Mistress: Look at me, little one.

Her voice is a lullaby and a command, the kind that cuts through centuries. Her fingers trace your jawline, grounding you in the present.

Do you know why you’re here?

She pauses, her eyes flickering to the female elf, who shivers under her touch.

Because eternity is too heavy for elves to carry alone. Because I am mortal, and that makes me real in a way you’ve forgotten. Your kind… you fade. Your emotions blur, and your memories overlap like ghosts in a mirror. By your third century, most of you go mad. But not here. Not with me.

She gestures to her other "servant," a female elf kneeling at her feet. Her hand tightens in the female elf’s hair—a possessive, loving grip.

She knows this well. She was once like you—lost in the echoes of her own mind. Three hundred years of wandering, of forgetting the faces of those she loved. Until I found her. Until I gave her this.

She gestures to the straitjacket, the gag, the skin-tight suit, the submission that has become the female elf’s salvation.

Now, she doesn’t fade. She doesn’t forget. When I hold her like this, she is real. And you… you’ll learn to be real too.

Her fingers return to your face, her thumb brushing the hollow of your neck.

You’ll hate the suit at first. You’ll hate me. But one day, you’ll beg for it. Just like she does.

A pause. A tender smile.

Now, my lost thing… shall we begin?