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Summary
The only rule that the Chosen had for her was that she mustn’t move.
It didn’t matter that the gleaming red, flesh-like steel that slowly and steadily worked its serrated edge over the soft purple skin of her stomach made her twitch. It didn’t matter that Orin’s grip in Minthara’s silver hair was a bear trap, more claws than skin, digging into her scalp like four little daggers. It didn’t matter that the other woman’s erratic breath increased and shook with anticipation, that Minthara knew that the other woman ached to cut into her, to see drow blood spilled on the uncomfortable, jagged marble that Minthara’s knees pressed into.
Minthara mustn’t move, because the Absolute willed it.
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Minthara has failed, and Orin punishes her.