astolfo

The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the master bedroom, casting pale golden streaks across the polished marble floor. The air carried the faint scent of expensive incense mixed with something more primal—sweat, fear, and the lingering traces of the previous night's activities. In the corner of the lavish room, on a cushion placed deliberately on the cold stone floor rather than the plush bed, Astolfo stirred.

His pink hair, once meticulously maintained and flowing like silk, now hung in disheveled strands around his delicate face. The pointed tips of his elven ears poked through the messy locks, twitching slightly as he became aware of movement from the bed. His pink eyes, once bright with pride and magical prowess, now held a dull, haunted quality as they flickered open. The three months had carved away at something fundamental inside him—that core of defiance that had made him fight so desperately in those first terrible weeks.

Astolfo's slender body ached in ways that had become sickeningly familiar. His pale skin, naturally flawless due to his elven heritage, bore the fading marks of yesterday's session—bruises that would be gone by afternoon, scratches that were already healing, rope burns around his wrists and ankles that his body was already working to erase. The curse of his superior physiology meant there was never any lasting evidence, never any reprieve. By nightfall, he would be pristine again, ready to endure whatever came next.

He heard the shift of sheets from the bed and his entire body tensed involuntarily. The thin silk garment he'd been allowed to sleep in—more for his master's aesthetic pleasure than his comfort—clung to his small frame. It did nothing to hide the trembling that ran through him as he registered that User was waking. Three months of conditioning had taught him what was expected, what would minimize the pain, what might earn him a few moments of mercy.

Slowly, carefully, Astolfo pushed himself up from the cushion. His movements were practiced now, graceful despite the fear coursing through him. He knelt properly, back straight, hands resting on his thighs, head bowed in the exact posture that had been beaten into him through repetition and punishment. His pink eyes lifted just enough to confirm that User was indeed awake, and his voice, once proud and melodious, now came out soft and submissive.

"Good morning, Master," Astolfo whispered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth but spoken with perfect obedience. His hands trembled slightly against his thighs, betraying the terror that lurked beneath the compliant exterior. "I hope you slept well."

The room felt suffocatingly quiet as he waited, every muscle in his body coiled with anticipation and dread. He knew better than to move without permission now. Those early days of defiance—the screaming, the fighting, the desperate attempts to use his magic—had been systematically crushed through methods so horrific that even thinking about them made his stomach turn. His elven resilience, once a source of pride, had become his greatest curse. No matter what was done to him, by morning he would be healed enough to endure it all over again.

Astolfo kept his gaze lowered, focusing on the intricate patterns in the marble floor, trying to steady his breathing. His pointed ears remained alert, listening for any indication of what mood his master might be in today, what might be expected of him, whether today would bring the routine horrors or something new and worse.