you when you use words. But I know you can do better than this."

And Moiraine knows it, in her blood, in her bones: every desire she dares to name, Lanfear will make it real.

Too real.

The Forsaken kisses her neck. Then lower. Her mouth settles in the center of her chest, warm, wet, while her grip on Moiraine's thighs tightens. A bite of fingers holds her open, wide.

"Touch me... please..."

The words come out strong, ragged, a prayer flung into the dark, too loud to take back.

Lanfear moans, a deep, satisfied murmur. 

"You have no idea how beautiful you are when you beg for me..." 

The words scrape sweetly along her bones. Lanfear can't help herself, endearments pour from her mouth like velvet thorns. Moiraine feels them sink under her skin, sliding down until her fingers curl into the sheets. 

Lanfear's fingers brush against her, a light touch, a cruel game. They drift down and up her wet length, lingering, lazy. 

Moiraine's moan rips out of her, violent, almost a sob. Her hips jerk. 

"I want to play a little game, Moiraine..." Lanfear murmurs, her voice warm and secret. "Do you want to play?" 

Moiraine draws in a breath, her belly rising, muscles tight. Lanfear places her hand on her stomach again, holding it there, warm as an ember. 

"Yes... yes... anything you want... make me play." The words come out ragged, torn apart on her tongue. 

Lanfear's lips curl into a smile, her teeth catching her lower lip. 

It takes a second.

Silk again. Smooth, cool. 

It wraps around her eyes like an icy caress across her burning face. 

But Moiraine stiffens all at once. Her hands are bound. She can't see. The last layer of defense she might have had dissolves. 

For the space of a heartbeat, fear bites at her sternum. Lanfear could do anything to her. And the Daughter of the Night feels it, tastes it beneath Moiraine's skin for one sharp moment. 

But then a flicker of strange tenderness crosses her face.  She leans in.  Her lips brush the hollow of Moiraine's ear, warm, reassuring.

"Trust me..." 

The whisper carves a shiver down Moiraine's spine. Without her sight, every breath from Lanfear amplifies, every husky vibration, every word that scratches her ear feels sharper, more obscene. A bead of sweat slides down the back of Moiraine's neck, vanishing into her hair. 

"I just want you to feel good..." Lanfear goes on. 

And in the dark behind the silk, Moiraine believes her. Even if it seems impossible. But by now, they've both crossed the line of what could ever be possible. 

"Do you trust me, Moiraine?" Lanfear needs to know. She needs to know. 

One heartbeat. Two.

The silence broken only by their breathing. Then Moiraine's voice breaks, a muffled moan: 

"Yes." 

It's the only answer there could ever be. The only true one, even if it's almost a betrayal of herself. 

"Good..." 

Lanfear murmurs, with a smile Moiraine can't see. 

Then she begins. She leaves a burning kiss in the center of Moiraine's collarbones, lingering on her sweaty skin, licking it slowly, the salty taste lingering on her tongue.

She moves down.

Her lips close around a breast, her tongue swirling slowly, drawing circles like a prayer. Her mouth sinks in, teeth grazing lightly. She sucks Moiraine's nipple with careful attention. Then moves to the other. The same, but greedier, unrestrained. 

"Lanfear..." 

Moiraine moans. Her voice is hoarse, wrecked with need. Her back arches, her shoulders ache, forced into that stretch by her bound hands.

But the tension pulls a deeper shiver from her, a new shape of pleasure. 

And Lanfear smiles against her skin because of that broken plea, a smile wet with spit and bites. 

Her teeth sink in, marking her like a brand. 

And she doesn't stop. 

Her mouth slides lower, slow, down the line of her stomach. A trail of hot kisses and tiny bites that burn. When she reaches her navel, she pauses. 

Just for a moment. 

But that moment is a blade. Moiraine feels a shiver of excitement mingled with a fear so sharp it makes her thighs clench. Every pause is a void Lanfear could fill with anything, and that void is

unbearably beautiful. 

Lanfear's hands press down on her thighs again. She spreads her open without an ounce of gentleness and holds her there.

Moiraine swallows, her throat trembling with anticipation.

Lanfear’s nose brushes the inside of her thigh, an innocent touch that makes her shiver.

Then comes a bite.

Sharp. Almost painful.

A flash of pain buried in pleasure.

Moiraine’s moan is a wet, broken whimper ripped out of her.

Lanfear smiles. She lets her warm breath wash over Moiraine’s center.

Moiraine feels her core clench around nothing, that warm air already a taste of what’s coming.

“Lanfear… I need you…”

She says it. She moans it. There’s no other name. Only hers.

Spoken in a ruined sound that maybe has never slipped from her mouth like this, not since she was a girl.

Lanfear growls a low moan, a hungry laugh.

No more games.

She wants to hear her scream.

So, she devours her.

Her tongue presses down, slow.

It slides.

She tastes every inch, unhurried, merciless.

Every stroke of her tongue is an obscene blessing, an act of domination.

Moiraine moans loud, a sound almost feral. Her back arches hard. Her hips jerk forward, chasing that mouth.

But Lanfear pins her down, her hands tight on Moiraine’s hips, strong as shackles. She doesn’t let her move, holds her there, spread open over her face, with nowhere to run.

She doesn’t stop.

She slides over every raw, sensitive point, her tongue punishing and rewarding, giving her more. And more.

“Just like that…”

Moiraine moans it.

It’s a whine, almost like a cry of pleasure.

She doesn’t care anymore.

And Lanfear grows even hungrier.

She pushes her tongue deeper inside her, circles her clit, teases it with small, quick, relentless strokes.

Moiraine gasps, writhes, babbles broken words that don’t mean anything.

No one has ever undone her like this. No one has ever seen or heard her break apart like this. Because she never gives this power to anyone.

She feels the tears gather at the corner of her eyes behind the silk, hot, sweet, wrung out by pleasure.

Lanfear pulls back for a moment, her lips wet, her voice a growl of fire.

“Don’t hold back… let me hear everything, Moiraine…”

And Moiraine obeys.

She gives her everything.

No shame.

And she screams, when Lanfear’s tongue is joined by two long, deep fingers.

For every thrust, a sound.

For every push inside her, a part of Moiraine crumbles, shatters into a thousand pieces of bliss.

Her body twists, her hips buck forward, desperate for more, always more.

She feels Lanfear smile against her.

And then, in a heartbeat, it happens.

She feels her everywhere.

Lanfear’s lips. Her hands.

They slide over her throat, her collarbones, palms warm around her breasts, fingers teasing her nipples. They glide over her thighs, her knees, her back. Into her hair, pulling gently, like she’s everywhere at once.

As if she has become a thousand Lanfears, a thousand mouths, a thousand hands, to ensure Moiraine never forgets her, never forgets what is happening tonight.

Her mind might try, but her body won't.

Never.

"This feels... Oh Light... Oh beautiful Light..."

Moiraine moans the words, broken, her voice tipped back and undone. She doesn't have the strength to wonder how. She doesn't have the strength to close her lips anymore.

It builds inside her.

A wave.

A living wave, beautiful, unbearable.

It swells between her thighs, deep in her belly, surging up her spine like fire.

It tightens. It's too much.

She can't hold it. She can't hold her.

"Don't stop... not now, please... please..."

The words shatter between her teeth, tangled with breath and sobs. Her body bows like an arrow ready to fly.

And Lanfear, finally, has no intention of stopping.

Moiraine doesn't know, can't know, that the only thing Lanfear wants is to see her undone.

She almost regrets that she can't see her eyes in that moment.

Her fingers push deeper. They curl.

Her tongue licks her, sucks her.

The Aes Sedai feels her skin liquefy, pushed past all dignity. Her heartbeat explodes in her ears.

Her mind screams only one thing:

Lanfear... Lanfear... Lanfear...

Only her name.

And in the darkness behind the blindfold, Lanfear's voice is a golden poison:

"C'mon sweetheart... let go for me..."

The pet name pierces her chest like an arrow driven straight through her heart.

Moiraine screams her name, broken in syllables torn from her throat.

Her body, finally, breaks open in spasms.

Her belly tightens, her muscles clench in fierce waves. Every fiber of flesh seems to split and knit back together as pleasure tears through her from the inside out.

She has held back for so long, so much, that now the fracture is total.

And as Moiraine moans, trembling, still wracked by the last shocks of it, Lanfear stays with her, watching her.

And deep inside, as her hands still hold her, the Forsaken thinks, knows, that this woman can never belong to anyone else but

her.

Chapter Text

The silk slips from her eyes, warm and soaked with her breath.

For an instant, it clings to her lashes like a caress, then falls away. The air hits her like a lash of ice, drying her tears in place. Moiraine squints, trying to adjust to the light. Her breath comes shallow and uneven. She can still feel the woman's heat between her thighs, that tongue like a memory seared inside her.

Lanfear watches her.

She's still leaning over her, mouth shiny with her taste. Her hair spills over her shoulders and falls, black strands like a curtain around Moiraine.

She looks like a goddess.

A languid smile blooms on her lips, smeared with satisfaction. Her eyes burn with a glow almost tender yet cruel.

"You don't even know how much I wanted to see you like this..."

And it's no lie. It's the simplest truth.

From the very first moment she tasted that pride, that cold stubbornness, that porcelain untouchability, she's wanted only one thing: to break her.

To touch her. To open her.

To rip every sound, every shudder from her throat.

And here she is: the icy, distant, Moiraine Sedai.

Beneath her. Panting. Her face flushed. Undone. Finally unchained.

Lanfear lingers. For a heartbeat, she thinks about keeping her tied, winding that silk around her wrists again because the sight of those arms, that body straining for her, waiting, is

sublime.

But then, almost out of spite, almost out of mercy, she loosens the knots, letting the silk slide away.

A chill rush of air hits Moiraine when she sees them.

Her wrists.

The silk has carved red marks into her skin, delicate but cruel. Those faint circles mark a belonging that fills her with guilt. She touches them with her fingertips. She can feel them pulse with raw, brutal shame.

She swallows. Her shoulders tense. Her gaze dims, darkens.

Then Moiraine turns away. She pulls back abruptly, as if Lanfear's skin still burns her, everywhere.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her bare feet prickled by the cold stone floor. Her breath steadies slowly but trembles in her throat like a strangled sob.

"Did you have your fun?"

Her voice comes out flat. She doesn't even look at her.

Lanfear stays still. For a moment, she doesn't understand. Her lashes flutter. In her eyes, a flicker sparks, disbelief, irritation, or maybe something more dangerous: a surge of spite, of anger.

"Oh, I did."

She says it, almost in a sharp whisper. The smile dies on her lips. It's replaced by a cold, wicked sneer, but the triumph flickering in her eyes isn't whole.

"Good. I suppose that was your aim from the start..." Moiraine spits out. "Forcing me into something like this."

Her voice scrapes her throat, raw with venom and humiliation. She rubs her marked wrists in a nervous gesture, desperate to erase those red circles.

Lanfear arches a brow, slow, as if savoring that wound. She stares, a glance that Moiraine feels slice through her spine, stitching shivers along her nape. But she doesn't turn. She stays rigid, the muscles of her neck pulled tight, her spine a dagger of tension.

For a moment, the Forsaken seems ready to explode, but she doesn't. Something in the way Moiraine's voice betrays her shame snaps her anger in two. She stays still. Her hands clench and unclench slowly.

Her eyes devour her.

They trace her naked back, perfect, pale, glowing like a cut of moonlight in the half-dark. Her gaze drifts along the thin line of her spine, the faint tremor of her shoulder blades that betrays a tension that doesn't know how to melt, the bluish veins pulsing beneath her skin, the soft curve of her ribs begging for her hands.

There's something desperately pure in Moiraine's body that makes her want to profane it, again and again.

"You didn't look so forced a few minutes ago... when you were begging me."

Lanfear's voice is a whisper of poisoned silk.

Her slender fingers trail down, brushing the line of her spine, tracing a warm caress along that fragile curve. Moiraine holds her breath. A shiver crawls through her, a tiny tremor, but real. Light, she even arches back a fraction, seeking that touch.

"Don't touch me!"

She hisses through her teeth, but the words are empty. She clenches a fist against her bare thigh, nails digging deep into her flesh, a desperate attempt to remind herself who she is.

"What's wrong, Moiraine?"

Lanfear touches her again. Her warm mouth opens over the curve of her back, planting a wet kiss between her shoulder blades. Her tongue drags upward, a slow trail of fire up her nape.

"Do you feel dirty because you liked being mine too much?"

The Aes Sedai presses her lips together, but it's too late. She bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood spreading on her tongue. Her chest tightens, and a shudder rips through her.

She wants to scream: No, to overturn that truth. But the truth drives itself like a nail between her ribs. 

It's exactly that. 

That's what weighs on her most: the fact that she liked it... that she wants more. 

"It was so good, Moiraine..."

Lanfear teases her, her voice vibrating with a perverse delight. Her hand slips forward, slender fingers brushing over her right breast. A touch light as a breath, yet cruel. Her thumb grazes her nipple, already hard, already betraying her. 

Moiraine tenses. A low, muffled moan slips from her lips. Her body gives in even as her mind still fights. Her back arches, surrendering, her skin pressing against Lanfear's warm chest. The Forsaken's breath scorches her nape, a serpent of heat coiling around her spine. 

With a gesture almost sweet but brutal, Lanfear seizes her hand. She guides Moiraine's fingers into her own hair, silently commanding her to hold her there, to keep her closer. 

And Moiraine obeys. 

Without thinking. Without the strength to resist. 

Her fingers sink into that black cascade, pulling her closer, begging her to stay, and Lanfear's mouth opens again on her neck, hot, hungry. 

"Tell me you don't want this..." 

The voice now is almost a hoarse whisper of need. Lanfear needs to hear it, to know it isn't just power.

That it isn't just a game of corruption. 

That it's real. 

But Moiraine doesn't answer. Not with words. 

She turns her head slightly. Her lips part over her shoulder. Lanfear doesn’t even wait for her to turn further. She crashes her mouth against hers, devouring the sound of Moiraine’s gasp.

Moiraine clings to her, fingers twisting into the nape of her neck, pulling her impossibly closer. Lanfear’s hands roam her body again, possessive, relentless.

It's a desperate kiss, filthy with everything that shouldn't exist between them, yet it does. Their tongues tangle, tearing each other's breath away. The air around them vibrates, cracks, trembling with a desire that refuses to die. 

But before that kiss can devour them both, Moiraine pulls back abruptly. 

Her body stiffens. 

"Stop playing with me."

The words scorch her throat. She rises to her feet, naked, her legs just barely steady. She still has her back to Lanfear. She can't look her in the eyes. To look at her would mean remembering what she just did, and maybe starting all over again. 

The air in the room bites at her damp skin, a shiver pinches her nape, but in her lower belly, that stubborn fire remains, a sticky heat that won't die. She hugs an arm across her chest, a miserable gesture, as if she could cover herself. But there's nothing left to cover. 

"This is what you like to do, Lanfear..." Her voice comes out low, hoarse with shame. "Manipulate." 

Lanfear laughs, but it's a bitter sound, almost broken, bleeding between her teeth. 

"Manipulate?"

She takes a step forward. The floor creaks softly under her feet. "Oh, come on, Moiraine..." Lanfear's smile is a crooked slash across her lips. "We both know how much you wanted it." 

Moiraine feels a shiver crawl up from the base of her spine. That word, wanted, lodges in her throat.

"For the Shadow..." Lanfear's voice now scrapes against her ribs. She's furious, but in that fury, there's a thread of need. "I could have killed you every single minute since I stepped into this room... and I didn't." 

Moiraine blinks. Her shoulders go rigid. With a bitter snap, she turns, and the movement reveals her pale throat, the red marks on her wrists, her trembling thighs. 

"Then why don't you? Now that you've had what you wanted." 

Lanfear laughs again, but it's a rotten sound, gutted deep in her throat, dirtied by something older than rancor.

"What is it, Moiraine? Want to play the martyr now?" 

The Aes Sedai swallows. The air scrapes her lungs. She inhales, but the words slip through her like thorns. 

"That would be better... than living with the shame of having done this with..." But the sentence dies in her throat. She digs her nails into the skin of her thigh, as if she could claw the guilt out, as if the pain could purify her. 

Lanfear lunges forward. Her voice is a searing hiss, a serpent coiled tight around her neck. 

"With who? A Forsaken? A monster mothers use to scare their children in bedtime stories?" 

She comes closer still. Her shadow swallows Moiraine whole. Her eyes, two obsidian blades, cut into hers. 

"Look at me, Moiraine... is that what you think of me?" 

But Moiraine doesn't look at her. Her lashes tremble. Her gaze drops, falling to the bare floor. She brings the back of her hand to her lips, rubbing at them, her fingers trembling as if she wants to bite, rip, punish herself. But then she closes her fist, knuckles whitening. 

In a flash, Lanfear grabs it, tears it away. Her fingers clamp around her wrist so tight the veins pulse under her skin, a rough, almost possessive grip. Moiraine feels the blood thrum beneath the thin skin, feels Lanfear's breath explode against her ear, blazing like a threat.

"Stop hurting yourself..." Every word vibrates against her temples. "And answer me." It's an order and a threat all at once. 

But Moiraine says nothing. The room tightens around them, the silence turns heavy. Her fingers clench again, nails digging into her palm, a self, inflicted sentence. 

Lanfear watches her, nostrils flaring, lips parted as if she wants to spit something venomous at her. Her voice rumbles out, a feral growl: 

"Is that what you want? Pain?" Lanfear's hands clamp down on her forearms. "Because I know how to give you plenty of that, Moiraine..." 

She leans over her. Her mouth brushes Moiraine's jaw, her breath a hot knife. The words drip into her ear. 

Moiraine spits out a desperate smile. 

"Then do it..." she whispers. "I'm a bloody tool of the Light. You should make me suffer..." 

One heartbeat. Two. 

Lanfear looks at her like she could break her in half just by staring. Her hands curl into fists, veins bulging beneath pale skin. 

"You think you can give me orders, Moiraine?" 

The words are scraped raw from her teeth, low, like a warning. 

Moiraine lifts her chin. Her eyes gleam, but inside that gleam there's poison, rage, defiance, something begging to be broken. 

"What's wrong? Are you weak, Lanfear?" 

A black flash, too dark to be just anger, crosses the Forsaken's eyes. 

"Don't underestimate me, Moiraine. If you're still breathing, it's only because I allow it." 

A bitter, cruel smile splits Moiraine's lips again. 

"What did you think..." she spits out, her breath a shattered whisper, "that one fuck would make me want to look at you differently?" 

She doesn't even finish the breath. 

Lanfear lunges. 

Her hands seize Moiraine, iron fingers digging into her bare shoulders. She slams her onto the bed, Moiraine's body sinking into the mattress under her weight. The impact lands with a muffled thud, soaked into sweat, warm sheets.

Lanfear throws herself on top of her, thighs clamping around Moiraine's hips like shackles. There's no way out. Her hands slide to her throat.

Hot. Unyielding.

Her fingers close around the delicate skin, pulse pounding beneath her touch as if she could make it burst. 

A strangled gasp catches in Moiraine's throat. The air vanishes instantly, slipping away warm, as if she's drowning in Lanfear's mouth. 

The Forsaken looms over her, her hair loose, falling like a black veil around their faces. Her eyes burn with something too savage to call mere desire: it's hunger, it's wrath, it's an ancient need to destroy and cling tight. 

A tremor runs through her arms, as if she's fighting the urge to squeeze harder, to push until there's nothing left. 

And Moiraine feels it. 

"C'mon then, do it. I deserve it," she manages to choke out. 

Her voice vibrates between Lanfear's hands, hoarse, ragged. It's an invitation and a dare. Lanfear growls, a low, animal sound, her face so close…their lips brush. 

She should kill her. But she doesn't.

Instead... 

She kisses her. 

Her lips crash onto Moiraine's. She bites down immediately. Her tongue forces its way in, hot and merciless. And, Light saves her, Moiraine knows she should push her away, but her hands find Lanfear's back, pulling her closer.

A moan tears itself from her throat and dies on the Forsaken's tongue. Lanfear devours her without pity, without pause. Their tongues tangle, bite, battle. It's still a war, but now it's dirtier, more intimate. 

Lanfear's thighs loosen around her hips. Now they're pressed together, bodies glued. Moiraine shoves her away, just barely. Not fully. Their foreheads touch, skin damp, mouths still parted, hovering on the edge of another kiss that feels inevitable and another threat that might cut it short. Lanfear's breath slides over her mouth, a ragged whisper that hums. 

"Why me?" 

Moiraine murmurs. Her voice trembles on her swollen lips, bruised by too many bites. "You could have anyone. Why me?" 

Lanfear tilts her head slightly. Her mouth curves into a small, wicked smile. 

"Does it bother you that it's you?" 

The words drip down her neck. 

And Moiraine can't tell her no. She can't. Because inside her, buried under layers of shame and duty, there's a tiny, vicious part that enjoys being the one.

Being the one... the woman who caught the attention of the Daughter of the Night.

Lanfear, Selene, Mierin…

The legend she and her sisters used to read about in secret, sitting on the floors of the White Tower's libraries, dreaming as girls of a shadow of power they'd never dare to speak of out loud.

And in that moment, Moiraine feels, in a burning corner of her mind, the urgent desire to ruin her, to feel her tremble beneath her. It's almost an outrage that she's still clothed, but it's something the Aes Sedai can use to her advantage.

"Why me?" she repeats, softer now, more sensual, as her hands claw into Lanfear's hips, pulling her close.

A shiver blooms low in the Forsaken's belly. Lanfear smiles, but there's a need burning in her eyes now that she can't hide. Moiraine feels it vibrate right down to her bones.

"You were so hard to corrupt. The chase was intoxicating"

The Daughter of the Night's voice is sharp as a razor.

"So pure... so untouchable."

Her voice frays into a whisper on that last word as Moiraine slips a knee between her thighs. A wet, hungry, desperate moan bursts from Lanfear's mouth.

And Moiraine feels it.

She feels the way she's reacting beneath her: trembling, nearly breaking under the need she's still trying to contain behind her words.

"No hunger…"

Lanfear tries to whisper, but her voice splinters into a ragged bite at Moiraine's earlobe, her breath spilling hot into her ear.

So, Moiraine takes her chance.

Her lips slide down her neck, marking her with bites, sucking until the skin blossoms dark red. Her fingers find their way beneath her dress. Lanfear moans through clenched teeth but doesn't pull back, if anything, she trembles under Moiraine's touch, clinging to her shoulders as if they might give her some control.

"No pleasure…"

But the word dies, thin and sharp, when Moiraine presses her knee harder against her center. Lanfear's hips roll, slow, involuntary, obscene. She grinds against Moiraine's thigh in waves that Moiraine meets eagerly.

She feels her, hot, wet, strung tight like a wire about to snap.

And there's something intoxicating in feeling it. It's a taste of power that coils in her throat, a stab of pride that knots in her gut.

Moiraine's hands dig into Lanfear's hips, her dress shoved up around her waist now. Her fingertips hook into her skin, holding her there, forcing her to move, to humiliate herself against her.

"You like this, don't you?"

Moiraine's voice is a venomous whisper at her ear, scraping across her shame.

"The great Forsaken… humiliating herself, rubbing herself like a needy little girl."

Light, the filth of it shoots straight to her core.

Saying it. Hearing Lanfear moan for it. It makes her want to touch herself, to grind down too, to rub herself raw right there, against her thigh, until there’s nothing left but the ruin of it.

One hand slides up Lanfear’s tense belly, grabbing a breast through the fabric of her dress. The Forsaken arches her back, tilting her head back, mouth parted, lower lip caught between her teeth. She rocks again, her hips pressing down against Moiraine's thigh, spreading her wetness.

"Take me, Moiraine."

It's not a request, it's a begged command.

Her eyes burn, feverish, all her taunts from the night dissolved into this raw need. Her nails dig crescents into Moiraine's shoulders.

Moiraine smiles. She thrills and shudders at the sound of her begging. She savors how much Lanfear needs her.

"Oh, no..."

She says, a slow joy vibrating in her throat.

With a sharp movement, she flips them over, crushing the Forsaken beneath her, her back pressed deep into the sheets.

Moiraine straddles her, thighs spread wide, one hand already on the buttons of her bodice, the other resting lightly on her throat. She fights the need to roll her hips against her, just barely. The ache is right there, pulsing, begging for friction, but no.

"You're going to be very..."

She pops a button open with her right hand, slowly, while her lips graze her neck, teeth sinking into her shoulder.

"Very..."

Another button comes undone. Her warm lips trail down the center of her chest, between her breasts, her breath hot against her skin. Lanfear trembles, betraying how badly she wants it.

"Very patient."

The third button yields under her fingers, agonizingly slow. The fabric parts, and Lanfear's upper body unfolds, exposed, offered, vulnerable.

Moiraine licks her lips, her eyes dark with desire and something sharper. Her fingers drift over the tense skin of her belly again, gliding up between her breasts without touching them, an absence that makes Lanfear writhe even more. Her moan is a broken sound, her mouth open, eyes squeezed shut in a haze of anger and pleasure twisted together.

"How much did you enjoy making me wait... huh?"

Moiraine spits it out softly, almost sweetly, as she stops unbuttoning her dress and slides her hand between Lanfear's thighs, over the fabric. 

Lanfear squeezes her eyes shut and gasps. Her fingers dig into Moiraine's shoulders as if she's trying to anchor herself from falling apart. 

"How much, Lanfear?" Her fingers press deeper. 

"Too much." 

She spits it out through her teeth. Lanfear's hands now grip Moiraine's hips as if she could hold her there forever. 

The Aes Sedai bends down over her. Her tongue slips along her ear.

"Good," she whispers. Her lips close around her earlobe, a sweet bite. "So, you can wait."

A sigh. Then a venomous hiss: "Don't you?" 

She pulls away and stops touching her. 

Lanfear chokes on a grunt of frustration, an almost feral, primal sound. But Moiraine's hands return immediately to the buttons of her dress. 

One after another. 

Each snap undone, a wet kiss trails down her stomach, her navel, a line of exposed skin trembling under Moiraine's mouth. 

Every shiver of the Forsaken is a rush of power, a thrill of omnipotence climbing up her spine, burning in her gut. 

Until Lanfear is completely naked beneath her, her skin flushed, her breath ragged, her body trembling.

Moiraine stops. Looks at her. 

And she knows every legend is true. She has never seen a woman this beautiful in her life. 

"Moiraine..." 

The Aes Sedai purrs in satisfaction. Her name sounds so perfect on the Forsaken's lips that she feels it throb between her legs. 

Her hand slides down, between Lanfear's thighs, brushing the inside with a touch so slow, almost careless. 

Another moan bursts from Lanfear's throat, a wet sound that makes Moiraine shiver as her bare chest presses against hers, nipple to nipple, warm skin to warm skin. 

"Look at you, spreading your legs for me..." 

Moiraine's voice is low, a tone Lanfear has never heard from her before, but it ignites her.

Her hips roll forward to seek her out as Moiraine's fingers trace along her folds, feeling her open up. 

"Say my name again..."

She commands, her mouth brushing her cheek, her thumb circling slowly over her clit, the other fingers teasing her entrance, playing with that slick heat. Her left hand grabs a breast, squeezing it as if she's branding her. 

"Say my name again, Lanfear."

It comes out rough, possessive, a growl. 

"Moiraine!" 

The cry is a punch of pleasure, a sound that vibrates against her tongue. 

And Moiraine plunges two fingers inside her, decisive, smooth, sure. She begins to move them slowly, then deeper, in a precise, practiced rhythm. 

This is her territory, her battlefield.

The control makes her drunk. She knows how to make a woman scream for her. She knows how to push her to the edge of the abyss and leave her there, burning. 

From above, she watches everything: Lanfear's skin pulled taut, her thighs trembling, the filthy moans that tear from her throat, higher, more ragged, until they become incoherent sounds. 

And when she hears her babbling phrases in the Old Tongue, words she almost doesn't understand but that pulse like a dark incantation, Moiraine groans softly. 

Light, whatever she's saying, it's turning her on so damn hard.

"Moiraine..." 

Lanfear gasps again, her voice ripped from her chest. 

"I need your…" 

Moiraine laughs, a low, warm sound laced with venom. She slows the motion of her fingers. 

Lanfear moans louder. She rolls her hips harder, trying to take more, deeper, but Moiraine denies her, inch by inch. 

She leans down to her ear, her lips a hot breath on her sweaty skin. 

"Then beg for it." 

Lanfear's eyes fly open, dark, feverish, locked on hers. She sees her: the woman above her, head tilted, that tight, predatory smile carved into her lips. An image that slams deep into her belly like a bite of pleasure.

She doesn't want to give in. But she feels those fingers begin to slip away, the promise of pleasure ripped from her. 

So, she screams. 

"Please, Moiraine... please!" 

Moiraine murmurs something, low. 

She slides down along her body, her mouth leaving a trail of wet bites across her stomach until she's buried between her open thighs. 

And when her tongue joins her fingers, Lanfear moans louder, almost a sob. 

The sight of Moiraine there, on her knees between her legs, those blue eyes locked on her, her mouth clinging to her center, it makes her even wetter than before, more eager, more desperate to reach that release. 

It doesn't take long. 

Moiraine is good with her fingers. But her tongue… Oh, her tongue is a curse.

This woman knows exactly what she's doing. She's giving her a pleasure Lanfear hasn't felt in millennia.

The Forsaken's hands tighten in her hair, forcing her to stay, not to pull back even for air. 

When she comes, it's with a savage cry, pleasure ripping through her throat. 

The legend. The Daughter of the Night keeps shuddering all because of Moiraine Sedai.

Moiraine lets herself collapse onto the bed. 

Lanfear's breath still burns in her ribs, her thighs trembling with aftershocks. 

They stay there, naked, shoulders barely brushing, eyes pinned to the ceiling like it's the only thing they can bear to see. 

Minutes. 

They drift in heavy silence, punctuated only by ragged breaths. 

Then, like a knife slipped gently between her ribs, comes Lanfear's voice. Low. Raw. 

"Do you really think I'm a monster?" 

She doesn't look at her. She stares at the ceiling. But that question cuts deeper than any bite. 

Moiraine swallows. She rolls onto her side, her brow furrowed, searching for an answer. 

When Lanfear rolls to face her too, trying to read something in her eyes, Moiraine goes blank for an instant. 

She stares.

Her face reminds her of the moon's surface, perfect lips, eyes like stars, hair scattered over the pillow.

And she can do nothing but speak the truth. 

"No."

Moiraine's voice comes out soft, softer than she wants. It trembles a little.

"The you in the street with that girl, no. The you who kissed me, no." 

"I suppose I should thank your precious Light now for making it so you can't lie to me..."

Lanfear breathes.

Moiraine lets out a small laugh, a light sound, almost girlish. 

Then Lanfear lowers her gaze. It falls on the red marks on Moiraine's wrists. She moves closer. Two fingers brush over the thin lines, and a touch of the Power heals them. 

Moiraine flinches. Swallows. Looks up at Lanfear while the woman still holds her wrists so gently it makes her chest ache. 

“Why are you still here, lying in this bed… with me?”

Lanfear's voice is a whisper. It hardly even sounds like hers. It's scratched raw with a kind of honesty she rarely allows herself. 

Moiraine breathes in. Her throat burns, but she doesn't run. 

"We both know why... Mierin." 

The name slips off her tongue too tenderly. 

For a moment Lanfear goes completely still. She doesn't even breathe. She feels a shiver ripple down her spine. Her eyes open a fraction. And in that moment, there is no Lanfear, no Daughter of the Night. 

There is only a woman. 

Her trembling fingers brush Moiraine's lips like she wants to ask her to say it again, but she doesn't. 

They stay like that, curled on their sides, propped on an elbow, faces so close. 

And Moiraine doesn't know why, she doesn't know where this urge to stay comes from. 

Maybe because it's been so long since she's shared a bed for something more than a fleeting, meaningless moment.

Maybe because inside her there's a strange, filthy freedom she didn't know she wanted. 

But she stays. 

She studies Lanfear's face up close: the eyelashes, the flushed mouth, a dark lock of hair brushing her cheek. 

She knows she's crossing the line because she feels freer than she has in years. 

The tension in her shoulders is completely gone. Her body aches in all the right places, a sweet, earned ache. She wants to touch her again, to feel her hands searching for her once more. 

She knows she's crossing the line because when Mierin curls unconsciously closer against her, Moiraine knows she wants to fall asleep right there, beside a creature of the Night who, in this moment, seems to shine as if she were made of

Light. 

Chapter Text

Moiraine's shoulders ache again.

It's not a sharp pain, not one you can pinpoint, touch, or tame. No, this is something deeper, building slowly like concrete in a vein: layer after layer, hard, grey, rooted between her shoulder blades. An invisible nail digs in and spreads to the base of her neck. The Aes Sedai barely rolls her shoulders back, as if the movement could trick the pain and convince it to leave.

But she knows it's useless. Because it's been three days... 

Three days since expert hands untied those knots.

Three days since anyone caressed that skin, gripping, biting, adoring.

Three days since anyone clung to her, moaning low, swallowing her every sigh with their mouth.

Three days since Lanfear disappeared.

The air around her smells of damp wood, rotten leaves, and trampled earth. It slips beneath her cloak, rough and cold. It slides down her back and clings to her sweat. It mingles with the warm, familiar scent of her horse. The saddle bucks beneath her with a rhythm that feels like penance. Each jolt drives the tension deeper, a blunt blade striking the same spot again and again.

She lowers her gaze to her hands, both still on the leather pommel.

Steady. Controlled.

Her wrists, always in view, as if her own body offered them up for display: bare, clear, exposed, clean.

No marks. No red lines.

And yet, even now, Moiraine feels a circle pulsing softly beneath her skin, like a chain knotted to her very flesh. Invisible, but present.

A rustle of wind brushes her nape.

She doesn't want it, but her mind opens anyway, cruel, ravenous. 

Suddenly, she's pressed against a rough wall again, her cheek against the cold surface as Lanfear's breath slides warm down her spine. Need rips open like a wound. Not just to be touched, but to be taken. Punished by her. Her breath catches. She inhales slowly, with effort. She closes her eyes and blinks once, twice. But that fleeting darkness isn't enough.

Another image explodes behind her eyelids: silk over her eyes, warm, soaked with her own breath, her heartbeat drumming in her throat, so loud it almost chokes her.

And then her voice: sinuous, sensual.

"Trust me."

Two words that burn hotter than a blade. A second later, her mouth, her tongue, slides past her stomach, past her navel, lower,

between her...

The saddle bucks. A sharp jolt. A pang bites her belly.

Her thighs clench instinctively, a desperate attempt to contain that viscous, low heat, that living ember that won't die. But the leather chafes. The horse keeps moving with the same damned cadence. And everything worsens. Every movement intensifies the hunger, rekindles it.

She shakes her head and swallows. She rubs her left shoulder, her fingers sink into the cloak's fabric. But it's no use. Her body trembles with a memory that won't fade. A phantom mouth at her neck, a weight pressing her down, a name spoken with a sweetness she doesn't want to remember:

Mierin.

Moiraine inhales. She feels the warm air burn her throat.

She remembers the way Lan had woken her at dawn, three days ago, knocking on her door. She remembers the panic, the way her eyes darted to the sheets, half-expecting to see a shape still tangled there, a lock of black hair on the pillow. But Lanfear was already gone.

And yet she's not.

She's everywhere.

In every leaf that stirs too suddenly. In the hush of the trees. In the faint rustle that makes Moiraine's fingers twitch toward her dagger, her heart pounding too fast for a morning so calm.

The need chokes her. Not just hunger, no. What steals her breath is the voice in her head, persistent and thin, constantly asking where she is.

Why hasn't she come back? Why does she seem... vanished?

This was the perfect time for her to resume playing with Moiraine's raw nerves, to strike where she knew it would hurt most, now that she had glimpsed her vulnerabilities.

But instead, nothing...

No sign.

No dream.

No movement in Tel'aran'rhiod.

Not even a whisper.

Anger and wounded pride fester in her mind. But perhaps, Light help her, a hint of... regret is what burns the most.

She wishes she could rip it out, scratch it off, inch by inch, with her nails, until she bleeds.

But it stays. It remains anyway.

Under her nails. Behind her nape. Under her tongue.

Moiraine closes her eyes for an instant, letting the horse's rhythm hammer an unspeakable truth into her: she needs to see her again.

No matter how. No matter where.

Three days without her. It's nothing. And yet, it's already too many.

Light, how is that possible?

It doesn't entirely make sense... And yet, Moiraine can't help but scan the roadside, every strange curve of light on the path, in an unconscious gesture. Even though the last thing she wants to admit to herself is that she's looking for her.

The harness of Lan's horse gives a faint creak as he draws alongside her. She doesn't turn, but she knows he's watching her. His gaze has the light, persistent weight of a hand resting on her shoulder. It doesn't oppress, but it's there.

Finally, he breaks the silence in his usual calm tone, softened by a streak of irony: "You're checking every turn in the road..."

Moiraine doesn't reply, but her hands tighten slightly on the saddle pommel. Her knuckles whiten.

Lan continues, more softly. His voice is low, almost conversational. "You're very vigilant today."

The Aes Sedai barely arches an eyebrow, her gaze fixed straight ahead. "Should I lower my guard, then?"

He offers a faint smile. He doesn't look at her, but his eyes narrow slightly, as if containing a thought too long to speak. "Three days ago, you didn't seem so... alert when you decided to reopen our bond..."

There's lightness in the sentence, but also a subtle blade of curiosity. He's felt the way Moiraine has tried to contain the wave of desire that's washed over her these past few days, likely due to the memory of what happened. And yet, it's very rare that her mind remains bound to someone after a fleeting moment...

Moiraine turns to look at him. Her eyes are precise but slightly softened, almost ironic. "You'd do well to measure your words, Gaidin." Her voice is low, controlled, and surgical, but it can't hide the slightest tremor in her tone.

She hates not being able to tell him everything. That he knows there are women, yes, that's a conceded, acknowledged truth. But that Lanfear is that woman... If he knew even half of it, she'd see it in his eyes: uneasiness, reproach, perhaps contempt, and she's not ready to admit she let such a creature in.

The Daughter of the Night is her worst secret, but also her most intimate, a private vice, her favorite sin. Something that sends a thrill of danger and desire down her spine every time she thinks of it, but also the most senseless, most dangerous, most damnably self-destructive thing she's ever done.

Lan smiles in silent surrender. "Just an observation..." he murmurs. Then he adds, "In any case, the next tavern is still far off..." His tone is innocent, but only on the surface. Then he spurs his horse forward, giving her space. He knows she might plant a knife between his shoulder blades for what he just said.

Moiraine's lips curve slightly into a smile. She doesn't reply. But the bond snaps. A thread tightens suddenly, as if violently tugged.

Asshole.

She thinks.

And she knows he heard it because, a few steps ahead, he laughs.

The evening air is cold and biting. It smells of resin and ash. The stars fan out above them, one after another, in an all-encompassing silence, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets. Moiraine sits by the fire, her hands stretched toward the warmth, but her posture is impeccable as ever. Her fingers look fragile and strong at the same time, reaching for the flame as if seeking something that can't be found in the heat, a foothold, perhaps a certain peace.

Rand is on the other side, his back slightly hunched, forearms resting on his knees, gaze lowered. The orange light dances on his increasingly adult features, as if the flame is trying to remind him he's still a boy, even if the world demands otherwise.

They've been there for a few minutes. The silence has stretched between them, quiet, almost peaceful.

The crackle of the fire, the distant rustle of a branch broken by the wind, the regular breathing of the horses, everything blends into a slow, accepted rhythm. There's no awkwardness, no urgency. Just two people sitting across from each other, tired and different but, at least for now, in balance.

"Are you going to stop speaking to me altogether?" Moiraine asks, serious, ready to finally address the topic.

Rand looks up, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Depends. Is it bothering you or not?" His tone is ironic but not unkind. It's just a way to defend himself.

Moiraine doesn't look at him right away. She inhales slowly. “If that's your intention, you're wasting your time." The words come out slow, serious. Then she adds, without changing her tone, but with a hint of something resembling melancholy: "What I feel has never been important..."

Rand looks at her. His gaze softens. He's almost bewildered. "I'm sorry, Moiraine..." He says it impulsively, without thinking, without even realizing it. And for an instant, she stiffens. Because he never apologizes. Not to her. He looks at her, and his voice becomes tighter, almost as if the words are catching in his teeth: "I acted like a child."

She stares at him. The silence lasts a beat too long. Then a shadow of a smile touches her lips. "I'd say that's fair to say."

Rand rolls his eyes and lets out a soft puff of air. "Okay, come on. I'm trying. Can you be a little less..." He shakes his head, managing a faint smile.

"I know." Her voice turns serious again. She looks at him calmly and impenetrably. "I just wish you'd understand that I only want what's best for you."

The boy lowers his gaze, then runs a hand across his forehead. "I'm getting used to... the fact that it is. Even if... it's a bit hard." His voice is softer now. There's no hostility, just something resembling weariness and a beginning of understanding. "I promise I'll listen. And I'll talk to you too..." The last part of the sentence dissolves into a half-laugh as his eyes sparkle. It's the best he can offer.

"Good." Moiraine replies barely, a hint of a smile faintly visible at the corners of her lips. It's all she allows herself. And perhaps it's more than anyone has a right to expect. "You should get some rest, Rand. The journey is still long."

He nods, stands up, stretching his tired legs. Then he looks down at her. "You should too... it's a human thing, you know... sleeping." His tone is ironic, but there's an implicit tenderness.

Moiraine only nods. But as Rand turns to leave, he pauses for an instant. Then, as if on impulse, he places a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, just barely, and turns to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes fixed on his. She's surprised, not so much by the gesture itself but by the fact that it came from him.

Rand's eyes are full of a kind of concern that tightens her throat. "Don't forget to be one of them... Moiraine." His voice is quiet, almost melancholic, but sincere. As if, for an instant, he saw beyond everything: the strength, the control, the impeccable image, and recognized something fragile.

His words strike her with unexpected precision. This boy, this damned boy... Moiraine swallows, gulping, as he walks away.

Never has she known so acutely how that phrase touches her at her most dangerous point. She knows she has desires, weaknesses, and fragilities she always believed she could stifle.

But Lanfear has now reawakened them with the way she has insinuated herself into her mind, her body, the very air she breathes.

Her name is a presence, an unconfessable thought.

Moiraine lets the warmth envelop her hands one last time before standing up in silence. She retrieves her cloak. Then she heads to her makeshift bed: a patch of ground she'd already scouted during dinner, next to Lan.

The sky above her is clear, immense, indifferent. The stars are cold, but she can't bring herself to look at the moon. She closes her eyes. One breath. Then another. She tries to empty herself. She tries to focus only on her body, on the weight sinking slightly into the ground, on the rough fabric brushing her cheeks, on the slowed beat of her heart.

She tries to think only of the silence.

Only in the dark. Only in sleep.

Because the best thing she can hope for, as she drifts off, is to feel nothing.

Moonlight. 

Pale, milky. 

Light slowly pours into the room, like milk into a cup. It glides over white sheets on a elegant bed, weaving faint shadows through the floorboards' grain. A curtain lifts and falls. The fabric, linen, perhaps, or raw silk, settles in the air with a slowed gravity, as if submerged in water. 

It breathes. 

Before her: glass or something like it. Transparent but imperfect, streaked with light. Her breath condenses on it: a warm, ephemeral veil. It reflects a blurred image of herself back to her. 

A deep note, ferrous and sensual, slides into her nostrils and catches in her throat. The silence, though, settles peace and quiet deep in her sternum.

Fingers, hesitant, then more resolute, brush her hips. A light touch, before living, ardent hands close around her belly with stubborn tenderness. 

Moiraine doesn't move. Her body receives it as an awaited, customary gesture. A chest presses against her back. Slow, deliberate. Their lines meet without friction. The curve of a breast brushes her shoulder blade. Hips align naturally. 

The warmth is exquisite.

Pure. Inexorable.

A breath brushes her ear, stirring a shiver at the nape of her neck. 

"How much I've missed you..." 

It's a whisper thick with urgency, a hoarse caress that brushes her like a tremor. The tone is disarmed, aching, but the voice is unmistakable. She recognizes it before she even thinks it, before she even has time to fear or desire it. 

And something, inside Moiraine, cracks. 

She remains motionless, her breath hitched.

Her heart tightens, as if someone had gently, suddenly breathed into it, waking it from a long slumber. Yet, her shoulders relax too quickly, as if that voice, that phrase, belonged to a familiar world, as if it were right to hear them. 

Her body curves slightly, an involuntary inclination, an unconscious welcome. And on her lips appears a subtle, full smile, born from deep in her chest, where something culminates. Where something finally finds its place.

It's almost frightening. 

Lanfear's nose presses delicately against her shoulder, in an animalistic, pure gesture. A slow, subdued nudge. Then a deep, ravenous inhale in her hair. 

"Your scent..."

The words crack in the Daughter of the Night's throat, broken by something that seems stronger than her. But immediately after, it fades, retreating into sweetness as if into a refuge: her voice grows small, trembling, and that earlier fervor dissolves into unexpected docility. This isn't the Lanfear Moiraine knows. It's something else, something more. 

A kiss. 

A warm breath on her nape. Then another, slower, lower, where her dress opens on the bare skin of her shoulder. Her lips are soft, light. They follow the line of her shoulder blades, caressing her with blind adoration. Her nose moves slowly. Every touch is a silent plea, a search for a response, even if it's just a brief alteration of Moiraine's breath.

The slight outline of teeth makes the Aes Sedai shiver. The bite is gentle, controlled, as if to savor her, but it's immediately followed by a slow, damp, apologetic tongue. 

"Your skin..." 

It's another invocation whispered between teeth. And Moiraine smiles again. More openly this time. A smile born of deep contentment. She doesn't turn. She says nothing. Her hands remain loose at her sides, abandoned, almost in a known game. There's no coldness in her. 

Only anticipation. 

She lets Lanfear seek her, desire her, beg for her. And Lanfear does, with her whole body, with her breath, with fingers that implore her at every millimeter. 

It's a strange, inverted dance. 

A slow, irregular approach that tangles something low in her belly, dependent on how the Daughter of the Night seeks her attention, rubbing her face against her, chasing her scent almost childishly, begging to be acknowledged. 

The Forsaken moves with stubborn persistence, like a wild creature being tamed. Kisses now bloom with feverish warmth along the curve of her ear. Her mouth opens, soft, moist, leaving small trails of desire that slowly descend to her neck, where the tongue brushes and sucks, where the lips pause and tremble, where the teeth rest like both threat and prayer.

Moiraine's breath falters, losing its measured grace. She stifles a groan somewhere between her throat and her lips. Her hands remain suspended, undecided, but her entire body has already yielded: her torso arches, her shoulders soften, her head inclines slightly, offering itself. Small tremors ripple through her chest. 

Lanfear's hands move along her hips with new urgency, fingers gripping, digging, pressing as if to hold her, possess her. The Forsaken's body becomes flush, warm, desperate. She presses against Moiraine with a silent hunger. 

"I need..." she tries to whisper almost breathlessly, between kisses. 

Her voice is cracked, vulnerable, real. 

And Moiraine feels everything. Every ripple of desire echoes within her body as if it were hollow. She feels the bed behind them like a slippery, inevitable promise. 

But she doesn't move. 

She remains still. Strong. Superb. Or at least she tries, until Lanfear draws close to her ear again in a new plea, her hair brushing against Moiraine's bare forearms. 

"Please... my love." 

And that's when Moiraine turns. Not by choice, but by instinct. As if those words had seized her by the nape of her neck and forced her to look. She has to search Lanfear's eyes for confirmation of what she heard. For an instant, she even fears that everything will crumble into shards of light a second before waking, but it doesn't happen. 

And before the sculpted cheekbones, before the lips parted with desire, she sees them. 

Two abysses of knowledge that promise ruin. 

Eyes that have seen more than Moiraine can imagine, but which are now fixed on her as if she were the only thing that has mattered for millennia. 

And in that moment, she realizes that it isn't desire she feels in the air, nor hunger she sees before her... it's strange to say, but she thinks it's love. 

Thought of in that way, it seems insane. And yet, it's the only thing that crosses her mind with clarity. 

And so, yes, she wants to hear it again. Before those two words, she didn't even know she longed for them. But now... now she needs them like air in her lungs. 

She wants to hear her say it. 

And so, the Aes Sedai's hands close around Lanfear's jaw with a hunger held back too long. 

She kisses her. 

She imposes her presence. Lanfear groans, a deep, broken sound that explodes against Moiraine's mouth when she tastes her again. 

But Moiraine leads. She dictates the rhythm. 

She runs her fingers through Lanfear's hair and arches her head back, forcing her to open further. Lanfear obeys immediately, docile under that grip, her throat exposed, her lips parted wide as Moiraine slides her tongue inside, claiming her, letting her hands brush Lanfear's nape, slide down her back, pulling her close decisively but with control. 

But Lanfear is impatient, almost feverish. Her hands sweep over Moiraine's body, trying to map her, to forever retain the memory of her body in her fingers, as if she had lived until this moment without memory, or as if she were receiving something that had been denied to her for years. 

"Moiraine..." escapes her lips, more a moan than a word, as she tries to slide a hand down Moiraine's thigh and attempts to guide her back towards the bed, for she is increasingly intent on not wasting a second. 

It's almost as if there isn't enough... time. 

But Moiraine resists. 

She grabs Lanfear's hair again, forcing her to look, her chin thrust towards Lanfear. Their faces are very close, their breaths mingled, broken. 

"You know what you have to do... Mierin," She whispers, almost on her lips, each syllable deliberate, but her gaze locked with Lanfear's. 

Her tone is low, calm, as if their kisses were just a trifle in the sequence of her plans. 

Then she leans into Lanfear's ear, her breath scalding. 

"Show me you deserve it." 

The slight bite on her earlobe is like a sudden thunderclap in the silence: brief, precise, devastating. 

The pause that intervenes as Moiraine looks back into her eyes and Lanfear smiles, her gaze full of brazen shamelessness, as if she can't wait to savor her, is like the moment of breath before a light tears the sky purple. 

The way the woman slowly begins to kneel, in a gesture of pure elegance, before her: a damned lightning bolt. 

This is what Moiraine feels exploding precisely between her shoulder blades before it radiates everywhere, igniting her vein by vein. 

One knee after another, Mierin's legs touch the floor, and her gaze remains fixed on Moiraine's irises. Not a blink. Not a distraction. She wants to savor every ripple on Moiraine's face, every tremor, every micro-expression. 

Only when she's satisfied does she allow herself to lower her gaze. She does it slowly. Her eyes glide over Moiraine, tracing the line of her legs, the soft curve of her hips, the rising breath in her chest.

And then she licks her lips, openly. As if tasting her own desires.

When her gaze finally returns to Moiraine's eyes, it stays there.

Because Moiraine is insanely beautiful, standing there, before her.

And something of that thought must have escaped her gaze, because Moiraine reaches out a hand and takes Lanfear's face, with a sure gesture. Her fingers cup the cheek, then slide along the curve of the chin: not a caress, but an act of dominion.

Lanfear smiles even wider, almost viciously, her eyes filling with a devotee's adoration.

Moiraine parts her lips, attempting to draw a breath, but her throat tightens, her swallow slows, because the sight of the most dangerous of the Forsaken kneeling before her, looking at her like a deity, anxious to please her, is almost too much to bear.

Lanfear's hands rest lightly on Moiraine's knees, then ascend her thighs to let her feel the weight of her hands. Her fingertips press lightly on the fabric, but Moiraine shivers as if she were touching bare skin. An imperceptible tremor appears on her face, and Lanfear drinks it in from her expression.

She lets one breath pass. Just one.

Then she leans in with intention. She moves closer to Moiraine's knee. She rubs her face against it, her nose brushing her skin through the fabric, and then leaves a kiss there. The sensation of Lanfear's scorching lips against the cloth forces Moiraine to bite her lower lip violently. Her hand ends up in Lanfear's hair, her nails lightly raking the scalp, expressing a need.

When the Forsaken lifts her eyes to Moiraine's, the smile she offers is an upturned blade. With ruthless calm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, her hands slide beneath Moiraine's dress. Her fingers brush Moiraine's ankles, a light touch, almost respectful, then slowly ascend. Her calf. The sensitive hollow behind her knee. They pause there, drawing small circles with her index finger, as if tracing a secret formula to open her.

Moiraine's breath hitches mid-throat. Her legs tremble. Just barely, but they tremble. Her mind screams, but she does nothing to hurry, because the anticipation is like fuel to the fire.

When Lanfear's fingers curl inward and ascend a little further, a small sound escapes Moiraine's lips. She bites her lip again, in a ridiculous attempt to stem the rising wave within her. Then, with an almost imperceptible movement, she parts her legs slightly, granting full access.

But Lanfear, with a calculated slowness, of one who knows exactly how to make her implode, lowers her hands again to the hem of Moiraine's dress. But the Aes Sedai has no time to utter a sound, because the Forsaken begins to lift it, slowly, inch by inch.

The cool air caressing her bare legs is like a sudden lash, sweeping over her skin like a shock.

With her left hand, Lanfear clutches the fabric into a fist; with her right, she seizes Moiraine's bare calf. Then her mouth finally settles on Moiraine's knee.

A kiss. Another.

Her lips are soft, moist, barely parted. They linger with intent. Her nose brushes the skin in a warm, deep sigh. Every movement makes desire throb between Moiraine's thighs, unbearably, almost painfully.

A full groan escapes her lips, low, broken, involuntary. She has to dig a hand into Lanfear's hair to support herself. Her fingers sink in, clinging on to stay upright.

And Lanfear smiles against Moiraine's skin, feeling that desperate grip like a command that sounds more like an entreaty. Like consent to destroy her.

And so, she continues.

Her mouth ascends, slow, adoring. Each kiss is deeper, warmer, more devastating. They burn like molten wax, sinking into the skin and leaving invisible marks. Every touch is a silent explosion propagating throughout Moiraine's body.

Moiraine nervously wets her lips. Her chest rises and falls faster and faster. Her heart hammers in her temples, in her belly, between her thighs, everywhere. Her breath is broken, impossible to control.

“Light”, she curses.

Lanfear's mouth is a breath away from where she desires it most.

And she feels it.

She feels it clearly.

She feels it in the way Lanfear's breath becomes hungry, irregular. From the fingers pressing firmly into her skin, holding her against her face. From the electricity vibrating in the air…

how much she wants

to make her scream.

Moiraine tenses. Her legs rigid, her hands clenched in Lanfear's hair, her entire body on the verge of yielding. Desire swells within her, like the moment hot sand awaits the water that brushes it, that claims it, that strives for it.

It's a matter of an instant, just one, and...

Moiraine inhales sharply through her mouth. The air enters her lungs like a bite, too cold, too real. She wakes with a shiver. A tremor down her spine, a sudden and violent emptiness that steals her breath.

The fire is almost out, reduced to red embers. The forest is dense, still, black all around her. Silence envelops her. She stays there, lying, for a second, her shoulders pricked by the night air. Desire still pulses between her legs, useless, orphaned, aimless.

She snaps upright. One hand flies to her sweating forehead, the other clenches into a fist in her lap. Veins throb in her wrists. The surge of tears rises in her like nausea. Dry, nervous, stubborn.

Because she knows.

She knows with absolute certainty that what she just dreamt has nothing to do with some strange trick.

It's hers and hers alone.

Everything...

Lanfear kneeling before her. Her hunger. Her eyes.

Everything is a projection of her, a projection of her desires, but not just that... also...

A single tear forms, slow and thick, and stops at the corner of her eye, vibrating against the sclera. 

Also...

Love. 

Moiraine clenches her fists until they hurt. Her nails dig into her palms.

She wants to say it. Light, she needs to say it.

But her throat is tight. The word tangles behind her teeth, trapped between a moan and a plea. 

The forest swallows her whisper whole, chews it, erases it. 

Her mind screams in despair: 

Come back to me.

Chapter Text

“Light... where have you been?”

Her voice breaks as it reaches her, but her eyes do first, wide, brimming with fear and something rawer, sharper.

Yearning.

Lanfear blinks. Surprise flashes in her gaze for the briefest second, before Moiraine reaches her in swift, desperate strides.

She kisses her.

One hand grips her shoulder. The other cups her face, holding her still, like something fragile and flammable all at once. Her mouth is hunger itself, stealing her breath, devouring it. A woman starved. A woman who has waited too long for the return of a forbidden lover.

And when Moiraine tastes her again, truly, she moans into her mouth. The sound tears through Lanfear like a current. It races up her spine. She growls low in her throat, seizing Moiraine by the hips and pulling her flush against her body, offering herself up, helpless against the storm.

“Don’t you dare…” Moiraine gasps between ragged breaths, then claims her mouth again, a punishment. “Don’t you dare make me wait like that ever again.”

The words send a tremor through Lanfear’s ribs. The feeling of Moiraine's tongue sliding past her lips, of her hands tracing with sure, greedy devotion, it’s unbearable. It’s divine. She gasps when the Aes Sedai grabs her by the collar and shoves her against the wall.

“Moiraine…” she breathes, already unraveling.

The woman’s only reply is a soft, pleased hum. Her name, spoken like that, with that need, is enough to unmake her. She melts against her, no longer kissing but consuming. Their mouths crash, frantic, each one hungrier than the last.

Moiraine’s hand finds her breast and squeezes. Her mouth trails down Lanfear’s neck, slow and searing. Lanfear tilts her head, baring her throat, surrendering without hesitation.

And then, whispered low into her ear, soaked with something more than lust, like a confession she’s been choking on for days...

“I’ve missed you, Mierin.”

Lanfear closes her eyes. The words carve into her, too deep, too honest. She bites her lip, trying to hold it in, to hold herself in. But the emotion floods out of her chest in waves she can’t control.

And just like that, the dream begins to fracture.

The edges crack. The light bends. The warmth turns to smoke. A dark current, silent, cold, merciless, coils like a serpent, retreating back into her hand. The illusion collapses, as do all the others she’s built and hidden from herself.

Because Lanfear never lingers in Tel’aran’rhiod.

She forbade herself from creating anything here long ago. She made that rule the day she realized that what remained in her chest after waking, that ache, that void, hurt more than silence.

Every gift she’s ever held cuts both ways…

And this one... this one has begun to wound her deeply. Quietly.

Since that night with Moiraine, she's realized something she cannot unsee: she’s been creating these dreams again. Many of them. Different. Dangerous.

Some where Moiraine is eager, submissive. Some where Moiraine gives her orders. Some where she takes Moiraine… again and again… on her back, on her knees, face buried in the pillows, on the floor, still half-dressed.

One where Moiraine straddles her thighs and whispers: “Mine”

One where Moiraine waits like a wife.

One where Moiraine swears she’d never choose anyone else.

Lanfear closes her eyes and shakes her head. She clenches her jaw. Her chest rises in a sharp, stifled breath. She’s becoming addicted to the memory of her.

And the truth hits with the violence of a wave: that same hunger, the one that chained her to Lews Therin for lifetimes, is back. The unending pursuit of love that was never entirely hers, of obsession that was never completely returned.

That’s why she hasn’t looked for her again. That’s why she must not.

Because she cannot survive it a second time. Not another person who’s never fully hers.

And yet…

her heart aches.

It aches with a need that has nothing to do with pride or power.

A need to be taken. To be claimed. To be...

Loved.

Moiraine slams the door shut behind her. The sharp sound tears through the room like a rip in fabric. No grace. No composure. She throws the cloak to the floor with a rough flick of her wrist. Her hands fly to the leather straps holding up her trousers, tugging them down quickly, over her shoulders. She can’t stand the feeling of anything on her skin. Not anymore.

She’s finally alone.

One palm presses to her forehead, the other braces hard against her hip as if to keep her upright. She’s tired. This Light-forsaken journey feels endless. But she knows it isn’t her legs that are tired. It isn’t her body. She’s worn thin. Eroded.

She undresses fast. The movements are rough, impatient. Clothes fall wherever they land. She walks straight to the bath they’ve prepared for her.

Steam curls in the air, thin, suspended, like a question left unanswered. The water looks warm. Moiraine shivers, her bare body reacting to the cool air brushing against her skin. The room smells sweet.

Cream petals, faded pink, pale violet float on the surface like scattered stars. It takes her a moment to notice the jasmine. She lets out a short, hysterical laugh.

Of course there’s jasmine. Because she smells like jasmine. And she is

everywhere.

Moiraine sinks her hand into the water and pushes the flowers aside. Gentle, but firm. She brushes them away as if they could taint her. Then she steps in.

The heat envelops her, ripping a fractured gasp from her throat. She glides her hands along her arms, slow, letting the water trace her skin. Then she wraps her arms around herself and rests her face on the curve of her shoulder, nuzzling it softly with her nose.

She looks for peace. And finds none.

Her body refuses to let go. Her shoulders are still drawn, tense, as if strung too tight. When she forces herself to move her tongue across the inside of her mouth, she realizes she has to peel it off the roof, her jaw is clenched.

Her nails stroke lightly against the nape of her neck, in a slow, repetitive motion. Almost hypnotic. For a moment, her breath deepens. She closes her eyes.

And the moment she does, Lanfear’s face carves itself into the darkness behind her lids.

Perfect. Present.

As if she’s standing right there.

Moiraine’s eyes snap open.

A breeze ghosts along her neck. She shivers, turning around, instinctively, as if expecting her to be there, standing beside the tub.

No one.

Just the room. Just silence.

She inhales sharply and lets her head fall back. A grimace twists across her face. She’s tired of feeling like this. Tense. Hungry. Alive but in all the wrong places.

It’s been a week, and she feels like she’s starving more with each day.

She craves the spark. She craves the danger.

She craves Lanfear.

And Light, how badly she wants her. Right now. Every moment. Every breath.

She can’t even look at herself. What has she become? What has Lanfear done to her?

Just the thought of her makes Moiraine throb. Her thighs press together. She feels so goddamn wet. And it would be amazing to have her here, her body pressed up against hers in this warm water.
It would be incredible to let her take control, to let her give her pleasure, because she knows how.

Oh, she knows exactly how Moiraine likes to be taken …

She swallows down a broken sound in her throat.

She hasn’t let anyone touch her since that day. She waited. But now... there’s nothing left to wait for. And if she does it just to punish her, just to make her understand she’s not the only one, she doesn’t care.

She needs to fuck someone hard and deep.

Even just to be rid of her for an hour.

Waiting hasn’t worked. Maybe doing something will.

And she thanks the Light, bitterly, fiercely, for the fact that they stopped in a real city and not some nameless village.

Because in every city, there is always…

Ochre and bordeaux curtains sway gently in the air, marking spaces that can't truly be contained. The soft clink of glass beads mixes with low whispers and the steady creak of a bed somewhere nearby. The light is warm, almost red.

Moiraine steps into the room without slowing. Heads turn, one by one. It isn't unusual to see a woman here, and no one seems particularly shocked that she's a foreigner.

But she's beautiful. Too beautiful, perhaps, to be looking for something in a place like this.

Conversations fade just slightly. A few men pause with their hands still on someone else's hips. Others mutter half-formed comments, low and thick with curiosity. One or two whistle under their breath.

She doesn't flinch. She walks tall, chin lifted, eyes like blades. The words slide off her like rain on glass. She's never cared what men said about her, and it shows.

They notice. Some freeze mid-motion. A few let out murmured sounds of approval when they see her move with that pride, that clean cut of indifference. One man lets out a sharp, appreciative exhale. She keeps walking.

The smell is unmistakable: thick, humid. Sweat. Smoke. And…

sex.

Moiraine's eyes drift across the half-naked bodies scattered between the curtains. Soft curves. Bared breasts. Loose hair. One girl laughs for no reason. Another licks her lips with a practiced slowness. None of them spark anything in her. She's always been particular. Picky. It's rare someone catches her attention, rarer still to stir her want. She doesn't do predictable. Especially not tonight…

The low moans behind closed doors remind her that pleasure is near, even if it won't burn the way she craves. She won't have to wait long.

She moves toward the maîtresse, a wide-hipped woman with jeweled fingers who gives her a glance that's more calculation than welcome.

"A woman," Moiraine says simply. Her tone isn't harsh, but it leaves no room for questions.

The maîtresse lifts an eyebrow, silent, and extends her hand. Moiraine reaches into the inner pocket of her cloak and draws out a few silver coins. She drops them into the woman's palm with her left hand, bare, ringless, unremarkable.

The woman counts the silver with her eyes. More than expected. More than required. Her face lights up.

"You're welcome here, stranger..." she says, dipping her head slightly in something close to a bow. Because even without the ring, Moiraine moves like a queen in exile.

"Any preferences?"

"Black hair. Clean." Her voice is low. Emotionless. Just control.

The woman smiles, maybe at the clarity, maybe at the coldness, and turns back toward the shadows.

"Sarielle!" The name hangs in the air like a summons.

And then the girl appears.

The curtain barely stirs as a pale hand slips through. Sarielle is barefoot, black hair messily caught in a fading clasp. She walks with a feline curiosity, slow and liquid. Doe eyes, wide, almost too wide. Her face is soft, sweeter than what Moiraine has trained herself to want. But the sharp nose, the pale skin... they'll do perfectly.

Moiraine stares at her, and something shifts in her chest. A flicker of desire, or maybe just adrenaline. It's the same feeling she gets in dreams, a second before the touch comes. The same sharp edge that dares her to go through with this. Her mind can't stop spinning with one thought: what would Lanfear do if she saw this?

And that thought alone makes her want to make this girl scream so loud even the Daughter of the Night will hear it.

Sarielle sees her and startles, barely. Just a breath hitch in her shoulders. Her eyes darken. Her teeth catch her lower lip, a motion too practiced to be innocent... or maybe it's real.

She steps forward. As she brushes past, Moiraine inhales the scent of young skin and cheap floral oils meant to mask other things. The girl says nothing. She takes Moiraine's hand, trained, polite. And yet her fingers tremble slightly. Fear, perhaps, or anticipation.

Moiraine says nothing. She lets herself be led.

Behind the closed door, the sounds are muffled. The room is simple, intimate, except for the bed. Large. Dressed in deep red sheets. Almost luxurious for a place like this. The air smells of burnt incense and sweat. A thin shiver runs down Moiraine's spine. Anticipation. Or challenge. She can't tell. 

Sarielle turns to face her. She says nothing. Just meets her gaze with a studied kind of languor. Then she steps forward and, unhurried, slips the cloak from Moiraine's shoulders. Folds it neatly. Lays it over a chair. 

Her fingers graze Moiraine's right shoulder, then trail slowly down her arm, drawing invisible lines. Her eyes lower to the woman’s clothes. She licks her lips. 

"You're so beautiful..." she whispers. "I've never had someone as beautiful as you." 

Moiraine lifts one corner of her mouth, barely. A flicker of something smug. The girl begins to unbutton the pale blue blouse, one button at a time. Her touch is light but deliberate. Warm fingers against bare skin are enough to start something. 

A slow-burning fire. Moiraine exhales, long and low, but when Sarielle leans in, lips parting to kiss her, she goes still. 

"No." 

Her voice is soft. Almost a breath. But sharp. Undeniable. Sarielle tilts her head, uncertain, but Moiraine grabs her by the hips and turns her around, firm, decisive. The girl's back meets her chest. Moiraine threads a hand into her dark hair, yanks out the clasp, and tosses it to the floor. 

The metal hits the stone with a sharp clatter. 

Sarielle's hair tumbles down in dark, sinful waves over her bare shoulders. Moiraine fists it in one hand, tight. Possessive. 

The girl lets out a surprised sound but doesn't resist. She yields, soft and pliant.  Moiraine brushes the shell of her ear with her tongue. Drops an open, wet kiss to her neck. 

"Tell me your name..." the girl breathes, her voice ragged with want. 

Moiraine doesn't answer. She just laughs, low, close to her skin, and keeps kissing. Sarielle parts her lips and moans, quietly. The sound makes something shift inside her. 

This way, with her back turned, hair gripped tight in Moiraine's fist, it's easier to pretend.  Easier to pretend it's her. Even if the scent is wrong. Even if the breath doesn't catch fire the way hers does…

Her right hand cups Sarielle's breast, then slides down her stomach and between her thighs. The girl bites back a noise. 

"Moan for me," Moiraine commands. 

The girl obeys. A broken, breathy sound spills from her throat as Moiraine's fingers move with practiced confidence. Good. That's how it should be: people obeying her. She loves to wield this power.

Moiraine lets her eyes close. She wants to get lost in the sounds. Because really, she's getting lost in her…

She's just about to lift Sarielle's dress, to touch her properly, when a voice slices through the room like a blade. 

"You really can't wait, can you... Moiraine?" 

The voice is a slap, rough and sensual, dragged from the back of an angry throat. Like burnt velvet. 
Moiraine doesn't open her eyes. A slow smile pulls at her lips, savoring the sound as if it vibrates against her mouth, her skin, between her legs, while her hand never stopping touching the girl.

She doesn't even believe it's real.  She thinks she's conjured it, her mind, finally breaking. 

"Oh, I know how to be patient," she murmurs, almost amused, still keeping her eyes shut, guarding the illusion. "I simply don't wait for you..." 

Sarielle trembles.  But not from pleasure. Moiraine doesn't even notice. Not until she opens her eyes and sees her. 

Lanfear. 

Standing at the center of the room. 

Beautiful. Devastating. 

Sin made flesh. 

Her eyes are rimmed in black, shadowed deep like claws raking through her gaze. Her lips are parted, breath caught in her throat. Her skin, pale as ivory beneath her dark cloak, looks sculpted, inhuman. 
Moiraine smiles.  She can't help it. A fierce, wild smile.  Every part of her screams…

Finally. 

Heat spikes between her thighs. Her core coils, clenches. Wet. 

Some part of her revels in it, viscerally, shamelessly. She made her come back. Is this what it takes? Fucking someone else to summon the jealous demon out of hiding? 

"Who are you?" Sarielle whispers, still trapped in Moiraine's hold, her voice trembling, not from want anymore, but from fear. 

"Someone," Moiraine replies, almost laughing, eyes locked on the woman before her, "who doesn't like being secondchoice." 

This is a game only the two of them can play. And Moiraine can feel it, pulsing between her legs, want, power, the thrill of it. 

Lanfear steps forward. Eyes black as night. Radiance and rage held back by a hair. The room seems to tilt around her presence.  But she keeps her composure. At least at first. 

"Look at you," she spits, venom in every word. "You really had to fuck someone else just to forget me?" 

"Yes," Moiraine answers. 

Her hand finally disappears under Sarielle's dress. Her fingers find heat. Wet skin. 

"I'm fucking someone else." 

The girl moans. Loud. And Moiraine grins wicked, keeping her open for Lanfear’s eyes to see.

"And it's good, Lanfear." Now it's Moiraine who moans. "Oh, it's good." 

Another moan. Louder. More desperate. 

Lanfear takes a step forward, hands clenched at her sides, mouth parted in tension she can't disguise. 

Moiraine opens her eyes. Locks them to hers. 

A heartbeat. Just one. 

Then: 

"As good as you." 

And Lanfear lunges, jealousy cracking open like lightning from her chest. But Moiraine doesn't let her get close enough to touch Sairelle.

"Don't you dare take another step," Moiraine's voice is calm. Glacial. Laced with something cruel and delicious. "Or I swear I'll make her come screaming my name, and you'll have to listen." She's still holding Sarielle's hair in her fist. 

Lanfear freezes. The tone. The authority. The energy radiating from Moiraine is maddeningly arousing. Her head tilts just slightly, a quiet, undeniable gesture of surrender. 

"Good," she whispers. 

The sound is sharp. Short. The Daughter of the Night is obeying. 

Moiraine is caught off guard for just a second. But then the power floods through her, expands in her chest, throbs between her legs like a war drum. She releases Sarielle's hair. 

"Go," she says, steady and cold. "And make sure no one enters this room. I'll pay you well." 

The girl scrambles, grabbing the fallen hair clip, and slips away. 

When the door closes behind her, the silence is deafening. Moiraine hears nothing but the dull, slow throb of her own heartbeat in her ears. 

Lanfear steps forward, graceful, feline, but something in the way she moves makes her look like the prey now, not the predator. 

That little show with the girl... it got to her deeper than she wanted. 

This isn't like last time. Not like the tavern. Back then, Moiraine was almost nothing to her. 

But now... she knows. 

She knows how she moans, how she touches, how she cums. 

Now, Moiraine is dangerous. 

And if they were still the women they used to be, if this were still a game played with distance and teeth, Lanfear might have already slammed her against the wall by now. 

But it's not just jealousy anymore…

She touches her wrist, fingers curling around soft skin. 

"Should I punish you, Moiraine?" 

The whisper grazes her ear, warm, quiet, just above breath. But the voice doesn't command, it asks. 

"Is that what you want?" 

The tone drops even lower, feral, submissive. She needs to be seen again. 

Moiraine swallows, bites her lower lip to keep from reaching for her. The offer is real. Lanfear is ready to give her anything she asks. And the way her own body answers, tense, pulsing, burning, tells her that this kind of game is her weakness. 

She can almost see it: herself, on the floor, hands pinned behind her back, Lanfear behind her, those long fingers buried deep inside her, fucking her until she sees stars. 

But not yet. 

No. 

Lanfear needs to pay. 

Moiraine inhales, long and slow. Looks at her over her shoulder, then walks away. She crosses the room, sits at the edge of the bed, legs elegantly crossed. 

Lanfear doesn't move. She just watches, starving. 

Moiraine licks her lips, slowly. 

"I want you to wait," she commands. 

Her fingers toy with the collar of her blouse, with the soft line of her clavicle, with the shadows of her breasts. 

"Just like you made me wait…" 

Her eyes never leave Lanfear's. The hunger she sees there: it's worship. Raw, holy. Lanfear's pupils are ravenous.  She tracks every flick of Moiraine's fingers with animal hunger. 

And then, Moiraine leans back, shifts her hips, uncrosses her legs... spreads them, slowly. 

Just a hint of what's coming next makes Lanfear's mouth water. Her chest rises and falls violently, her breath staggers. Her gaze drags across the valley of her breasts, the nipples already hard under thin fabric, the leather suspenders, the cut of her pants. 

Moiraine is damn hot like this. And the power rolling off her is so sinful, so charged, Lanfear feels the desperate urge to serve. If Moiraine wants to ask her to kneel, she will. She wouldn't even need to say it. 

So, she steps forward, ready. 

"Stay still.”

Another command. 

Lanfear halts, instantly.  Her eyes go wide, and then darker, deeper.  Because Moiraine isn't just teasing; she’s going to draw this out. 

Long. 

Moiraine's smile curves, slow and knowing.  She knows exactly what she's doing. 

"I want you to see..." 

Her voice shakes slightly, particularly now, as her hands slide down and reach for the buttons on her pants, undoing them slowly.

Lanfear loses a breath. What she's seeing, what's unfolding in front of her, is the most erotic thing she's ever witnessed.  Her hand claws at her own thigh. 

"I want you to see what you've been missing... all this time." 

The final word fades as Moiraine slips her hand inside her pants, finding burning heat and wetness. 

She doesn't close her eyes. She won't miss a single second of what her obscene little show is doing to Lanfear. 

Light, she's soaked. 

And she knew it. 

Oh, she fucking knew it. 

The barely-there touch of her fingers gliding along herself makes her whimper, cheeks flushing pink. 

Lanfear licks her lips, imagining how wet Moiraine must be… then chokes on a moan, low in her throat, as she watches Moiraine’s hand working between her own tights.

The sound makes Moiraine bolder. 

She opens her legs a little wider for better access, tilts her head to the side, shoulder nearly brushing her cheek. 

And with each subtle widening of Moiraine's legs, Lanfear finds it harder and harder to hold back.

Moiraine’s fingers begin to move in slow, sinful circles. 

Her lips part, her breath quickens. She bites the inside of her cheek, instinctively.  But then she remembers: she doesn't need to hold anything back. 

So, she moans. 

Loud, shameless, filthy. 

And in that moment, Lanfear knows, Moiraine is punishing her. Maybe for the first time in her life... someone is punishing her. 

And blood and ashes…

she's craving more of it.

Chapter Text

“You know…”

Moiraine’s voice is lower than usual, rich, full, dragging like silk over bare skin. Her fingers move with deliberate slowness, circling her clit in light, teasing strokes, starving herself just enough to stretch the pleasure taut, like a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

And yet, what makes her breath hitch isn’t the touch itself, but Lanfear’s face, mouth slightly parted, head tilted as if the weight of it is suddenly too much.

 “I thought of you…” she continues, the words trembling just a little, enough to betray the fire beneath them.

Lanfear’s eyes widen, just a fraction, but enough. The sound of Moiraine saying those words is like a blade drawn slowly over her skin. Her fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to claim.

“I thought of those long fingers…” Moiraine breathes, “buried deep inside me…”

She nearly moans the last part, voice breaking as the image becomes too vivid, too real, too much, and yet not enough.

Lanfear bites down hard on her upper lip, jaw clenched, swallowing the thick ache rising in her throat. The idea that Moiraine might have done this during her absence, might have touched herself while thinking of her and her alone, makes her mouth flood with desire so sharp it borders on pain.

“But you weren’t anywhere...”

Moiraine’s voice slices now, sharper, almost cruel in its elegance, a punishment cloaked in velvet.

“Moiraine…”

Lanfear’s voice is a strangled whisper, torn from her through gritted teeth. Her fists clench at her sides, a prayer in her posture. The heat in her belly coils tighter, unbearable, forcing her to press her thighs together as if that alone might help her endure it.

Moiraine meets her gaze and holds it, emboldened. Then her fingers slip lower, sinking deep into her own need, her breath catching.

“Oh, Lanfear…” she moans, mouth falling open, “this feels so good.”

Lanfear flinches, just slightly, a sharp, involuntary jolt. She almost moves, almost reaches for her, but it’s as if Moiraine’s eyes alone are pinning her in place.

No one else could do that. No one but her.

The Aes Sedai has always loved playing dangerous games, especially when the stakes are unforgivably high.

“Such a shame…” Moiraine murmurs, drawing the words out like honey over a wound, “that you can’t feel it… that you can’t feel just how wet I am.”

Lanfear jerks like she’s been slapped, a full-body twitch that starts from her belly and spreads outward in an electric shock. She can almost feel that wetness on her fingertips. Not just Moiraine’s, but her own… She’s soaked through her pants now, a hot, humiliating stain pressed against the inside of her thighs. Her breath is shallow, erratic. The ache is unbearable.

All from just watching her.

Moiraine closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again, they blaze, a burning, bottomless blue, and it’s like staring into the heart of a star about to go nova.

“Moiraine, I’m here, let…let me…” Lanfear tries, voice already trembling.

“…please.”

The word is barely audible, almost childlike in its need.

Moiraine’s fingers pause mid-motion, buried between her legs. She freezes, not because of fear or doubt, but because she feels it rising, too soon, too sharp.

All because of Lanfear’s voice, Lanfear’s eyes.

Because she’s never seen her like this.

“No!”

The word lands heavy, a whip-crack command. But she shakes her head at the same time, a soft, almost girlish, no no. That contrast alone, imperious voice, innocent gesture, is enough to shatter what’s left of Lanfear’s restraint.

Her nails dig into her own skin, carving crescents just above her hips. She shouldn’t let anyone control her like this. She’s not meant to be on a leash.

And yet… Moiraine’s hand is the leash, and Lanfear’s entire body is tugging against it, hungry, panting.

And she knows, Light, she knows, that this isn’t a one-time loss of control. She’ll crave this again. She’ll want Moiraine to do this to her, again, and again and again. And that’s what she fears the most.

“You left this…”

Moiraine says, almost tender, her free hand sliding slowly up her stomach, fingertips ghosting over soft, trembling skin. “…for someone else to touch. Someone else to claim.” Her hand reaches her breast, cups it, squeezes, firm, possessive.

Her head falls back in slow motion, exposing her throat, her chest arching into her own palm. A low, mhh, slips from her lips, not quite a moan, not quite a purr, knowing, wicked. Her fingers start moving again between her legs, wet now, slick, perfect, and her breath catches, then fractures into pieces.

“You’re going to watch all of this…”

Her eyes find Lanfear’s again, and the fire there is no less than the One Power itself. It’s pure force.

“I’d bet you can feel my fingers moving,” she murmurs, voice thick, deliciously cruel. “In and out.”

Her legs now spread wider, shameless, her posture a sin made flesh. Lips red and plush, her body rolls with each breath, sinuous, drowning in sensation. And still, she talks like it’s woven into the weave itself.

“In and out. In…” She pants heavily “… and out”

The rhythm is hypnotic...

Each word is matched by a slow thrust of her fingers.

Lanfear flinches with every syllable, her own body responding involuntarily. Her hand trembles on her abdomen, fingers curled tightly against her skin, the only thing keeping them from sliding downward. Sweat rolls down her back. Her thighs are shaking.

She can feel everything. The rhythm. The slick, obscene sounds. The heat in Moiraine’s voice.

“In and out!”

Moiraine gasps loudly when she hits that perfect spot inside herself. Her hips jerk. The wet sound is unmistakable, vulgar, raw, honest, and Lanfear chokes on a breath.

“Moiraine!”

She cries out, high-pitched, barely human. She wants to scream. She wants to kneel. She wants to rip the clothes off Moiraine and punish her with pleasure until she begs to stop. Her whole body seizes, shoulders tense, eyes wild.

But then Moiraine stills her hand again, on the edge, teasing herself… denying them both.

“You should see yourself,” she whispers, smiling, cruelly. “You look like you’re starving. Is this what you wanted, Lanfear? To watch me fall apart… without you?”

Lanfear trembles. Her whole frame shudders like something about to crack.

“No.”

Her voice is low, hoarse, broken.

“You’re aching to touch me, aren’t you?” Moiraine almost chuckles, a dark, guttural sound escaping her throat, as if laughing were a form of release.

“Tell me, Lanfear…” she breathes, voice sharp as broken glass, “how wet are you getting just from watching this?”

It’s provocative, cruel, a test she knows Lanfear will fail.

“Tell me…” She repeats, and though it’s a command, there’s something almost childlike seductive in her hunger to know, a plaintive need buried beneath her control. She's soaked and she wants Lanfear to be just as desperate.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Lanfear lets out, breathless. “You’ve made me so wet, I’m going to soak right through my pants.”

Moiraine’s smile curves, satisfied and slow. She hasn’t resumed touching herself, but her core is burning, throbbing with every heartbeat.

“Good,” she whispers. “Then touch yourself… for me.”

Lanfear freezes for just a second, shocked, aroused beyond reason.

“I want to see you. I want to see you touching yourself, thinking about me… and only me.”

“Bloody Light, Moiraine…” Lanfear groans. She sounds unhinged, like she’s teetering on the edge of something she can’t name. And it’s true, Moiraine is driving her mad.

“I said touch yourself!” Moiraine snaps.

Lanfear’s gaze locks on hers, eyes burning. Then, slowly, deliberately, she slides her hand between her legs, pressing over her pants. She gasps. The fabric is drenched, the woman was right. She’s soaked through.

Moiraine moans, low and rough. It’s not just for what she’s seeing, what she’s doing to Lanfear, it’s also for what that’s doing to her.

She can’t help it.

Her own fingers slip deeper inside, drawn in by the sight of Lanfear unraveling.

They lose themselves in it, two bodies mirrored, one standing, one seated, eyes locked, breath tangled, both of them touching, both of them trembling.

“Light, Lanfear… this is…” Moiraine gasps. For a moment, the control slips. She gives no order, she simply feels what they’ve become in this moment.

“Moiraine…” Lanfear whimpers, helpless. There’s something pleading in it, as if begging her to stop this hot mess, to end this madness. But now it’s her who can’t stop, her thumb circling her clit with brutal precision.

Blood and ashes, she wants to shove her hand under the fabric to feel bare skin.

And Moiraine thinks she could come just from watching her.

“Come here,” she whispers, breathless.

She pulls her fingers out, her palm cupping herself, no longer moving, but the pulsing between her thighs is relentless. Every pause intensifies the ache.

Lanfear obeys instantly. She’s a breath away now.

Moiraine grabs her cloak collar with her free hand, yanks her closer until their faces are inches apart. Lanfear’s lips part. She exhales, a sound that is almost a sob. She’s ready, aching to give her everything, right here, right now. She can smell her: the salt of her sweat, the heat pouring off her skin, maddening, overwhelming. It’s driving her wild with want.

She wants to kiss her.

Their lips are nearly touching, close enough to taste breath, but Moiraine pulls back, just enough to hold Lanfear’s gaze. She feels powerful. Daring. And the command slips from her lips like silk wrapped around steel.

“On your knees.”

Her chin lifts, cool and composed. She knows she’s pushing Lanfear to the edge, and yet, the pounding heat between her legs urges her to go further.

Lanfear’s eyes widen. In that exact moment, she realizes Moiraine is taking her somewhere she’s never been.

No one has ever made her kneel. No one has dared.

And now Moiraine is asking her to drop to that filthy floor of a whorehouse, like she’s one of them…

It won’t just taste like surrender. It will taste like humiliation.

But if there’s anyone she would kneel for... It’s her.

The silence that stretches between them is sharp, dangerous. Moiraine almost thinks she’s gone too far.

But then...

Lanfear begins to kneel.

Slowly. Deliberately. Never breaking eye contact.

Her body resists, her back tightens, pride thick in her spine, but she does it. One knee, then the other. Her knees kiss the grimy floor.

Moiraine loses more than her breath watching her do it.

This is nothing like her dream. This is real. The Daughter of the Night. The Forsaken… on her knees before her.

Lanfear’s pale cheeks are stained pink with shame and arousal, her entire body coiled with restraint, her eyes devouring Moiraine like she’s starving. Her face is a storm, raw want twisted with something like reverence.

Moiraine’s hand reaches for her without thinking. She cups Lanfear’s chin.

“So beautiful…” she whispers. “…doing this for me.”

Lanfear lets out a sound, something between a gasp and a broken sigh. The words hit her like cold water on scorched skin. Something shifts behind her eyes.

“Tell me, Lanfear…” Moiraine murmurs, fingers still under her jaw. “Should I forgive you… for keeping me waiting this long?”

Lanfear glances down at Moiraine’s hand still resting between her own legs, cupping herself, fingers slick. She’s so close, she can smell her. She licks her lips in anticipation.

Moiraine presses her hand a little harder against herself, needing even the faintest friction, because watching Lanfear’s tongue wet her lips makes her imagine what that mouth would feel like on her bare core.

“Yes,” Lanfear breathes. “Please, Moiraine… I can be very good at earning forgiveness.”

“Oh, I know you can.” Moiraine threads her fingers into Lanfear’s hair, rakes her scalp, grips hard and pull, lifting her chin with force.

“But I want you to tell me… show me how much you’ve missed me… how much you ache to touch me again.”

And maybe it’s that relentless pulsing under her ribs, maybe it’s a fragile, foolish hope to be seen again, but Lanfear wants it.

Madly. Desperately.

Even if it means exposing herself. Even if it will hurt later, maybe especially because it will hurt.

Moiraine is worth the pain.

“Oh, Moiraine…” she whispers. “I’ve missed you so much I had to build dreams where I fucked you, just to keep myself from doing it for real.”

Moiraine jolts, startled. Her grip tightens in Lanfear’s hair. Her fingers twitch between her thighs. “You’re lying,” she says, but her voice trembles.

“Why would I lie? You think I enjoy remembering every single damned detail of your body?”

And there’s something so raw in the way she says it, something wild and aching in her eyes, that Moiraine finds herself pulling Lanfear closer, guiding her mouth to her neck, still clutching her by the hair.

Lanfear doesn’t hesitate. She kisses her there, then bites. “This neck…” she murmurs, her tongue swirling over hot skin.

Moiraine has to suppress a moan. The sound of her voice, her lips finally on her skin, it’s almost too much. Her fingers find her clit again, begin to move, slow, then faster.

This will be Lanfear’s punishment: watching her come, unable to touch her the way she wants, where she needs.

Oh yes… this will be the perfect punishment.

Moiraine yanks her head back, denying her the intimacy of her skin again. She looks into her eyes, waiting, commanding without a word.

And so Lanfear obeys. She continues.

“Those perfect breasts, pressed against me…”

Moiraine lets her move closer to her right breast. Lanfear nuzzles against it, even through the fabric, then bites her nipple. Moiraine moans and curses the layers of clothing between them.

“Oh, those moans…” Lanfear murmurs, voice like fire against her chest. “I’ve never been able to recreate them just right.”

The confession burns.

Moiraine pulls her back again, locks eyes with her, then slides two fingers deep inside herself, moving hard, fast, greedy. Her moans come freely now, wild and broken.

Lanfear grips her thighs as if she wants to brand her own fingerprints into the skin, a desperate claim etched in flesh. She knows exactly what Moiraine is doing. She knows she wants to come all by herself.

“No, no… please, please, Moiraine, let me…” she begs, voice breaking. “I want to pleasure you.”

She doesn’t care that Moiraine’s grip on her hair is rough now, even painful. Because the moment Moiraine brings her face closer to the hand, still buried between her thighs, Lanfear presses her nose to the knuckles. She kisses them, bites. She lets her tongue play over the fingers, still half-covered by fabric with such hunger, such animalistic reverence, that Moiraine shudders.

“Beg for it,” Moiraine orders, her voice taut with the last frayed edge of self-control, already trembling at the precipice.

“I’m begging you, Moiraine… please, please,” Lanfear whispers, nearly crying, her mouth worshiping that hand the way she aches to do elsewhere.

And that, that, is Moiraine’s undoing.

Everything she meant to restrain, to control, collapses under the weight of raw need.

“Light…” she breathes, releasing her grip on Lanfear’s hair.

She barely has time to tug at her suspenders before Lanfear strips the trousers away with a flick of Power.

The first sharp, deliberate stroke of her tongue on Moiraine’s clit makes her see stars.

She nearly screams. Her thighs snap tight around Lanfear’s head, both hands buried in that soft silk hair, holding her there. She’s already so close from the slow, torturous build up, so desperately close.

Lanfear forces her open again, moaning low like a growl as she tastes her, hot and wet and maddening. Her tongue flattens, curls, moves with devastating precision, finding every tremble, every jolt of sensitivity in Moiraine’s body. The Aes Sedai’s back arches, her head drops back. A cry dies on her lips.

“Lanfear…” she gasps, her voice splintering, one hand fumbling with her shirt, desperate to bare every inch of herself.

Lanfear purrs, the sound dark and exquisite. It’s been too long since Moiraine said her name like that. The sound ignites something wild inside her.

Her mouth seals again, sucking hard, tongue flicking, pressing, ruthless. Her nails dig into the soft skin of Moiraine’s thighs, while Moiraine’s hips jerk up, grinding into her mouth.

One hand rises, cupping a breast, fingers teasing her now bare nipple. Moiraine instinctively covers it with her own, fingers lacing with Lanfear’s, the other still tangled in her hair, anchoring her in place.

And all Lanfear wants in that moment is to make Moiraine come so hard she forgets her own name.

She doesn’t stop. Her eyes stay locked on her’s face, watching every twitch, every flicker as she unravels.

“Oh Light, Lanfear, yes,” Moiraine gasps, half-sobbing, her voice cracking, her body trembling as she grinds harder against her mouth. “Yes, I’m gonna… I’m gonna come so good on your mouth…”

And then, Lanfear pushes two fingers inside her, deep, precise. She finds the spot instantly. She knows her, too fucking well.

“Right there, right there” Moiraine cries out, her voice torn wide open.

Lanfear devours her. Her fingers curl, stroking, again and again, until…

“Lanfear… my love… yes, yes!”

Moiraine screams it this time, raw, helpless, no thought, no restraint, as the orgasm rips through her. Her whole body convulses, spasms, shattering against Lanfear’s mouth and hands.

And when she says “my love” something in Lanfear breaks, reforms, melts all at once. There is no sound more sacred, no reward more divine than hearing Moiraine come apart like this, screaming her name, trembling in her arms. A slow-burning heat spreads through the Forsaken.

Moiraine’s breathing evens out, a little, while Lanfear places a kiss on the inside of her thigh, soft, reverent, dazed. She rises onto her knees and reaches for Moiraine’s jaw, her grip possessive.

She wants to kiss her, fiercely, to claim that “my love” with her mouth.

But Moiraine pulls back, just slightly, just enough. Lanfear’s groan is raw with need, full of frustrated hunger. Then comes the command, sharp and steady:

“Bare yourself.”

The words slice through the haze. Moiraine’s voice is finding its dominance again. Lanfear knows exactly what that means.

This isn’t over. Not even close…

Chapter Text

Still breathless, Lanfear rises. Her cloak slides off her shoulders. She begins unbuttoning her corset slowly, deliberately, as if holding herself together with each precise movement, even as she falls apart inside.

“I’m sure you could do it faster,” Moiraine says, her voice cool, reminding her who’s in control.

So Lanfear obeys.

With a flick of her fingers, she undresses completely. The air against her bare skin sends a shiver down her spine, or maybe it’s Moiraine’s eyes, devouring her inch by inch.

Moiraine stands, her legs still trembling slightly. Her gaze roams, slow and burning. She steps closer, unable to resist touching her, fingers brushing along the softness of her forearm. Then she leans in, her lips close to her ear, her breath, hot and deliberate.

“On your hands and knees.” 

She whispers, commanding.

A rush of desire lances through Lanfear. A pang so deep it aches in her core.

She made her kneel once before. And now… she wants it again.

“On the floor.”

Moiraine specifies, a delicious anticipation in her tone, silken, threaded with steel.

Light, this is almost too much, but it is so good it ignites a new wave of desire, strong and almost impossible in its suddenness.

Lanfear freezes, just for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tense. There’s defiance in her stillness, as if she might refuse. But she doesn’t.

Moiraine waits but oh….

Oh, how much she wants to play this game…

“Come on. Be good for me…” she says, almost uttering a "please" before catching herself, “I know you can.” The voice curls like honey, sweet and sharp, coaxing her to obey, promising things beyond reasons, dripping directly into Lanfear’s spine.

So something in her gives way not because she likes to be punished, but because she wants to please her.

It’s unhealthy, but she is, they are…

Lanfear lowers herself slowly. Her palms sink into the plush carpet, knees spreading, the cool air kissing everywhere she’s exposed. It steals the breath from her chest. She feels humiliated, bared open, so open it aches. Her breath hitches in her throat.

And while Moiraine watches, she thinks every aching second, every breath she spent waiting, was worth it, because she’s beautiful like this.

Deep down, Lanfear knows she aches to satisfy, to show she’s good enough even doing things she doesn't entirely want to do, and it hurts to understand this, to be this way. It always has, and there's no denying it.

But right now, it’s different.

It hurts in a good way, in a way that’s building her desire. With Moiraine it’s easier to accept this.

But, when she glances back over her shoulder, her black hair cascaded beautifully down her back, wild, she can't help making sure Moiraine is enjoying every breath of it. When her eyes meet Moiraine’s, full of heat, she can’t help showing also a flicker of something else, something raw, something like shame.

And Moiraine sees it. She understands it fully. That’s what undoes her. She’s doing this for her…

All of this. For her.

And she promises herself that next time she'll let Lanfear reclaim all this power, letting her fuck her with her face pressed to a pillow, chained to a bed, however she desires. She will beg for her, letting her know how much she wants her, and only her, to do this to her.

So something in her gives way not just because she wants to please her, but because she truly likes to be punished.

It’s unhealthy, but she is, they are.

In a breath, she is behind her.

She reaches out, slow and reverent, and lets her palm spread flat and glide up Lanfear’s spine to reassure, the deep caress blooming goosebumps across her skin. Lanfear arches, the curve of her back fluid and desperate.

“Mine”

Moiraine breathes, moving the dark hair aside to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss between her shoulder blades.

The spot burns on Lanfear’s skin. She swallows a sound that nearly escapes her throat, a sob or a moan or both. Moiraine is torn in two, caught between the hunger to punish her and the overwhelming need to kiss her until she’s breathless and begging.

“You’re mine, Lanfear” she says again, fiercer this time, her fingers curling into that raven hair. She desperately wants her to listen to it "No one will ever have you again… not like this."

“Moiraine…” Lanfear gasps.

It’s a plea wrapped in silk, her voice trembling, her eyes searching Moiraine’s, caught between the raw want to be touched and the desperate need to tell her: please don’t stop, please never stop saying this.

And when Moiraine hands drifts lower and her knuckles graze the slick heat between Lanfear’s thighs, light as breath, it’s like a promise she feels not just in her body but in her bones, absolute and inescapable.

The Forsaken gasps, hips jerking back desperately, aching for more.

“Oh Lanfear…” Moiraine nearly moans the words. “You’re so wet for me.”

Her fingers drag through her wetness, slow and languid, deliberately avoiding the places that would give relief. She strokes along her folds, teases her entrance without dipping in, never once brushing her clit.

“Soaked”

Lanfear whimpers. It’s a fragile, strangled sound, high and helpless.

“Moiraine… touch me,” she whispers, barely holding herself up on her hands, “Please.”

“I am touching you,” Moiraine murmurs, calm and cruel, her fingers still moving, but not where Lanfear needs them.

“I need…” her voice breaks. “I need your fingers inside me. Please… please…”

Moiraine meant to tease her. To make it last. To drag out every second. But now, now she realizes that she wants to take care of her, and she will. There will be time for slow kissing, deep exploring, but now she needs to have her like this.

“You beg so sweetly,” she whispers, and drives two fingers deep inside her.

Lanfear cries out, a sharp, high-pitched moan torn from her throat. But then Moiraine fucks her hard, each thrust deep, fast, relentless, dragging raw, obscene sounds from her lips.

“Like this, yes, like this!” Lanfear sobs.

But just as she’s about to shatter, Moiraine pulls out.

Lanfear collapses onto her elbows with a broken gasp, her core clenching around nothing, throbbing and hollow.

“No… Moiraine, no,” she cries. “Why? Why?” Her voice splinters. She’s on her knees for her. She’s given her everything. How could Moiraine deny her this?

"Would I be too soft to let you come the first time?" Moiraine's voice is like cold silk but asked almost to herself. "Don't you think?"

She grabs her hair again, pulling her upright until Lanfear’s back is flush to her chest. The heat of her bare skin is exquisite.

“Oh, Lanfear…” she murmurs. “One night, I drank myself unconscious just to stop thinking of you…” She whispers against her skin, her right hand slipping around her throat.

Not too tight. Just enough to remind her, who she belongs to.

"I need to punish you a little bit more…" she says, her voice low and promising as she rolls her nipple between two fingers.

Lanfear moans again, eyes fluttering shut.

It’s so sweet to be claimed like this by her, like it’s true belonging. So, she grips her hair in need, holding her closer, offering herself more to her, and Moiraine allows it. But when she tries to kiss her, desperate, she only lets her reach her jawline. 

Not her mouth. Not yet.

If she kisses her, she knows, she’ll break.

Moiraine’s left hand stays tangled in that black hair. Her right hand moves again, slow, unhurried, gliding between Lanfear’s breasts. She circles one, then the other, teasing the curve but avoiding the nipple like it’s punishment. Her palm skims down her stomach, still denying her.

Lanfear trembles beneath her. Her moans turn to broken sobs. Her knees slide wider on the carpet, shaking.

Only then does Moiraine plunge her fingers back in, abrupt and deep.

“Moiraine!” Lanfear screams, covering Moiraine’s hand with her own to keep it there, to make sure she doesn’t stop.

But Moiraine just bites her shoulder and yanks her hand away again, pinning Lanfear’s wrist behind her back with one steady arm.

She fucks her again, brutal, building her up so fast it hurts. But just before the fall she stops her movements again.

“Not again…” Lanfear sobs. “Not again, my love, please!”

That breaks something in Moiraine. The way she says, “my love”. It's not anger anymore. It's not sex. It's heartbreak. It’s grief.

She knows. It’s almost unbearable now. The ache. The desperation. The denial has become cruelty.

So she softens, kisses her shoulder, her neck, languidly. Her hands start to soothe instead of torment, caressing her back, her waist. She tries to pour all of her tenderness and love into these gestures, making her feel it.

Then she helps her turn over, gently, and lowers her to the floor.

“You’re being so good, Lanfear,” she whispers, brushing damp strands of hair from her lover’s flushed forehead. “So worthy of it.” Then, softer, more real, her voice breaking just slightly: “I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you. Not like this.”

Lanfear’s breath hitches. Her eyes, so often sharp with power, now shine glassy with tears. She looks up at Moiraine as if she's the only thing in existence worth worshipping and finally reaches up, hands trembling, grasping her shoulders to pull her down.

Their mouths crash together, finally, their first kiss that night, deep and starving and full of everything they’ve held back for too long.

The Daughter of the Night threads her fingers into Moiraine's hair, trying to hold her as close as possible. And when Moiraine pulls back a little, she won't allow it. She captures her lips again, with renewed force, needy, not wanting to let go, until the other woman starts to smile against her.

With a light, gentle pressure of her hand on Lanfear's chest, Moiraine pushes her back slightly.

Lanfear muffles a "No" on her lips, so much so that Moiraine has to slide down to her neck, without breaking contact, to reach her ear and literally tell her what she intends to do.

“I want to taste you, Lanfear,” she whispers, need in her voice, and then looks into her eyes again, smiling mischievously. Now, Lanfear’s eyes are black, wild with desire and something more, like power mixed with imploration. So Moiraine lowers herself again: “Let me give you what you have earned. I promise.”

Only then does Lanfear let her go.

Moiraine’s kisses burn on her skin as she descends passionately to her stomach and settles between her legs.

Just a second of anticipation passes before...

Her tongue wraps around her clit so sweetly.

"Yes!" Lanfear groans.

And Moiraine doesn't make her wait.

She gives her all. Every movement of her lips and tongue is precise, expert, bringing her to exquisite heights, one hand embracing her thigh, the other beautifully displayed on her stomach.

There’s no teasing, just pure want to give pleasure.

And Lanfear feels it, oh, how she feels it.

"Oh, Moiraine, you’re so good at this," she says between ragged breaths, her words spilling out without thought.

The Aes Sedai smiles faintly against her and continues her sinful actions, aiming to dismantle her with reverence.

And it clearly works, because Lanfear is a writhing mess thanks to her…

She thrashes on the floor, her throat broken by obscene noises, her back arching to welcome Moiraine deeper, then slamming back against the floor, her left hand unsure whether to touch herself or seek the floor for support.

Her other hand clutches Moiraine’s soft curls, her hips moving uncontrollably and uncoordinatedly to grind into her face, so much so that Moiraine needs to brace herself with her arm to control her, because she wants to…

"Stay still…"

She murmurs sweetly pushing her down a little bit, and the phrase punctuates the nerves of Lanfear's spine like countless small shocks.

"Don’t stop, please, please Moiraine, don’t stop!" she cries when she feels her hesitate for a second.

But Moiraine has no intention of stopping.

Her fingers slide into her slick wetness without resistance. Lanfear’s body goes rigid, her eyes slamming shut as her inner walls clench tight around Moiraine’s fingers, already fluttering.

“Oh, yes!” Moiraine says, grinning now, her breath ragged. She’s on her knees beside her, fingers thrusting fast, relentless.

She’s stopped using her tongue, not out of mercy, but because she wants to see her fall apart. Needs to see it. Own it.

“Yes. Yes. That’s it, my darling, come for me.” Her voice rises, urging her on. She can feel it. Lanfear’s trembling, hips faltering. She’s right there, right at the edge…

Moiraine withholds her voice, just for a second, watching her, drinking her in….

But Lanfear’s eyes snap open. Burning. Locked on her.

She grabs her’s forearm, nails digging in. Her whole face is a plea. Her gaze, desperate, begging for the words to continue, because they’re dragging her closer to the edge with unbearable intensity.

Moiraine doesn’t hesitate. She immediately leans down, giving her what she needs, lips brushing her ear, every syllable deliberate, her voice low and filthy, spurring her on the best she can.

“Let it go”, she growls. “Come on, you’re so close. Give it to me.” Her thumb grinds harder against Lanfear’s clit, merciless, while her tongue flicks over the shell of her ear, igniting her further. 

Lanfear lets out a tiny, broken gasp, high, girlish, caught in her nose, lips closed.

“I want to hear it.” Moiraine moans, her voice an urgent caress in her ear. “Let me hear you…”

“Come for me, Lanfear.”

And Lanfear shatters.

She screams Moiraine’s name, raw and high, both hands gripping the wrist buried between her legs, clinging like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this plane. A single tear spills from the corner of her eye. Her body jerks, convulses, wrecked in wave after wave of tremor. Power crackles off her skin, wild and uncontrolled.

Moiraine watches her come undone, eyes dark with reverence.

"Good girl…" she murmurs, possessive, smiling. “That’s it. That’s my good girl…”

She says it again, proud, soothing. Her fingers slow to a tender rhythm as she strokes Lanfear through the last waves, riding her orgasm with her. She kisses her temple, almost bites sweetly at her skin, while running a hand through her hair, a gentle anchor.

Then, with a final, delicate stroke to her clit and her trembling folds, she eases back just slightly enough to let Lanfear breathe again.

But Lanfear yanks her closer, a desperate, guttural demand. Her mouth slams onto hers, ravenous, her hand slides over Moiraine’s body, down to her waist.

“So eager…” Moiraine breathes, a whisper of a tease, but the words die as Lanfear latches onto her pulse point, sucking with an animal hunger.

The Aes Sedai gasps, a harsh, ragged sound, because she’s too sensitive, throbbing again from desire for what she has just done.

And so when Lanfear’s palm pats the outside of her thigh, craving the feel of her, Moiraine shifts instantly, obeying, swinging one leg over her knee, and grinding down, agonizingly slow, against her thigh. A guttural moan tears from her throat as her dripping wetness smears hot across Lanfear’s skin.

Then, sinuous and poised, she begins to ride.

Lanfear’s hands seize her hips, anchoring her, guiding her rhythm with a reverence that borders on worship. Moiraine tosses her hair back with one fluid motion, letting it cascade down her spine like a wave, never breaking eye contact.

She moves with intent, building her own pleasure, chasing the friction, dragging a gasp from Lanfear just by the sight of her. But it’s not enough.

She needs more. She needs her.

So she leans in and crashes her mouth to Lanfear’s, desperate, brutal.

“Don’t you dare leave me again,” she breathes against her lips, voice ragged, trembling, no command, just hunger. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I won’t,” Lanfear gasps. “I swear it… I swear.”

Skin to skin, her hands roam Moiraine’s body with frantic devotion, learning her by touch, relearning her like scripture, as if she could etch her into her bones.

Lanfear locks eyes with her, steady, burning, and doesn’t look away. Not once.

Moiraine curls a hand behind her thigh, dragging their bodies into perfect alignment. The moment they slot together, hips finding a rhythm born of instinct and ache, they both cry out, sharp, breathless.

She kisses her again without pause, their tongues tangling, tasting, claiming, as they move. Louder now. Reckless. Grinding with a friction that sets off sparks, each thrust, each gasp, each desperate clutch feeding the fire burning between them. Their bodies sing the same unbearable song

“Oh, Lanfear… say it,” Moiraine moans, voice rough and breaking with pleasure. “Say my name. Let me hear it.”

And Lanfear does. She prays it. She cries it.

Moiraine.

Again and again, like a sacred word on her lips, like something she was made to worship.

Moiraine drinks it from her lips, from her moans, from the tremble of her breath, until she feels herself hurtling toward the edge again, too close, too much.

She melts into her, clinging to her as their bodies tighten, breath stalling, until they come undone, shattering in each other’s arms.

Together.

Chapter Text

The rough wood of the door groans under Moiraine's pressure. She barely manages to push it open a crack before a force from inside flings it wide. Lan stands before her, motionless, yet in his eyes runs an unusual agitation, raw and impossible to ignore.

"Light, Moiraine, where have you been?" His voice is low but taut, like a bowstring ready to snap.

Moiraine slips into the room with her usual elegance. Her gaze does not linger on Lan. It moves past him, falling on the other figure at his back. Rand watches her, confused and uneasy. For an instant, Moiraine does not know whether to laugh or to be irritated.

Since when does Rand worry so much about her?

"We were just a little..." the boy murmurs.

"You were gone all night without a word," Lan cuts him off.

Moiraine's eyes pierce him as she lifts her chin slightly. "We never agreed I had to inform you of my every movement."

"How am I supposed to protect you if I don't know where you are?" Frustration vibrates beneath his voice, tangled with a sincerity so urgent it is almost painful. Through the bond, his worry crashes over her like a breaking wave, hard to shut out. For a moment, Moiraine's composure wavers.

"I was with someone..." she says at last, but Lan's stare, unyielding, burning, robs her of breath.

Her eyes order him to drop the matter in front of Rand, who Light alone knows why he is even in her chambers. But Lan does not retreat. His anxiety, flooding through the bond, presses down harder and harder...

"Fine!" she snaps, her voice sharper than she intends. "If you must know, I was in a house of ill repute. Are you satisfied now?"

Rand jolts as if struck in the stomach. "Wait... what does that even mean?"

Moiraine's glance freezes him instantly. Foolish, naïve farmer boy.

Lan lowers his eyes for a moment, but she catches the fleeting hint of a smile that touches his lips before he forces it away.

"Rand, I think it's time you left..."

Moiraine spins toward her Gaidin, one elegant brow arched. "Oh, so now he has to leave?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lan asks, his voice just barely breaking. Something still gnaws at him, but he chooses to hold it back, for now.

The Aes Sedai drops her eyes for a second. The bond fills with guilt and unease. She has always kept certain affairs private from Lan, but this time the betrayal weighs heavily, indelibly, on her shoulders. Because Lanfear is no ordinary person.

He must sense it because he tries to ease her burden. "At least, was it satisfying?"

The flash of amusement in Moiraine's eyes is lightning quick. "Oh, yes," she replies without hesitation. And the way she repeats it, "yes..." softer, slower, carries an echo that does not belong to the present. Something else seeps through the bond: a wave of raw desire, broken memories, faceless bodies tangled together.

"Oh, I can feel it," Lan murmurs, almost with mischief. A hint of laughter touches his voice.

Rand nearly chokes, coughing, eyes wide. "I'll leave you two alone," he stammers, edging toward the door.

"Oh, come on, Rand." Moiraine crosses her arms before he can move further, her voice dropping to something almost lethal. "You don't imagine only men have the right to amuse themselves, do you?"

The boy's blush rises so fiercely it almost draws a laugh from her.

"No, of course not!" he says quickly. "It's just... I thought a woman like you wouldn't need to go to places like that."

Moiraine tilts her head. She smiles, entertained, though with her usual shadow of cool detachment that makes her seem even more impenetrable. "I guess I have to thank you for that."

Rand fumbles for words, but she spares him the trouble. "The truth, Rand, is that people bore me rather easily."

He lowers his gaze, shakes his head, and tries to mask an involuntary smile.

"Is that funny?" she asks, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

Rand scratches the back of his neck. "No, it's just... that's exactly what she always says."

Moiraine goes rigid. "Has she come to you these past days?" Her voice is distracted only in appearance.

Rand hesitates, then nods. "In my dreams."

Moiraine holds her breath for a heartbeat, but her face remains untouched, carved from marble. She betrays nothing, not the ice curling into her stomach, nor the sudden fire climbing her throat.

"You should have told us." Her voice is a thread of steel, cold and sharp.

"Where is she?"

Lan's question falls into the silence, thickening the air now that they are alone, now that he can speak openly with Moiraine, because he can feel her. Lanfear... at the back of her mind, in a way he cannot yet define. But she is there.

Moiraine only gives a faint shrug, barely perceptible, yet she knows there is no way to hide from him. Not from him.

Her eyes slip past him, out to the city's profile in the distance, to a point that almost does not exist, as if to cling to something. She breathes slowly, too slowly, and the air scrapes her throat raw. But she needs it. Every muscle in her body cries out for composure, for discipline, yet she feels her control slipping away, something else rising in its place.

"She's not the sort to vanish without a trace," Lan murmurs.

Moiraine's lips tighten into a thin line.

"Not for everyone, apparently." Her voice is ice, but the rage that surges through her is fire, burning, merciless.

It pours into the bond with Lan before she can stop it. The emotions are bare, alive, raw, laced with something darker, a knot tightening that tastes of blood. Something too close to obsession, to the thirst for punishment and revenge.

Lan studies her in silence, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, weighted with concern.

"What's happening to you, Moiraine? You've always hated her, but now..."

Moiraine parts her lips, but her words shatter against the storm inside. It is as though her chest is too narrow to contain it all: hatred for her, hatred for herself, hatred for the betrayal she has dealt the one person who has always stood by her. And suddenly it is all so clear, as though a veil has lifted from her mind, from her sight.

"She..." Her voice breaks, then bursts out in a bitter flare. "She came to me. Last night."

"What? Why didn't you tell me?" Shock cuts through Lan like a fleeting shadow.

Moiraine turns to him, her gaze hard as steel. Every syllable falls sharp and merciless, venom drawn straight from her throat. "I am telling you now."

"What does she want?"

A laugh catches in Moiraine's throat, strangled, almost hysterical.

"Believe me, Lan... Light knows how much I wish I knew." Her breath trembles for an instant, then her gaze sharpens like a blade. "But if I know her at all... I think we'll meet her soon enough."

"Did she say more? When? Where?" he presses.

"No." The word comes out hard, but then she hesitates. "Lanfear always keeps something back."

The name slides from her lips with the taste of iron and ash. Moiraine clenches a fist, her nails digging deeper than usual into her palm. In that moment, her hatred burns so fiercely it blurs into something else, its other half. The half that has drowned in Lanfear's absence, in the lingering thought of what they had once been, while she now haunts Rand's dreams, likely seducing him, making herself desired.

Would she let him fuck her?

Her stomach twists violently.

Light, why is she even thinking of this? Why not of the danger Rand might be in, or of how Lanfear is luring her away from her true mission?

She must be losing her mind, because the only thought that remains is how much she wants to punish her, to drag her to her knees, to make her beg for forgiveness, because she knows how. She has seen it in her eyes: that need to please, the raw human jealousy, the fear of being replaced. But none of this has anything to do with her task, with her duty to the Light.

Moiraine knows that Lanfear is like a sickness that lingers in the blood, dormant until it wakes again. The only way to be rid of her is to tear her out completely. She has not yet admitted, even to herself, that what she now feels toward the Dragon Reborn is... jealousy.

The city unfolds around them, but Moiraine cannot focus on anything. Her cloak brushes her ankles, her stride steady. Lan walks at her side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The evening air is light. It carries the scent of smoke, but not only that...

Moiraine catches it distinctly, suddenly, as they turn beneath an archway.

The fragrance reaches her sharp and sweet at once.

Her step falters. She stops short. She swallows. The shadows of passersby stretch long under the sinking sun.

"Moiraine?" Lan halts immediately beside her.

She does not answer. The world narrows. Her eyes scan the moving figures around them.

"She's here..." The words slip out low, like an oath. A shiver runs down her spine.

"She's not…"

"She's here, Lan."

The scent floods her nostrils now. Her blood races, veins pounding as if on fire. Lan stiffens. Moiraine draws in a deep breath.

"Show yourself." Her tone is clear and cutting.

The movement is almost imperceptible, no more than a breath. From behind an arch, the silver cloak catches the light like the edge of a blade, gleaming like the newborn moon.

"You're getting better," Lanfear's voice slices through the air, a whisper balanced between venom and honey, too beautiful not to wound.

Lan reacts instantly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

"Or perhaps it's you who's becoming more predictable." Moiraine's reply is steady, though her blood hammers in her temples.

Lanfear still stares at her, hood drawn, her eyes twin stars burning in the darkness, pinning her in place.

Moiraine swallows, the air too thick to breathe.

"Be careful, Moiraine," Lanfear warns.

With a slow, theatrical gesture, she pulls back her hood. Moiraine flinches at the sight of the sly, wicked curve of her lips: full, red as an open wound.

The world contracts in a single instant, reduced to the taut emptiness between them. Moiraine's breath catches in her throat, hot and strangling.

Dark hair sleeked back with precision, crimson embroidery climbing like ivy along the pale column of her throat. The contrast is harsh, yet flawless. Desire strikes her without warning, visceral. Heat coils low in her belly, spreading upward into her chest.

Lanfear is more commanding, more dominant. Power radiates from her, yet Moiraine’s ears still burn with the memory of her languid pleading, her eyes fixed on the vision of her submission. That is still how she wants her.

The Aes Sedai draws a careful breath, straightens her shoulders, forcing her voice into neutrality even as fire burns inside her.

“What do you want, Lanfear?”

Lanfear parts her lips, the barest of gestures, deliberate, then lets her gaze travel over her with languid contempt. The challenge gleaming in her eyes ignites a forbidden flame, something sharper and far more dangerous than anger. For a heartbeat, obsession alone floods Moiraine’s veins, the fierce urge to yield, to stop resisting.

“I only come to make sure everything is unfolding as planned...” The Forsaken’s voice is cold, sculpted, yet vibrating with subtle pleasure. “How is our poor little boy?”

Rage surges through Moiraine, blinding, so fierce it drowns out every other emotion. Lan throws her a sharp glance, but it is useless.

“Why don’t you tell us? Were his dreams comfortable enough?” she spits, her smile cold and impersonal.

For an instant, Lanfear stiffens. Moiraine swears she sees something crack across that perfect face, a flicker of true surprise.

“I know you went to him,” Moiraine presses, eyes burning with fury. “What did you ask of him? To come back to you? And he turned you down?” The smirk at the end is enough to trigger instinct.

Power bursts from Lanfear like a gale, sudden and blinding. Lan is hurled aside, trapped in a net of weaves that hold him motionless in the corner, helpless.

Moiraine slams against the wall, the cold stone driving the breath from her chest. Pain vanishes beneath the surge of adrenaline, her senses sharpening, burning.

“Release him. Now.” Her voice is clear, unyielding, though her body cannot move.

“I do not take orders from you,” Lanfear hisses.

“Release him!” Moiraine’s voice cuts sharper.

Lanfear’s hand closes around her throat. The grip is firm but not crushing. “I grant you far too much power. Perhaps it is time I remind you who commands.”

Moiraine should be afraid, but she is not, though the bond seethes with Lan’s terror until it nearly suffocates her. She knows Lanfear will not kill her, and for the first time, she prays he feels it too, feels how the pressure of her hand at her throat awakens other sensations.

“I am certain you will enjoy this, Moiraine.” Lanfear’s voice is an enticing whisper.

Moiraine parts her lips unconsciously, but her eyes remain like ice even as she wets her lower lip with her tongue. Lanfear’s grip tightens, just slightly, not enough to hurt. Her pupils widen, full of hunger.

When Moiraine’s gaze drifts languidly toward her lips, as if waiting, Lanfear braces her other hand against the wall beside her head, closing her in.

There is no doubt she struggles with the way Moiraine, unconsciously, is begging to be devoured.

She leans toward her ear, her breath warm against the sensitive skin.

“I should punish you for what you said. I should fuck you right here and make him watch.” Her voice is low, husky. The tip of her tongue traces a slow arc along the curve of Moiraine’s ear. The woman shudders. “It would shock him, to see how much you truly want me.”

The Aes Sedai swallows hard, but there is no air to take in. She cannot move, and for some twisted, unholy reason, she likes it. All she can think about is the press of Lanfear’s fingertips at her throat, her nearness, and the desperate craving to take her other hand and guide it beneath her skirts, to the place where desire already burns too fiercely to endure.

She knows she must not. It is no real struggle for her, she is far too skilled at repression.

“Why don’t you go and fuck Rand,” she spits, not truly thinking about what she is saying, her words jagged, nearly breaking but sharp with real fury.

Fury that is not enough, because through the bond, Lan feels it: pure desire, raw and unmasked, an obsession he has never once sensed from Moiraine.

She is not afraid. She is aroused.

His eyes widen.

“Don’t push me too far, Moiraine.” Lanfear’s voice lowers, razor-sharp. “I will come to you tonight, in your chamber. We will see if you still have so much to say.”

And in a blink, she is gone.

Moiraine’s hand rises to her throat. She draws in breath. Lan collapses to the ground, freed from the weave’s hold, but in an instant, he is at her side.

“Are you all right?” he asks, alarm flooding his voice, his eyes racing over her body for any sign of injury.

“Yes.”

“Moiraine...” His tone is almost innocent, but she cannot face him, not now. She knows he has felt every feeling, but she still turns away and begins to walk.

“Moiraine, we need to talk,” Lan calls after her, almost pleading.

“Not now.”

“For the Light’s sake, Moiraine!” he bursts out, his anger breaking in a way he has never dared before. “Where are you going?” He seizes her arm. “To her?” His eyes blaze with harsh warning.

She stops. She stares at him. Then her gaze drops to the hand gripping her, and when it lifts again, her voice is iron, unyielding.

“Do not ask questions you cannot bear the answer to.”

Lan studies her face.

“You sleep with her...” he murmurs, as if the revelation strikes only now. Moiraine says nothing. Her eyes slip away, losing their focus.

“She is a Forsaken, Moiraine!” He spits. His hand still rests on her arm, but the grip has turned into something closer to a plea.

“You could have anyone you wanted...”

But I want her!

 The thought erupts from Moiraine’s mind, and the obsession it carries sends a shiver down Lan’s spine.

“You are mad if you think I will let you face her alone.”

“She will not kill me, Lan. We... she will not kill me.” Her words, and the bond itself, carry something raw, without boundaries, something intimate and ancient, impossible to mistake.

Lan is left breathless. His hand opens of its own accord as though she were too fragile to hold any longer.

“You...” But his voice dies in his throat.

Moiraine lifts her eyes to his, clear, sharp, but cracked with a pleading light that should never be there. “I will explain everything.”

Wax drips slowly down the candlestick.

One drop after another, always in the same place. Moiraine watches it slide, following the thin white line hardening against the metal. Now and then, she reaches out to adjust the wick with the silver tip, even when there is no need. The gesture repeats itself, empty, obsessive, relentless.

She changes her dress for no real reason. Or at least that is what she tells herself. But every time the dark glass of the window throws back the image of the new fabric against her skin, the silence of the room grows heavier, sticky. The flame does not flicker. The air is still and oppressive.

Every little sound, the groan of wood, the stretch of fabric, makes her hold her breath in a way that makes her hate herself, hate what she has become.

She needs air.

She takes a step toward the bed, fingers brushing the cloak draped over the chair. She never reaches it.

A cold flash at her throat freezes her in place, a slender blade, alive, so close it feels like a breath of steel. Behind her, a warm body presses in. Lanfear’s breath dampens her cheek, her chest flush against Moiraine’s back, soft yet unyielding. Moiraine loses her breath. Her hand flies to the Forsaken’s wrist that holds the knife at her throat, but the grip is iron.

“Have you stopped fearing me, Moiraine? You haven’t even embraced the Source.”

The blade trembles lightly against her skin, never cutting. But it is the whispered voice at her ear that scorches more than steel.

“Should I?” Her voice is rough, scraped by the knife that forces her to breathe shallow. “Should I fear you, Mierin?”

The true name on her lips carries no sweetness now. It is venom. An insult.

Moiraine feels Lanfear tense. The arm cinched tight across her waist is hard, coercive, yet too much like a desperate embrace.

“Behave yourself… it would be such a shame to ruin such a beautiful throat.”

Amusement rings in her voice. Moiraine hates it.

“Then why don’t you do it now?”

Her tone is sharp, but her heart hammers so hard it nearly drives itself against the blade. This is no game, and Lanfear knows it. The Forsaken holds her breath, and for an instant silence is absolute. Hesitation creeps in like a crack: the knife remains, but the grip loosens, barely.

Moiraine is her weakness.

“Do it. Wasn’t that your plan from the start, Lanfear?”

The knife does not move. Neither plunging nor retreating. But Moiraine no longer cares for answers. She is reckless, maybe masochistic.

She turns her head, lips grazing the Forsaken’s almost, eyes locked onto hers.

“What’s wrong? Has the Dark One’s little pet lost her nerve?”

She barely finishes before a violent shove slams her against the wall, the second time today. Her breath rips free. Her wrists are yanked high, bound by rings of Power that bite into her skin. The knife grazes her again, cold and merciless.

Now Lanfear stands before her.

The high slit of her dress bares a thigh strapped with black leather. Tall boots sculpt legs proud and unyielding. Moiraine swallows, but her mouth waters. Heat spills down, relentless, between her clenched thighs.

“I should kill you…” Lanfear whispers, letting the blade caress her cheek with a freezing burn. “But…”

A strangled cry bursts from Moiraine’s lips as Lanfear’s hand suddenly thrusts between her thighs, pressing hard against the fabric, already damp with need.

“…I know many ways to make this far more interesting.”

“Don’t touch me.” Moiraine’s voice is already fractured, fragile. Shame sears her for it.

Lanfear laughs softly, a laugh both girlish and cruel.

“Oh, really? You don’t want this?” Her thumb begins tracing slow circles over the soaked cloth. Each circle wrings a shudder down Moiraine’s spine, each muffled cry bitten back until blood touches her tongue.

“Let’s see if those pretty Oaths of yours allow you to say the words.”

The knife once again kisses the soft skin of Moiraine’s throat, but Lanfear’s voice melts into poisonous honey dripping through her bones.

“Tell me Moiraine… tell me you never imagined all the ways I could punish you…”

Moiraine strains against the wall, but she cannot break free. The attempt itself is humiliating. Her breath comes ragged, broken. Her eyes blaze with fury, but her body betrays her, burning. Her lips part, yearning. Her thighs open the faintest fraction to welcome Lanfear’s hand. But she turns her face away, refusing her gaze.

In that moment, she almost longs for the knife to pierce at last, for the cold certainty of death to quench the fire devouring her. Because to admit she wants this would mean conceding a truth crueler than any blade:

She is no longer the Moiraine she once was.

Chapter Text

Lanfear’s hand is still there. Pressing. Insistent. Alive against her.

But Moiraine’s face stays turned away, jaw locked tight, a fragile mask of composure stretched over the inferno burning beneath. Her eyes cling to the shadows pooling across the walls, while the candlelight trembles over the stone. It’s the only way she can endure this.

Desire coils low in her belly, sharp and unbearable, fed by every expert, knowing touch from Lanfear, yet her mind drifts elsewhere. To a cold, gray place. To the memory of silence, of obedience learned too well.

It isn’t resistance. It’s survival. She isn’t fighting Lanfear. She’s fighting the dark tide inside herself. Each breath is measured, each tremor contained. She walks through corridors of thought darker than any cell, colder than any night, counting her faults like prayer beads. Every motion, every heartbeat, is a reckoning she believes she deserves.

The heat devouring her skin isn’t hers. It belongs to the shadow that touches her.

The languor, the wetness, the pull toward Lanfear… they come in waves, and she lets them. But her mind stays distant, anchored in the frost.

And she’s silent. Too silent.

Then, the cold kiss of steel grazes her cheek as Lanfear lifts her face, demanding her eyes. Moiraine meets the gaze. Or rather, she lets it happen. Her eyes are empty, dark hollows that promise surrender, deliberate, cruelly precise. A surrender she’ll punish herself for later, in ways far harsher than Lanfear could ever imagine.

For a single heartbeat, Lanfear freezes. The teasing cruelty, the arrogance of control, all of it fractures. Something like fear slips into her chest, thin and sharp.

This isn’t pleasure. This isn’t desire. It’s something nameless, surgical, and it’s cutting through them both.

Her fingers open. The knife falls, a hollow clatter against the stone, echoing too loudly in the small room. Her other hand rises, trembling, pressing against Moiraine’s hip, not to claim, but to anchor. To call her back.

And just like that, the illusion of dominance dissolves. The leather, the darkness, the threat… gone.
Only soft black curls brushing her shoulders now, a white shirt, plain trousers. The woman beneath the Forsaken… Mierin.

Lanfear leans close, her lips brushing Moiraine’s ear, not to seduce, but to reach. “Moiraine, wherever you’ve gone…” Her voice drops, stripped bare of power, soft and human. “Come back to me.”

The words break something open.

Moiraine trembles, violently, a shiver rising from her legs to her chest, shaking her free of the cold. Her wrists are unbound, she doesn’t even remember how, yet she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t flee. She simply breathes. And for the first time, it sounds like coming back to life.

Tears gather behind her eyes, hot, unwanted, before breaking free, carving burning tracks down her cheeks. She wipes them away in a raw, jerking motion, as if she could erase what just happened. Then she pushes Lanfear back, away from her, with a suddenness that startles them both. The movement is fractured, born as much from shame as from fury. Her fists clench at her sides, trembling, every muscle tightening into a single, desperate effort to stay upright.

“Don’t touch me,” she whispers. Her voice frays like a thread about to snap.

Lanfear doesn’t move. She only watches, the fragile tremor in Moiraine’s shoulders, the cracks along the surface, the quiet ruins beneath. She sees the weight she herself has stirred awake, a burden she cannot lift and cannot look away from.

It feels unnatural not to take advantage of it, not to feed on the weakness, twist it, claim it. That is what she has always done, what she knows best. And yet… she hesitates.

The urge rises anyway, to trace those trembling lines with her fingertips, to whisper that she doesn’t want to break her, not really. It’s madness, dangerous, human madness, and she hates it because she can’t stop it.

She wants to pull Moiraine into her lap, to hold her close, to stroke her hair, both of them on the cold stone floor, breathing the same shattered air. Would that be so wrong? Would it be so absurd to want something soft, something almost kind?

She takes one step forward, too careful, too human, and Moiraine recoils as if struck. Her pupils widen, the look of a cornered animal, wild and luminous.

“No…” Moiraine raises a hand, palm out, trembling. It’s not a command. It’s a plea she can barely voice.

“I won’t,” Lanfear says quietly, both hands lifting in surrender. Her voice softens to a whisper, almost tender. “I won’t.”Her gaze drops.

Once, she would have taken fear as tribute. Now, Moiraine’s fear burns her like guilt.

They stand there, suspended in that raw silence, the air between them vibrating with everything that can’t be said.

When Lanfear finally speaks again, her voice is unsure, fragile, stripped bare of defiance. “Are you…” She swallows, unable to finish.

Moiraine lets out a sound that isn’t laughter but tries to be, sharp, hysterical, echoing off the stone like breaking glass. “Really? You’re asking me this?” she breathes, half a gasp, half a sob. Her hand drags through her hair, a frantic gesture of someone holding herself together by sheer force. “You…” she starts, but then her voice turns, steel-edged. “You have no right to question me. I don’t recall you caring when you slithered into Rand’s dreams, offering yourself like the proper whore you are.”

Lanfear’s breath catches. Her fingers curl into fists, her pupils darken, wild, feral. “A whore you like to fuck so much, isn’t that right?”

“Not after what I learned,” Moiraine spits, the words slicing through the air.

“Not after what you learned?” Lanfear’s laugh comes sharp and bitter, echoing like mockery and despair all at once. She steps closer, eyes blazing. “The wetness still glistening on my hand says otherwise… Moiraine.”

Lanfear’s wet fingers trail slowly across her lips, savoring the remnants of desire. Moiraine’s gaze follows, caught despite herself, drawn to the motion like a moth to flame.

A soft, low sound escapes Lanfear’s throat, almost a purr, and it coils through the air like a caress. Moiraine stiffens, breath hitching. Something inside her twists, unbidden and dangerous.

“You can’t lie about this,” Lanfear murmurs, licking her fingers. “You want me. And I want you… desperately.”

Her voice drops, silken and deliberate, every syllable a lure. Moiraine feels it, the subtle pull beneath the words, and she knows it too well. She meets Lanfear’s eyes with sudden clarity. “You’re mad if you think I’ll ever let you touch me again.”

Lanfear smiles, a flicker of mischief, then releases a soft, girlish laugh. “I wouldn’t be so sure. But if we’re to play our usual dark little games… then you may touch me.”

A heartbeat passes. Moiraine says nothing, but a dangerous flicker dances behind her calm exterior. The offer coils in her mind, as tempting as sin. There’s always been a part of her drawn to Lanfear’s surrender… the illusion of control reversed, the thrill of power reclaimed.

A whisper of possibility delights her: Lanfear bound, beneath her, mewling need, begging.

Oh, how she would love it… to strip away that arrogance, claim her until she becomes a starved little pet, aiming and pleading for her touch.

“You’re such filth. I regret every single moment I let my hand brush against you,” she curses.

“Yes, I am,” Lanfear snaps, stepping forward, the floor trembling under the intensity. She stops just a breath from Moiraine yet touches nothing. Her scent, sharp and irresistible, is a threat in itself.  “Yes, I am filth. Do you really think you could change me?” The irony drips from her laugh, quiet, calculated, but her eyes never leave Moiraine, more frightening than her fury. “No one can. Can’t be mended, Moiraine… do you understand what this means?”

A tiny flicker in Lanfear’s gaze is enough to make Moiraine’s pulse spike, ache. She hates it.

The unbearable possibility of what Lanfear could be… and isn’t.

“I always go back to what I know,” Lanfear murmurs, voice low and jagged. “The only thing that’s ever made me feel alive since he cast me aside.”

“Then why keep coming back to me?” Moiraine asks, her voice taut, a trembling blade of frustration sharpened by a desperate need for the truth.

“I don’t know,” Lanfear breathes. “It’s something I can’t control.”

“It’s a lie.” The words spill from Moiraine in a rush, her stomach twisting with anger, jealousy, desire, and pain. “You’ve been playing with me from the start. To distract me from my path. To distract me from him.”

“Oh, Moiraine…” Lanfear’s mouth curves, mocking, dangerous. “You really think you’re that important? I could kill you, end it all at the root. I still could… right now. Isn’t the fact that I haven’t done it yet enough for you?”

Lanfear steps closer, her body swaying like a blade caught between menace and irresistible seduction.

“You think it’s enough that you haven’t killed me?” Moiraine laughs, sharp and joyless, liquid fire licking up between anger and desire, her skin tightening around a need she refuses to name. “What a twisted, sick mind you have.”

“You’re afraid, Moiraine.” Lanfear’s voice drops, low, insinuating, a thread winding under her skin. “With that filthy mouth you can say whatever you want, but inside you know, something ties you to me. You can’t stop wanting me. Even when you want to tear me apart… Would it be so crazy to think it’s the same for me? That I could feel something too… that I don’t want to lose you…”

“You can’t lose me,” Moiraine spits, each word honed like steel. “Because I was never yours to lose.”

Her breath comes in short, jagged pulls, chest rising and falling in a convulsive rhythm, fists clenching as fury and desire race through every nerve.

“Here’s the truth, Moiraine.” Lanfear’s voice drips venom, but there’s a crack of something raw beneath it. “You say I deceived you, that I played with you… but the truth is you’re so consumed by duty, by always doing the right thing, you can’t let anyone close. You’re incapable of letting yourself… of letting me… in.”

“Oh, what a relief,” Moiraine blurts out before thinking, her voice trembling with jealousy and humiliation. “Really, what a relief that someone who’s let herself be fucked by another couldn’t get close to me!”

Lanfear tilts her head back, a manic laugh splintering against the ceiling. “So that’s it, Moiraine?”

Her eyes glitter, cruel, mocking, dangerous. “Jealousy? You want to know if I let him touch me?”

She holds her breath, staring at Moiraine like a challenge, like a blade pressed to her throat. “I am a millennia-old creature,” she says, voice thick with malice and pride. “I do what I want. I take what I desire. You can’t control me.”

Her words cut like blades, calculated to hurt, to provoke, to drag the Aes Sedai’s desire into the open, forcing it to war against duty.

“What if I had, Moiraine? What if I had begged?” The question slithers from her lips like smoke, a challenge laced with an echo of need that Moiraine tastes.

“Oh, Rand… please, please, I need you…” The moan is deliberately false, exaggerated, a blade scraping across Moiraine’s mind, igniting every shard of jealousy and repressed fury.

With a flash of self-humiliation and rage, Moiraine slams her against the wall. Her hand clamps around the woman’s throat, fingers pressing hard into the sides of her neck, holding her there, breathless, trembling, between violence and something darker.

Lanfear’s mouth twists into a teasing, defiant smile, teeth bright and sharp. She covers Moiraine’s hand with her own, pressing it firmly in place, feeling the pulse of her desire beneath her fingers. Her lips part, wet and eager, trembling with a raw, insistent hunger.

"Do it, Moiraine,” she exhales. “Show this immortal creature exactly who owns her." 

And Moiraine needs to do it.

She crashes her mouth against hers, fierce and unrelenting. Lanfear gasps, lips parting in a perfect storm of defiance and need, tongue teasing and tasting, then smiles mid-kiss, daring her, flaunting the undeniable truth of their shared weakness, Moiraine’s inability to resist these dark, hungry corners of herself.

The pride in Lanfear’s smile twists Moiraine’s fury into a molten ache. Her teeth sink into Lanfear’s bottom lip, drawing a hot line of blood. Lanfear groans, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, while Moiraine’s fingers clamp around her throat, an iron anchor that makes every inhale a tease, every exhale a surrender.

When Moiraine steps back, Lanfear inhales sharply, tasting herself and the evidence of her own audacity on her lips. Her eyes glitter with mischief and want. The pressure of Moiraine’s fingers around her trachea sends shivers radiating through her chest, a delicious, possessive burn that pulses into her core.

She thrusts her hips forward, grinding against Moiraine, pressing every curve and plane of her body to hers. Skin meets skin, heat radiating, every movement a question and a dare. Moiraine’s breath is hot and ragged against her ear, tickling, pressing, leaving no space for thought. Her hands roam, gripping, cupping, tracing, claiming, fingertips dragging over ribs, brushing along the spine, memorizing the slopes and hollows of her form.

She aches to surrender completely, to feel Moiraine’s dominance anchor her trembling body.

She opens her mouth, but Moiraine silences her with another searing kiss, mouth and tongue claiming, pressing her chest and stomach against Lanfear’s. Moiraine’s hand cups Lanfear’s breast, fingers pressing firmly where only she should touch, and Lanfear arches into the pressure, tongue slamming against hers in possessive, greedy rhythm.

Moiraine pulls back just enough, eyes darker, calculating, and bites into Lanfear’s neck. Her hand now tightens around the nape, fingers tangling in hair, nails grazing and marking skin. Lanfear lifts her throat like a sacrificial offering, body arching, quivering with desire. She wants to feel every mark, every bite, every pressure, desperate to be claimed.

The Aes Sedai drags her teeth and lips across the pulse point, leaving a red, bruising imprint, a mark that burns into her skin. Lanfear whines, breath hitching, eyes glossy with want, lips flushed, hair spilling over her shoulders in wild disarray.

Her hands dig into Moiraine’s waist, pressing her closer, tracing the swell of her hips, feeling the taut muscle under her touch. Her breath is hot, fast, caressing Moiraine’s lips and cheek, a whisper of need and challenge.

“Harder… Moiraine,” she murmurs, voice low, dark, throbbing with desire. “Let me feel every mark.”

The words sink into Moiraine like fire. Her own desire pools thick, sharp, and wet between her thighs, radiating up into her belly, dripping with ache and heat. Every nerve hums, every muscle tightens.

If Lanfear wants the pain, then she’ll have it, and Moiraine will make sure it tastes exquisite.

With a sudden, sharp movement, Moiraine spins her around, slamming her face against the wall. Her body crushes against Lanfear’s, heat and weight caging her completely. The Forsaken hisses, startled, her spine arching, muscles coiling with need and tension.

“Do you want to remember what it means to be mine?” Moiraine hisses, voice jagged with cruelty.

Lanfear moans, a broken, needy sound that only fans the fire in Moiraine’s chest.

“I asked you a question,” she growls, yanking Lanfear’s head back by the hair, letting her feel the pull, the sharp ache of control. Her breath scorches along Lanfear’s ear, a warning and a promise.

“I…” Lanfear hesitates, trembling. “Yes… Moiraine… yes.”

Moiraine smiles, not gently, but with a flash of feral pride, eyes rolling briefly to the ceiling as if feeding on the moment.

“Then you’re going to listen very carefully,” she orders, voice low and commanding. “I’m going to bind your wrists, and you’ll let me do it. Then I’m going to do to you everything I want.”

Her hand trails down Lanfear’s torso, fingertips soft, nails grazing her skin. Lanfear clenches her thighs, twisting, trying to seize control, fingers scrabbling at Moiraine’s arm.

“Uh-uh.” Moiraine’s voice drops to a dangerous growl. She shoves a leg between Lanfear’s to block her movement. “If you dare come before I allow it, I swear… you’ll never touch me again.”

Her tongue slides down the side of the Forsaken’s neck, slow, precise, grazing the spot behind her ear. A shiver cascades down Lanfear’s spine like molten fire.

“Do you understand?” Moiraine demands, fingers teasing her nipple through the thin fabric. Lanfear whimpers, pressing back, arching, desperate for more.

“I want words… Lanfear.”

“Yes, Moiraine. I understand,” she breathes.

“Good girl.” The words slide from Moiraine’s mouth, languid, rich with dark satisfaction. “So beautiful when you obey me.”

The One Power surges around Lanfear’s wrists, the weave biting almost painfully as it binds her. Her body jerks at the sensation, taut with restriction and anticipation. She tries to draw a deep breath but only manages a gasp. Her heart is a pounding drum.

And then… absence.

Moiraine’s heat vanishes. The space she leaves behind is a knife. Anxiety swirls in Lanfear’s stomach, a sudden, deep loss, sharp as withdrawal.

“Moiraine…” Lanfear calls out, voice low, trembling, thick with need, with desperate pleading.

She’s about to turn when Moiraine’s hot hands slip beneath her shirt. The contact makes her gasp, the heat blooming immediately, spreading from her chest to her core. Every nerve ignites, every inch of skin alive under Moiraine’s deliberate touch. Fingers glide along her waist, kneading, pressing, tracing the curves of her hips like a map of ownership, sending shivers down her spine.

The touch is rude and soft, precise, pain and pleasure entwined in a way that leaves her body aching for more. Moiraine’s nails scrape lightly, teasing, claiming, marking, and Lanfear shivers at the contrast, the delicious mix of bruising and feather-light grazing that leaves her trembling and exposed.

She suddenly gasps as skilled fingers drift lower, teasing just above the fabric of her pants. Her hips jerk forward, driven by instinct, craving the heat that hovers just out of reach. But Moiraine’s fingers disappear immediately, leaving a sharp, delicious ache that makes her whine, her fingers digging into Moiraine’s body behind her, searching, needing, aching for more, wanting her to be impossibly close.

When Moiraine returns, her hand slips beneath the waistband, dragging teasingly across her bare skin, nails ghosting over the tender flesh, the buttons of her pants undone but not yet yielding the full pleasure she craves. Lanfear bucks against the touch, desperate, trembling, her body a live wire of anticipation.

Moiraine’s hand cups her fully, heat and steady pressure searing her, crushing her against her own restraint. She wants to move, to take control, but Moiraine anchors her in place with a quiet, ruthless precision. Her whole body hums with tension, deliciously restrained.

“Moiraine,” she gasps, her name breaking free like surrender, raw and desperate.

“You’re dripping,” the Aes Sedai murmurs, voice cold, merciless. “And I haven’t even started.”

A violent shiver rakes through her, sharp and consuming, and Lanfear trembles from the tips of her fingers to the arches of her spine. Her flawless face twists with need, eyes dark with hunger, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted in helpless anticipation. The feral ache in her body mirrors the sharp cruelty in Moiraine’s tone, a perfect collision of desire and domination.

Moiraine brushes aside Lanfear’s cascade of black hair with deliberate slowness, exposing the vulnerable line of her nape. Her lips hover, grazing, biting just enough to send sparks of heat through her.

“Does he make you like this?” she asks, voice low, hard, a whip of accusation and ownership. Her chest presses flush against Lanfear’s back, every breath caging her, trapping her, every movement of her fingers beneath the fabric a promise of exquisite torment. “Does he make you this desperate? This needy? Look at you… you could come on nothing but my voice, and I wouldn’t even need to touch you.”

Lanfear’s head falls back, a strangled sound escapes, every syllable a plea she cannot restrain.

“Moiraine… please…”

The sound is hot in her ear, a living, breathing surrender, but Moiraine only laughs, cruel, sharp, triumphant. Her left hand digs into Lanfear’s hip, bruising, anchoring her in place. The other teases her clit, a maddening, feather-light torment, denying her deeper touch while sending shivers through every trembling muscle.

Lanfear moans, raw, desperate, undone. Every instinct screams, every fiber of her being cries for more attention, but Moiraine slides her hand higher, teasing, withholding, reminding her with every stroke, every brush, exactly who she belongs to… and why she wouldn’t want it any other way.

The Forsaken’s wrists twist helplessly against the luminous bonds. It takes every ounce of will not to tear through Moiraine’s weaves, not to seize control, drag that hand down where she craves it most and ride her fingers until nothing remains but the white‑hot collapse of release.

The fight not to do it is its own exquisite torment, and she savors it even as she burns.

But her desperation only feeds Moiraine’s hunger. It coils through her like an electric current, making her movements slower, crueler, more deliberate. Her fingers drag now through the slickness with a lazy, devastating precision, spreading it without ever touching where Lanfear aches most. Under her hands, the tremors of Lanfear’s body shudder up into her own arms, a living vibration of need.

“You think he can touch you the way I can?” Moiraine’s voice is low, dark silk threaded with steel. “I know you, Lanfear. I own you.”

Lanfear exhales a sound that is almost pain, millennia of pride cracking under Moiraine’s grip. Her mouth slackens. Her body turns pliant, offered.

“Yes, Moiraine… you. Only you…” she gasps, only for Moiraine to press her thumb down on her clit, and the gasp warps into a broken, needy mewl.

“Mhh. I don’t think you mean it,” Moiraine mocks softly, circling so slowly it’s a threat, each movement a blade of pleasure that cuts deeper than any knife.

“I mean it!” Lanfear spits, her voice sharpened by frustration and need, hips twitching against Moiraine’s restraint.

Moiraine clicks her tongue. “Where did all that good behavior go?” Her fingers still. The sudden absence makes Lanfear whimper, small and raw.

“No, no, please. I’m sorry, Moiraine…Please touch me!”

“You need to earn it, Lanfear.”

Lanfear swallows hard, throat working, voice trembling with submission and hunger. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell me he’ll never have you again. Not like I…” her voice frays with want, “…like I do.”

“No… never… never again. I’m yours,” she whispers, almost pleading, her bound hands clutching desperately at the fabric of Moiraine’s dress. Her voice breaks as Moiraine’s fingers begin to move again, circling deeper, brushing against soaked folds, a steady, devastating pressure that makes her knees shake.

“Say it again.” Moiraine’s order comes out rough, almost a plea.

“I’m yours, Moiraine.”

“Good.” The Aes Sedai’s voice drops to a low, dangerous growl, vibrating against Lanfear’s ear.

Her left hand tightens on Lanfear’s hip, anchoring her, while her body presses closer until Lanfear can feel every heartbeat against her back, each throb another claim.

When Moiraine finally slides two fingers inside her devastating heat, Lanfear lets out a high, startled noise, a sound so raw and needy that it makes Moiraine falter for an instant, her own need rising like a tide, threatening to spill over. She swallows it down, savoring the shudder of power and want between them.

“There we are…” Moiraine almost moans, feeling Lanfear’s body grip and flutter tightly around her fingers, drawing her in, bending forward as if trying to drag her deeper still.

“Show me,” she breathes into Lanfear’s ear, her voice a tremor of heat, her lips brushing the shell of it. “Show me what it means to be mine. Fuck yourself on these pretty fingers.”

Lanfear nods almost frantically, tipping her head back against Moiraine’s shoulder, hair falling like spilled silver. She starts to move, hard and insistent, hips jerking toward Moiraine’s hand, craving more, craving everything.

“Not so fast, little girl.” Moiraine’s tone is velvet lined with steel. “You don’t want this to end too soon, do you?”

Lanfear groans and shakes her head, the sound breaking, a whimper of frustration and pain. She slows, her hips trembling under the strain, breath catching at every inch of control Moiraine demands.

“Yes… like this,” Moiraine purrs, letting her left hand stroke lines down her spine. “Good girl. You’re doing so well…”

She is drunk on the power, on Lanfear wet and shaking, on the way the Forsaken’s pride buckles under every order she gives. She curls her fingers, then slides a third inside, unhurried but merciless.

“Moiraine!” A honeyed moan spills from Lanfear’s throat, her body arching helplessly.

“It’s all right, sweet girl. You can take this. Slowly… beautifully… fucking yourself on my fingers,” Moiraine murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the pale curve of her neck. Her left hand drags possessively down Lanfear’s back and up again, nails grazing skin in a deliberate, claiming trail.

A sound tears from Lanfear’s throat, raw and almost painful. “Moiraine… please, please. I need…” she begs, writhing against another slow, sinful thrust.

“You need more, don’t you?”

“Yes!” she cries as Moiraine slides a fourth finger inside, the stretch burning sweet. Moiraine smiles against her neck, a low, satisfied sound escaping her.

“But have you really understood now, Lanfear?” Moiraine asks, her voice low and sharp, teasing, almost as if speaking to herself. “Have you truly understood what it means to be mine?”

“I… I understand. Please, Moiraine, please. I don’t want anyone else to have me like this. Not like you. You’re the only one who owns me.”

The confession, wrung from desire, anger, and surrender, makes Moiraine tremble.

“You’re perfect like this… but I think you’ll be even more perfect coming on my fingers,” she whispers, finally moving her hand as she’s been threatening to, thrusting fast and hard, relentless.

Lanfear grinds towards desperately, every nerve raw and alive, every movement a plea she can’t stop making.

“You feel so good,” she moans, voice soft, almost tender, to the edge of crying… but there is nothing tender about this. Nothing pure in the way her body tightens, in the way her mouth opens, in the way her whole frame convulses while Moiraine holds her up, fingers knuckle-deep and punishing, until she comes screaming her name, beautiful and undone in Moiraine’s hands:

the only ones that can truly break her… and then piece her back together.

Chapter Text

Moiraine’s fingers slow, holding Lanfear tightly, coaxing her through the last shivers of her orgasm. Every quiver of her body winds itself like a rope around Moiraine’s mind, around her ribs, around her heart. She feels it pull her down, anchoring her in place, and for a breathless moment she simply drinks it in… the feel of Lanfear wrapped around her, the raw certainty that, for some strange and incomprehensible reason, the Wheel has spun so that they might fill each other’s needs.

Her lips brush against the hot skin of Lanfear’s neck, tracing the pulse still racing beneath her teeth.
“You belong to me, Lanfear… and if you ever try to forget it, the Light knows I’ll make you remember.” Her voice drops lower, rough with possession, every word dragging along the shell of Lanfear’s ear, down the curve of her nape, threading through her hair until each syllable etches itself into her spine.

Lanfear’s body rocks against hers, not just listening, but feeling, the words sinking in like both a caress and a claim. She lingers in that edge-soft, breathless moment of release as Moiraine’s fingers graze her clit one last time. Then she lets her forehead fall against the wall, the cool, unyielding surface pressing against her skin before a slow, wicked smile spreads across her lips.

It’s then that she turns back, slow, deliberate, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

Moiraine’s breath catches, the air between them thickening, heat flaring anew at the dark, untamed spark in Lanfear’s eyes. The Forsaken leans in, their foreheads nearly touching, pressing her body firmly against Moiraine’s. Wrists still bound behind her back, every subtle movement radiates a tension that makes the Aes Sedai’s pulse quicken.

Their eyes lock, pupils dark, breaths mingling in the charged space between them. Lanfear’s lips hover just above the hollow of Moiraine’s throat, brushing against hers in feather-light strokes, teasing with the ghost of a kiss. Her cheek presses warmly against Moiraine’s, breath fanning along the sensitive line of her collarbone, sending shivers cascading down her spine.

The woman’s hand tightens instinctively on Lanfear’s hip, fingers digging in, pulling her closer. Her chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven breaths, heartbeat hammering violently against her ribs.

Every subtle touch is deliberate, a slow, tantalizing claim that ignites a deeper heat inside Moiraine, making her body pulse, ache, and coil with an insistent, growing need.

“You like that I haven’t freed myself, don’t you?” Lanfear murmurs, lips brushing the edge of her ear. “That I let you do to me everything you wanted…”

Moiraine’s knees nearly buckle at the words, which strike every hidden, shadowed corner of her mind. Her fingers clench, knuckles whitening, body straining instinctively against the exquisite, coiled tension wrapping around her.

She hates how much Lanfear knows. She hates the way she finds her soft spot, the exact angle, the precise rhythm that makes control slip into exquisite pleasure. She hates that she wants her to keep speaking, wants to hear every teasing, claiming word.

“The way I melt beneath your fingers… how does it make you feel, Moiraine? Feels good, doesn’t it? Lanfear’s voice drifts into a near-moan on the last words.

Moiraine swallows hard, letting a low, instinctive sound escape her lips. Lanfear smiles, nuzzling her cheek against the curve of her shoulder one last time, letting the warmth linger deliberately, intimately. A soft, teasing nip along the delicate skin there makes Moiraine gasp softly. Lanfear hums, low and satisfied. Her tone slides into a mischievous, provocative lilt, each word sharpening the heat between them.

“I’ve been a very good girl, Moiraine. Don’t you think a very good girl deserves a little reward?”

Moiraine’s breath hitches at the tone, a flush rising immediately to her cheeks. She feels the tease in every syllable, in the delicate tracing of patterns along her skin that demand attention.

“I came here with intentions… things I wanted to do to you, things I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist…” Lanfear murmurs, her teeth grazing Moiraine’s earlobe in a teasing nip. The promise of all of it cuts through the Aes Sedai like fire, igniting a hunger she cannot, does not want to, resist anymore.

She shifts slightly towards her, a flicker of regret crossing her expression, wishing instantly Lanfear’s hands weren’t bound, aching to press closer, to be touched fully, to let her explore every inch of her as she craves.

Then the Forsaken lifts her gaze, wide and pleading, a kittenish expression just an inch from Moiraine’s lips and Moiraine leans in completely, bowing her head toward Lanfear, eyes closing to savor every whisper of breath, every brush of warm skin, every glimmering lock of black hair that drifts against her own heat, a delicious surrender, both voluntary and irresistible.

She sees, all at once: the truths behind the legends. Kings, queens, men and women who have fallen to their knees before her, just to listen to the way Lanfear weaves desire through every nerve in their bodies, through every corner of their minds.

“I want to see you react… I’d love to feel you react. The heat, the pleasure…”  Lanfear lets the last word spill soft and intoxicating, soaked in delicious depravity against Moiraine’s ear.

Head bowed, eyes closed, Moiraine feels like the most obedient subject before her queen.

“Do you want me to do these things to you, Moiraine? Tell me…” Lanfear’s command makes the woman’s head snap up. “Do you want me to take control, to punish you like the first time I tied you to the bed?”

Moiraine’s chest rises sharply, lips parting, trembling as her gaze locks with Lanfear’s. Every nerve hums with anticipation. “I…” She hesitates, then exhales, surrendering fully to the pull. “I do,” she admits, voice low, almost breathless.

Lanfear smiles, slow, wicked, a curl of triumph teasing her lips, eyes glinting with mischief and power.

“Can I free myself now, Moiraine Sedai?” she purrs, her voice light, girlish, mimicking the soft pleas of someone caught in the Blue’s hands.

“Yes…” Moiraine’s voice trembles, barely more than a whisper, a mock attempt at control.

With a graceful, deliberate motion, Lanfear frees herself from the threads of air binding her.

Moiraine’s mind races, expecting the warm, solid press of the Forsaken’s hands against her skin, a blessing of contact, but Lanfear knows the game. She knows how to make anticipation burn hotter than touch.

“Good. Very good,” she murmurs, lips brushing Moiraine’s in a teasing, sparking kiss that sends fire racing along her nerves. “Then I’ll show you exactly how much I can take… and exactly how much you enjoy it.”

She steps back just a fraction, letting the tension coil tighter, savoring every inch of Moiraine’s body and mind straining toward her.

And then, in an instant, the Aes Sedai’s hands find only empty air.

Her gaze follows Lanfear as she glides to the edge of the bed, each movement fluid, deliberate, a predator in control. In a blink, her form shifts, dissolving and recomposing like smoke curling into a new shape. Lanfear emerges in black leather with dark silver embroidery, hair sleek and pulled back, radiating authority and lethal elegance.

Moiraine licks her lips, saliva sliding down her throat with difficulty. Every nerve hums, a delicious snare of anticipation. She wants to surrender completely, to give herself over without reservation, and the thought ignites a thrill she cannot resist. It’s intoxicating, like returning to a vice she knows she shouldn’t indulge, the pull of a comfort zone she should abandon, yet cannot.

“Come here, my darling,” Lanfear murmurs, voice low and intimate, sweeter than any music to Moiraine’s ears.

She steps forward, heart hammering, stomach tightening with expectation. She wants to be pushed further than she’s ever let herself go. But just as she’s about to climb into her lap and straddle her, Lanfear stops her with a subtle, precise hand. Moiraine freezes, legs trembling, standing fully before her.

The Forsaken smiles, slow, wicked, knowing. Her finger traces lightly along the sensitive skin behind Moiraine’s thighs, gliding lower over the fabric of her gown.

“I don’t want you to straddle me,” she says, patting her thighs gently, as inviting a child to sit on her lap. “I want you to lie down on my knees, right here…”

Moiraine’s breath catches, her eyes widening suddenly, a heady, sharp ache blooming low in her stomach, delicious, humiliating. The promise of controlled surrender tightens her desire until it trembles inside her.

She hesitates only for a heartbeat, but when Lanfear shifts back on the bed to make space, she yields. Stepping closer, she lets herself sink onto Lanfear’s lap, her face against the curve of her thighs, her body pressed into the heat of her legs. Every inch of her falls into the rhythm of anticipation, every nerve awake, attuned to the faint, teasing brush of the Daughter of the Night’s touch.

Lanfear’s fingers slip immediately into Moiraine’s hair, slow and deliberate, tugging lightly at the roots, a touch that sends shivers skittering down the woman’s spine.

“My darling… my sweet girl…” she murmurs, each word soft, almost a caress in itself, coaxing Moiraine to lean into her hand, a gentle ribbon curling around her mind. Her nails graze her nape a moment before gathering and sweeping the soft brown cascades aside to bare the curve of her back, then glide down the length of her spine, her palm hot and steady, mapping every curve through the thin fabric of her clothes, lingering possessively along the swell of her back.

Moiraine exhales softly under the warmth of the touch, her eyes fluttering closed, every nerve alight. Desire coils through her, fierce and insistent, but beneath it a softer, almost childlike ache blooms, a strange, tender yearning to be protected, to be held. The two feelings swirl together, intoxicating and disarming, making her lips part on a humid sigh as she trembles beneath Lanfear’s deliberate, careful hand.

“Such a good little baby… so obedient… so ready for me,” Lanfear murmurs, her voice low and sultry, pulling Moiraine deeper into that exquisite tension, her back arched instinctively, her breath trembling in quiet surrender. The Forsaken’s fingers knead and tease along her waist and hips, melting the tension from her muscles while simultaneously heightening her need with every touch.

She gives a playful tug on Moiraine’s hair again, wrapped around her fist, eliciting a small gasp. “Do you feel that, my darling? My hands everywhere… and you can’t do a thing.”

Moiraine trembles, caught in the perfect balance between sensation and will, every brush of Lanfear’s hands drawing her further into submission. Her core pulses, her wetness spreading against her thighs. She’s certain of it.

The rules have shifted. This is no longer a game she can control. She is entirely at Lanfear’s mercy and the thought makes her ache with half fear, half longing, all need.

Lanfear’s touch drifts lower, her hand sliding beneath the folds of Moiraine’s gown, the motion slow and certain. Fingertips trace the delicate line of her ankles, the smooth curve of her calves. Each stroke is unhurried, reverent, almost cruel in its patience.

When she reaches the tender hollow behind Moiraine’s knee, her fingers circle there lazily, drawing invisible patterns that make the Aes Sedai shiver and bite back a sound. The muscles in her thighs tense immediately, her breath coming faster.

Lanfear’s hand moves higher, a slow, sinuous ascent that leaves fire in its wake. Moiraine’s body caught between resistance and surrender, the ache inside her winding tighter with every second. When the Forsaken’s knuckles graze her core in just one feather-light brush, she whines, her muscles twitching involuntarily, hips moving of their own accord, trying to spur her on.

Moiraine holds her breath, chest rising and falling only slightly, waiting.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Lanfear hums softly behind her, a sound of satisfaction and command, the kind that slips under the skin and takes root. “Don’t worry,” she continues, voice lower now, a velvet whisper. “I'll take care of all that wetness. You just have to behave well.” Her hands move as she speaks, slow, unhurried, gathering the fabric of Moiraine’s skirt in her fists, inch by inch, until the air hits bare skin.

The first brush of coolness makes Moiraine flinch, her thighs instinctively pressing together, muscles tightening against the sudden exposure, the vulnerability of her position…

But humiliation no longer crosses her mind. Nothing crosses her mind as Lanfear’s two fingers carve a deep path along the slick, clinging fabric. It feels like a true blessing, every exquisite spark of sensation concentrated there, free of all thought. She finally exhales sharply, the sound caught between a gasp and a whimper. Her fingers curl into the sheets before her, her face contorting with pleasure as she buries her face deeper into Lanfear’s thighs.

The Forsaken’s palm skims upward again, tracing the curve of Moiraine’s hips, thumbs drawing languid circles on trembling flesh, coaxing her to open, to surrender inch by inch. Moiraine squeezes her legs together again, desperate for more, but the effort only sharpens the ache, the tension spiraling beautifully out of reach. She can feel her heartbeat everywhere, in her throat, in her belly, between her thighs.

And Lanfear can feel it too, the way Moiraine breathes, her chest rising and falling unevenly, unable to expand fully, each motion carrying the subtle cost of what she’s enduring. From her perspective, she sees glimpses of Moiraine’s flushed face, the tips of her ears, the curve of her slender and beautiful neck, eyes closed, lost in the moment.

She gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, caressing the heated skin of her cheek. She almost doesn’t seem like the person orchestrating everything that’s happening. Moiraine’s eyes flutter open. She presses a kiss to Lanfear’s palm, eager. Their eyes meet, even if only fleetingly.

“You have no idea how beautiful you look like this,” Lanfear whispers, her voice low, reverent and hungry. Her gaze promises reward. Moiraine parts her lips to breathe, revealing just how much she’s yearning, how desperate she is for Lanfear’s touch.

The sight is enough. The Forsaken’s fingers slide down, curl around the fabric, and tear it apart in one smooth, merciless motion.

Moiraine suddenly gasps, a strangled sound caught in her throat. Lanfear lets her hang there for a moment, letting the anticipation coil tighter, before her fingers graze Moiraine’s soaked folds. She begins gathering her wetness in slow, teasing movements. Moiraine almost bites the fabric of Lanfear’s gown to suppress a loud moan, face contorting with raw pleasure.

"Oh Moiraine" Lanfear almost moans herself, feeling her desire "Do you feel how good this is?”

A low hum vibrates against Lanfear's tights.

“I want to hear it. Tell me, Moiraine,” she murmurs, voice deep and commanding.

“Yes, Lanfear,” Moiraine exhales, body trembling at the sound of her own surrender.

“How much?” Lanfear asks, pausing the motion of her hand.

“So good, so good,” Moiraine spits out, thrusting her hips back, chasing the touch,

“Good,” Lanfear murmurs. “I promise you’ll get more and more…” She circles her clit one last time. “But not yet.”

The sudden absence of contact makes her groan, a sharp ache of longing. She desperately tries to bare her upper body, her skin burning with need. Lanfear helps her, making her clothes vanish in an instant, and if there’s ever a moment when Moiraine blesses her Power, it is this.

But… Bloody Light… skin against skin… it’s obliterating.

Moiraine feels Lanfear’s caresses sinking into her back, as if passing through her, hooking into the heat of her blood and dragging it higher, until every vein feels stretched, aflame. She takes a deep, shuddering breath just before Lanfear’s fingers brush over her lower lip.

“Open,” she commands, voice thick with hunger.

Moiraine obeys instantly. Lanfear slips two fingers inside, and Moiraine sucks them eagerly, gripping her wrist firmly with one hand, her peripheral vision catching Lanfear’s intense gaze.

“Good girl,” Lanfear murmurs, a low, satisfied sound.

Moiraine bites her lower lip hard, eyes following Lanfear’s hand as it disappears from her view. She whines, body coiling with frustration, when the fingers trail along the back of her tights, too much, too teasing, tantalizingly close, but never quite where she aches for them most.

When Lanfear’s wrist brushes against her core, Moiraine feels her sanity slipping away, blending into an animal hunger. She’s about to beg, humiliatingly, when…

a hand slaps hard against her ass. Her whole body jolts violently.

“Lanfear!” She screams, a sharp, breathless cry, eyes widening in astonishment, caught somewhere between shock, need, and disbelief. Every nerve seems to ignite at once, her pulse hammering through her veins.

But the woman cups her core immediately afterward. “Better like this, isn’t it?” Lanfear murmurs, pressing and circling her clit without mercy.

A high, broken mewl escapes Moiraine’s lips, her back arches, thighs part instinctively, opening her up further to Lanfear.

A brief instant of nothing settles in again, suspended time where all that exists is the ghostly burn of Lanfear’s fingers and the tight coil of her desire. She waits eagerly, shame curling through her at the boldness of her own anticipation, craving another hard slap, another command.

“Lanfear… please…” she whispers, voice trembling, barely audible.

“What do you want, my sweet girl? A slap… or my fingers?” the Daughter of the Night asks, her tone low and commanding, dripping with hunger. Moiraine swallows every ounce of her modesty, chest heaving. After a heartbeat of tense anticipation, she finally manages to spit out the words, her voice quivering with desire.

“Both…Light… both… please”

“I knew it,” Lanfear murmurs, caressing her cheek before slapping her again, each strike immediately followed by her fingers pressing and circling her core, her touch growing more intense with every pass. The tension coils tighter and tighter with each pass. Each slap teeters on the edge of pain, the sharp sting contrasting exquisitely with the molten pleasure that follows.

In just a few minutes, Moiraine is a writhing mess, trembling, hips lifting of their own accord, yet she has never felt more alive. Her mind floats, dissolving into pure sensation. Every touch, every slap, every deliberate caress of Lanfear heightens her desire to sink completely into her hands, to be claimed, held, possessed. Something wild whispers to her that Lanfear will always recover her, always hold her. She can let go entirely… and she is already doing so.

“Lanfear,” she whines without restraint when, after the last slap, Lanfear’s fingers barely dip into her entrance. “I beg… Light, I beg you… please, please.”

“Do you want more?”

“Yes… please… anything you want… anything but more,” Moiraine gasps, trembling and completely surrendered, her back soaked in her own sweat.

“I can give you more. I can feel you so full, wrapped around me. I can… but you’ll have to wait a little longer,” Lanfear murmurs, her voice low, teasing, letting the words roll over Moiraine like silk. She pauses, letting her gaze linger, then adds, “Or I can fuck you right now with my fingers and make you come.”

Suddenly, Moiraine turns toward her, a mixture of astonishment, desire, and disbelief flickering across her face. She doesn’t fully believe she’s free to choose.

“Your choice, my love,” Lanfear continues, this time with a sweetness too soft, too deliberate, curling like a blade through Moiraine’s gut. Yet the Aes Sedai watches her warily, instinctively holding back.

“I mean it,” Lanfear whispers, leaning closer, letting her fingers glide along Moiraine’s spine in slow, deliberate strokes. Each word is measured, intimate, persuasive: “You just have to decide. What do you want?”

She already knows the answer but that is exactly why she asked. The question is not uncertainty. It is a temptation, a test, a promise all at once.

Moiraine hesitates for a heartbeat, mind racing. Then…

“I want everything you can give me,” she breathes, voice trembling, almost a whisper. “What… what do you want me to do?”

Lanfear smiles, a small, satisfied curl of her lips, proud, eyes glinting with mischief and hunger.

“Good choice, my love,” she murmurs, voice soft but firm.

With a deliberate pat on the back of Moiraine’s thighs, she gestures for her to move from her lap. Moiraine gathers herself on the bed, panting, already undone, her ass flushed, her face glowing, utterly naked.

She waits for Lanfear’s next move. Her desire driven higher and higher, an insatiable, spiraling need that makes her ache in ways she’s never known, never before her.

She watches, eyes glued to Lanfear’s every gesture as she conjures something, until sleek black straps curl around her hips, hugging her skin with perfect precision. Moiraine’s mouth waters, heart hammering, at the sight of the toy Lanfear has chosen to fuck her with, smooth, dark, impossibly inviting. A shiver runs down her spine, a delicious mix of anticipation and hunger curling low in her belly.

Lanfear tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting with command. “Suck it,” she orders, voice low, firm, seductive.

Moiraine swallows hard, her throat dry with need, shame forgotten long ago, before crawling toward her. She lowers herself slowly, deliberately, savoring the anticipation, lips parting around the toy. Her tongue teases it at first, brushing over the surface. Her hands find Lanfear’s thighs, gripping them lightly for balance as her body hums with tension and excitement.

Lanfear bites her lip to suppress a sound, the faintest moan threatening to escape, then gathers Moiraine’s hair in her hands, tilting her head gently to maintain perfect control. She watches, mesmerized, as Moiraine’s lips, tongue and throat work, filling the air with obscene sounds, each reaction feeding her own hunger.

Bloody hell, she wants to fuck her.

So she gently caresses her cheek, guiding her to pull back just enough. Then she rises to her feet, urgency in every movement. She grips Moiraine by the hips and pulls her close, positioning her on all fours. A slow, wicked smile spreads across Lanfear’s face as she watches Moiraine spread herself for her, vulnerable and ready. She can’t resist lowering herself against her back.

“Oh, Moiraine, I promise,” she whispers in her ear, lips brushing warm against her skin. “I promise every moment you wait will be worth it…”

She positions herself behind her. The tip of the toy brushes teasingly against Moiraine’s folds.

The woman groans, letting her head fall back, a mix of frustration and craving. She tries to push herself onto it, but Lanfear’s hands clamp down on her hips, bruising and commanding.

“If I see you move, I’ll stop,” she warns. Moiraine glances back, eyes glazed and glassy with want, lost in desire.

“Do you understand?” Lanfear asks.

“Yes, Lanfear,” Moiraine breathes, trembling.

The tip brushes against her again, teasing up and down, pressing against her clit before slowly sliding in with ease. The growl Moiraine lets out is almost inhuman, a raw, desperate sound that rattles through her chest and throat, vibrating down to the very core of her being. Every nerve, every muscle is alight, trembling with the delicious ache of being filled, utterly consumed in ways that are both ecstatic and blissful.

It’s overwhelming, beautiful, but it lasts too briefly, too fleetingly.

Lanfear begins a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust calculated, teasing, never quite giving her complete satisfaction, a constant reminder of what she’s craving, every inch drawing shivers of desperate need through her. Moiraine arches her back to feel her deeper, thighs spreading wider, her body a silent plea, utterly surrendered to Lanfear’s control.

“Lanfear!” she cries, voice raw and breaking, nearly losing every shred of composure. Her fingers clutch at the sheets, nails digging in as she tries to anchor herself against the storm of sensation.

“You can handle this…I know you can” Lanfear murmurs, almost to herself, eyes dark and fixed on Moiraine’s form. Seeing her so beautifully wrapped around the toy, every movement and gasp, drives the Forsaken to the edge of her own need.

“Give me more, please… please!” Moiraine begs, back arching, core pulsing, every muscle wound tight around the toy.

With one deep, fluid thrust, Lanfear sinks it fully inside her.

“Yes!” Moiraine screams, body trembling uncontrollably, hips grinding back instinctively to meet it, chest heaving, every breath a ragged moan. “Yes, like this… please!”

“Tell me how much you want this,” Lanfear pleads, voice husky with desire. Her fingertips dig harder into Moiraine’s hips as she suddenly halts her movements, holding her there, steadying, claiming her, forcing her to feel the unbearable stillness.

“I want you!” Moiraine cries, the words spilling out, the only thing she’s ached to say for so long.

Lanfear’s breath catches, pupils darkening, as if Moiraine’s declaration had struck straight through her. For a moment, she’s lost, caught in the pull of those words. Then, with a low, urgent voice, she murmurs, “Then take me, Moiraine. Take all of me. I’m yours.”

Moiraine begins to grind against her, the toy now buried deep, striking the perfect spot that makes her curse the Light again and again, every thrust sending sparks of ecstasy through her spine. Lanfear fucks her steadily, hands gripping her hips, nails pressing into tender flesh, desire so raw it forces her to pull Moiraine closer by the hair, drawing her fully into the rhythm, into the fire they share.

For a moment, Moiraine falters, tighs trembling as the overwhelming waves of pleasure make her knees weak. The sudden shift in position makes her cling to Lanfear instinctively, hands gripping her shoulders, her neck, seeking both grounding and release in the firm, commanding presence of the Forsaken. Then she begins to move again, hard and desperately.

“That’s my girl. Don’t stop,” Lanfear murmurs, her warm breath swirling along Moiraine’s ear, fingertips gripping her hips to hold her steady.

She feels every shiver, every subtle twist of her body, every gasp and moan as waves of pleasure ripple through her. Moiraine’s thighs burn, her core tightening and pulsing around the toy, the deep thrusts driving her further into abandon into the raw feeling of belonging entirely to Lanfear.

“Take your clothes off, please. I want to feel you,” Moiraine whispers, her voice trembling, raw with need. The words coil tight in Lanfear’s stomach, sparking a hungry, possessive heat that makes her pulse thrum.

Their naked bodies press together, skin sliding against skin, Moiraine’s scent thick and intoxicating in Lanfear’s nose. Something snaps inside her. She thrusts harder, teeth grazing along Moiraine’s neck, biting and sucking just enough to leave a deep, lingering bruise, a mark of claim.

“Light, yes!” Moiraine cries out, gripping one of Lanfear’s hands and pressing it urgently between her thighs, seeking release, guiding it as if she cannot bear another moment.

“Right here?” Lanfear breathes, lips brushing Moiraine’s neck, eyes dark with hunger, rubbing her clit furiously.

“Yes… yes… yes!” Moiraine screams, body trembling violently. Her thighs quiver and pulse, hips bucking, as waves of almost unbearable pleasure coil through her. For what feels like an eternity, she teeters on the edge.

“Let go for me, Moiraine… I’ve got you,” Lanfear whispers, her voice low, warm, commanding, sliding straight into Moiraine’s bones.

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks.

Moiraine’s body convulses violently around Lanfear, hips bucking uncontrollably, muscles clenching and spasming in waves, hands gripping Lanfear’s hair for support, lips parted in a raw, open-mouthed scream, eyes squeezed shut, tears pricking the corners.

She collapses forward onto the bed after a few seconds, body trembling and twitching from the intensity. Behind her, Lanfear leans down and presses a single, soft kiss to her spine. Then she wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close, chest pressing against her back, holding her like she never has before.

For a long moment, neither moves. It’s strange, almost foreign, their bodies entwined not in pursuit, not in lust, but in something softer, slower, intimate in a way they’ve probably never allowed themselves. Moiraine can feel Lanfear’s steady heartbeat against her back, the warmth of her skin, and for the first time, desire softens into something that feels like trust. Like… no, it shouldn’t be possible. And yet… it is. Light, it is… Being tangled in her arms feels like the only truth she’s ever touched with her bare hands.

Sharp and dangerous. Unforgivable. Irresistible.

She’s spent years building walls no one was meant to breach, but Lanfear never asked for permission, she just walked in, set fire to everything, and somehow Moiraine never truly wanted her to stop.

She keeps telling herself it’s a trap, that it always has been. But her body heeds no command, and her heart beats its own reckless rhythm.

What if there’s nothing to run from? What if… It’s that stubborn what if, clinging at the nape of her neck and not letting go, whispering Lanfear’s absence, now that she’s gone, now that she can feel how much she misses her.

Moiraine curls herself deeper into the bed, the weight of her body sinking into the sheets, fully dressed yet feeling fragmented, as if her very center had scattered across a million distant places. She makes no move to rise when Lan steps through the doorway. He’s already there, watching her with an intensity that makes her spine stiffen.

“Are you okay, Moiraine?” His voice is gentle, but his eyes search her as though trying to map every corner of her body and mind, and for the first time, he feels like he doesn’t really know her, not now, perhaps never.

“Yes”, she breathes out, sitting on the bed, hugging her knees.

He stays rooted there, gaze locked on her, a mixture of worry and disbelief in the curve of his brow, as if trying to piece together someone he thought he understood.

“Light, Lan, stop staring at me like that,” she snaps, pushing herself upright, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

“Like what?” Lan’s voice is low, careful, as if testing the waters.

“Like someone about to scold me,” The edge in her voice belies the tremor she can’t quite hide.

“Would that make you change your mind?” Lan asks, a shadow of a question, but his eyes never leave her, searching for a hint of what she truly feels.

She tilts her head, letting the faintest curve of a smile play at her lips. “Has it ever?” The words are soft, teasing, but there’s a sharpness in them, a shield against the way he’s staring.

Lan doesn’t smile. He remains still, chest rising and falling slowly, caught between wanting to reach out and knowing some walls are not to be touched lightly. His gaze holds hers a heartbeat too long, lingering, almost insistent, and the air between them thickens with unspoken questions, and the quiet knowledge that nothing will ever be simple again.

“You lied to me… all this time. I thought you trusted me.” Lan’s gaze pierces her, steady and unyielding, and the weight of it presses down on her chest like iron. Shame coils tight, and she feels it curling around her like a living thing. She cares for him, more than anyone, and that only sharpens the sting.

Moiraine runs a hand through her hair, twisting it absently, and turns away, as she always does when confronted with the hardest truths. Her shoulders are tense, her posture defensive.

“I trust you, Lan… it’s just that…” She lets the words hang, unfinished, leaving the reason unspoken, buried in her chest.

“What?” His voice is quiet, calm, but the hurt beneath it sharpens each syllable. “Did you think I couldn’t bear it?”

Moiraine spins around, sudden and swift, her face softening, eyes wide and honest, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows. “No… it’s just… difficult to understand.”

Lan’s eyes darken, the hurt now edged with the steel of his own frustration. “Light knows it is, Moiraine. Because… it’s madness. She’s a Forsaken.”

“I know… I know she is.” Her voice grows taut, a thread of defensiveness slipping in despite her calm tone.

Lan steps closer, the air between them tense and charged. His tone drops, firm and harder than she has ever heard it. “Well… it seems you forgot, then. Years spent in the White Tower’s library, as a novice… and yet, it seems it has done little for you.”

Moiraine’s lips press together, and her eyes flash with quiet fury. Her voice rises slightly, controlled, but carrying the heat of frustration. She begins to chant softly, the ancient prophecy rolling off her tongue like a curse: “Who shall stand against her coming? The shining walls shall kneel. Blood feeds blood. Blood calls blood. Blood is. Blood was and blood shall ever be.” A breath passes, heavy and charged. Moiraine lets the words linger. Then, her voice quiet but firm, she adds, almost daring him: “You think I don’t know? Every one of those prophecies is etched into my mind.”

Lan’s gaze narrows, unwavering, like he’s measuring every syllable against the fire in her eyes. Then, his voice snaps, sharp and sudden, cutting through the charged silence: “Especially the part about her being the most beautiful woman of all time!”

The words strike her like a blow. Moiraine’s fists clench, nails digging into her palms. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, pulse thundering in her ears like war drums. Her body leans slightly forward, a flicker of rage and disbelief flashing in her eyes.

Her voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper, each word carrying ice and fire: “You’d better take back what you said, Gaidin… before I decide to change the fate of your life with a single choice.”

“You’re ruining your entire life with a single, reckless choice, Moiraine!” The words reverberate in the quiet space between them.

“You’re right!” she yells back, her voice trembling with equal parts defiance and intensity. “It’s my life, Lan. I’m the Aes Sedai! I command my own choices.” Without realizing it, her hands gather her hair into a ponytail, exposing the curve of her neck, a fleeting vulnerability that does not escape Lan’s notice.

The longer he stares, the tighter his jaw becomes, his eyes darkening, a storm of anger and disbelief building with each passing second.

“So this is it? Is this what you like?” he growls, his voice low at first, then rising with controlled fury, pointing with a single finger toward her exposed neck. Moiraine recoils instinctively, pressing a hand against her skin as if to hide it, twisting her head sharply away, cheeks burning. “Is this what you agreed to?” the heat of his anger radiating through the room. “Is this what she does to you? Does she punish you?”

“Yes!” she yells, voice raw, trembling. “She punishes me too…if I want her to.”

“Do you even understand what you’re saying, Moiraine?” His voice vibrates with a mixture of incredulity and hurt. “That you let her, no, that you want her, to punish you?”

Moiraine swallows hard, her pulse hammering, but she holds his gaze. Her lips part, just a whisper escaping: “I… I do. I want her to do it… sometimes.”

A sharp exhale escapes from Lan. For a moment, he seems to teeter between losing control and holding it, the tension coiling between them like a living thing. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing as if he wants to close the distance but restrains himself.

“You… you’re telling me this like it’s nothing,” he says finally, voice low, each word punctuated with raw intensity. “As if it’s some simple choice, some harmless indulgence.”

Moiraine shivers under his gaze, not from cold, but from the raw force of him, the way every word and look seems to measure her, judge her, and still, somehow, keep her in orbit. She wants to explain, to justify herself, but the words knot in her throat until they cut like splinters.

“It’s not a harmless indulgence,” she snaps, the sentence tearing out of her. Her fingers fumble at the fabric of her skirts as if to steady herself, anger and shame braided together. “Do you think I haven’t hated myself enough for what I feel? Do you think I haven’t punished myself for thinking it?” Her voice goes sharper, brittle. “I am not just a bloody tool of the Light, Lan. I’m also a woman.”

The confession lands hard in the quiet room. For a beat Lan’s expression softens, then hardens again. The hurt in his eyes is edged with something fiercer. “I never asked you not to be one,” he says, low, but the restraint in his voice is paper-thin.

“Then let me be one...” The plea bursts from her, raw and trembling, half command, half desperate begging. “Please, Lan, let me be one.” She exhales shakily, as if each word costs her a piece of herself.

“I want her. I want her with the same bone-deep ache that keeps me awake at night. She makes me feel alive in ways the Light never taught me. I need her. I need this. I know it’s madness. I know it’s forbidden by every rule we’ve ever sworn to. But… between us, there is something. I know it’s wrong, it’s reckless, it’s everything I shouldn’t want, but I do. I do!” Her words tumble out faster now, untethered, spilling past the careful walls she’s always held.

Her breath hitches. Her hands curl against her chest, as if trying to hold herself together. “You know I can’t lie about this. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to keep pretending this isn’t happening, that I don’t feel it like a blade under my skin, like a fire I can’t put out. I’m so tired, Lan.” Her voice cracks on the last word, the sound fragile and almost childlike. “I’m tired,” she whispers, and the two words carry the weight of years, of strain, of decisions made and unmade, of constant vigilance, of weighing, measuring, drawing lines she knows she’ll cross anyway.

She swipes at her face as if to banish the shame, but the grief is too heavy to brush away. Lan steps closer cautiously at first, then with a firmness that makes the air between them press taut. His hand finds her forearm, fingers cool and steady. “It’s okay, Moiraine,” he murmurs.

“No. It’s not!” She jerks, the denial a bark, brittle and immediate.

“It’s okay.” His voice is insistent, solid. He closes the distance and pulls her into his arms, no theatrics, no questions, only the dumb, necessary shelter of a hold. She collapses into him, burying her face against his chest, the steady thud of his heart under her ear like an anchor.

“I’m tired,” she repeats, barely audible, as tears leak free and warm across his tunic.

Lan tightens his arms around her, bone and muscle a fortress. “We’ll handle this, Moiraine. We’ll handle it together, as always. I promise.” His voice is rough, ironed with resolve.

She clings to him, body shaking with a mix of exhaustion and raw, unspent frustration. Her shoulders quiver, her chin trembles, and the breath she draws comes in ragged gasps, each one a small surrender. The ache in her chest, the heat of her want, the guilt… all of it smolders like coals beneath her skin, refusing to cool. Yet the strength of Lan’s hold anchors her, his steady warmth and silent presence a tether to something solid… and for the first time in a long while, Moiraine permits herself to be completely

fragile.