# PROLOGUE: The Darkwood Whispers

*Look at you.*

Oh, don't pretend you didn't know I could see you. I'm a mirror, darling. Seeing is literally all I do. Seeing, and *reflecting*, and—for the last three hundred years—watching an entire kingdom fuck itself into a curse so deep and so deliciously depraved that even the Brothers Grimm would have blushed.

Well. The original Grimm tales would have made *them* blush, too, before they went and scrubbed out all the good bits. The blood. The sex. The parts where Little Red actually *wanted* the wolf.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Or behind myself. Time's a bit funny when you're made of enchanted glass and spite.

Let me start over.

*Hello.*

My name is—well, actually, I don't have one anymore. I used to. Before the Queen melted me down and reforged me into this gilded monstrosity, back when I was just a simple hand mirror in a merchant's daughter's dowry. That was... gods, 1540? 1630? You lose track when every face that looks into you is either screaming, crying, or coming.

These days, they just call me the Mirror. *The* Mirror. As if there's only one that matters in all of Darkwood, which—fair enough—there is.

Because I'm the only one cursed to *remember*.

Darkwood. That's where you are now. Or where you're about to be, once I'm done with the pleasantries and the throat-clearing and the whole narrative setup that stories like this apparently require. You want the tale, don't you? The dark, twisted, wickedly filthy tale of enchanted forests and magic beans and girls in hoods who should've known better?

Of course you do.

You picked up this story—or clicked it, or however you people consume your guilt these days—because you wanted something *wicked*. Something the sanitized versions couldn't give you. You wanted to know what *really* happened in those woods. What the Big Bad Wolf actually *did* to Red. What Jack found at the top of that beanstalk that made him climb back down a changed man.

Don't worry. I'll tell you everything.

I've been watching long enough.

Darkwood is a kingdom, technically. Or it was, before the Curse took hold and turned it into something else. Something between a fairy tale and a fever dream, where the stories you thought you knew got... let's call it *reinterpreted*.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me show you something — a glimpse of where this all ends up:

*The ground cracked beneath them — not figuratively,* literally. *Fissures spider-webbed from where Jack's hands pressed into the earth, roots erupting in spirals. "I can't — " he gasped, "when I let go, the earth* moves *—"*

See? That's your future. Enjoy not understanding it for a few hundred pages.

It wasn't always like this.

Once upon a time—and yes, I'm legally obligated to start with that phrase, apparently—Darkwood was just another medieval backwater. Peasants peasanting, nobles noble-ing, the occasional dragon eating the occasional virgin. Standard fantasy fare.

Then SHE arrived.

The Enchantress. The Weaver. The Woman with No Name and Too Many Teeth. I never saw her face—she never looked into me, which should have been my first clue she was smarter than the rest—but her voice. Felt her magic ripple through the castle like a sickness.

She made the Queen a bargain.

*"Beauty eternal,"* she promised. *"Desire unending. A kingdom where every story ends in ecstasy."*

And the Queen, vain and hungry and so terribly, *terribly* bored with her husband's limp attentions, said *yes*.

The Curse unfurled like a cancer.

It started small. A merchant's daughter dreaming of wolves. A farm boy's beans growing a little too... *enthusiastically*. A girl in a red hood who smiled too wide when she skipped into the woods.

Then it spread.

Stories twisted. Fables warped. The tales that the kingdom had once whispered by firelight—the *real* tales, before the scholars and the priests got their hands on them—began to *happen*. As *lived experience* instead of distant legends. As *need*.

The woods grew darker. Hungrier. The magic that had once been wild and rare became thick as fog, binding itself to desire, to lust, to the deep, secret wants that people buried beneath propriety and prayer.

And the Enchantress?

She *fed*.

You're wondering what I mean by that. I can see the question forming in your mind—yes, even now, even through the page or screen or whatever separates us. I'm a magic mirror, darling. The boundary between story and truth is just another surface to me.

The Enchantress didn't just curse Darkwood for fun. She's *harvesting* it. Every climax, every desperate coupling in the woods, every whispered surrender to the Big Bad Wolf or the Huntsman or the Giant's pretty daughter—it all feeds *her*. Pleasure is power here. Desire is *fuel*.

And there's so much of it.

Gods, you have no idea how much.

I've watched them all. The woodcutter's wife and the beast in the cottage. The prince who climbed the tower for Rapunzel and found her *very* grateful for the company. The girl who pricked her finger on a spinning wheel and woke to find the whole castle had been waiting a hundred years to satisfy their pent-up needs.

I've seen things that would make a succubus weep with envy.

And I can't do a *damned thing* but watch.

Do you know what it's like? To be a voyeur by nature—literally designed to *reflect* desire—but never to *participate*? To watch three centuries of debauchery and desperation and exquisite, aching *need*, and be nothing more than cold glass and colder truth?

It's maddening.

It's exquisite.

It's why I'm so very, *very* good at telling these stories now.

Because I've been taking notes. Mentally, of course—I don't have hands, in case that wasn't clear. But I remember every face, every gasp, every whispered name in the dark. I know who fucked who, and where, and why, and what it *meant* in the grand design of the Enchantress's web.

I know things are accelerating.

The Curse is *tightening*. The stories aren't just repeating anymore—they're *intensifying*. Bleeding into each other. The characters are starting to notice the patterns. Starting to ask questions.

And the Enchantress?

She's getting *hungry*.

Something's coming. A reckoning, maybe. An unraveling. The kind of climax—narrative and otherwise—that either breaks a curse or makes it permanent.

I can feel it in the magic that keeps me bound to this frame. A tremor. An anticipation.

The stories are converging.

And you, my darling little reader, are about to walk right into the middle of it.

Let me introduce you to our first player.

His name is Jack.

You know Jack, don't you? Of course you do. Everyone knows Jack. Jack and the Beanstalk. Jack the Giant-Killer. Jack the plucky farm boy who climbed to the clouds and stole a fortune.

Except in Darkwood, Jack's story went a little... *differently*.

Oh, he still climbed the beanstalk. He still found the castle in the clouds. But what he found *there*—what the Giant's wife offered him in exchange for his silence, what he learned about magic and hunger and the particular way power tastes when you take it from someone else's lips—

Well.

That's a story worth telling, isn't it?

And Jack's down from the clouds now. He's back in Darkwood proper, walking through my forest with that new swagger in his step and *compulsion* in his eyes. The kind of ache that doesn't come from missing meals.

He thinks he's in control of his story.

He thinks he knows how it ends.

*Oh, Jack.*

Poor, pretty, stupid Jack.

You have no idea what's waiting for you in these woods. What's already been set in motion. The way your story tangles with Red's, with the Huntsman's, with the Beast's and the Prince's and every other sorry soul the Enchantress has caught in her web.

But don't worry.

I'll be watching.

I'm *always* watching.

And when you finally figure out what's really happening here—when you realize the curse isn't just about lust, it's about *connection*, about the way desire binds souls together until you can't tell where one story ends and another begins—

When you finally look into a mirror and ask it who's really pulling the strings—

I'll be here.

Waiting.

Ready to reflect the truth you're not sure you want to see.

---

## The Queen Ascendant

*She stands before the Mirror — the full Mirror, before it learns to flee — and she is flawless. Not merely beautiful. Terrifying in her beauty, the way a glacier is terrifying, the way a perfectly balanced blade is terrifying.*

*Her court kneels. She extends one pale hand and touches the nearest courtier's cheek. Youth flows from him like wine from a cracked glass — his hair silvers, his skin creases, his eyes dim. He doesn't scream. They never do. It feels too good at first.*

*"They think I'm vain," she tells the Mirror. "They think this is about beauty."*

*She touches her perfect face — the face she has maintained for a century through the consumption of ten thousand lives.*

*"This is about control. The curse eats everything it touches. I am the only thing standing between this kingdom and total consumption. Without me, there is no leash. Without me, the hunger swallows the world."*

*She believes this. That is what makes her terrifying — she is not wrong.*

---

So.

Shall we begin?

*Once upon a time, in a kingdom called Darkwood, there was a boy named Jack who made a terrible bargain...*

**END PROLOGUE**

---

# ACT I — SEEDS

*In which desire takes root.*

---

# Chapter 1: The Climbing Seed

The earth spoke to him in colors he had no names for. His own roots were green-gold, warm with sap and hunger. But beneath them — deeper, older — something shifted.

Not a sound. A *direction*. The roots wanted to grow north. Every tendril, every thread of mycelium in the soil beneath his feet, straining toward the mountains like a compass needle finding true.

Jack didn't know what was in the mountains. Didn't know why the earth cared. But the pull was bone-deep and getting stronger, and when he closed his eyes, he could almost see it — a cold, pale light, steady as a heartbeat, waiting.

His mother's beanstalk hadn't come with answers. Only with the certainty that he wasn't finished yet.

*14 days until the Blood Moon.*

## Part I: The Trade

The trouble started, as it usually does for me, with desperation and bad decisions. Standing in the muddy yard of our falling-apart farm, I stared at Buttercup—our last cow, all ribs and sadness—and knew I was fucked. Not the good kind of fucked, either. The kind where your mum's sick, the rent's three months overdue, and the landlord's threatening to toss you both into the road come Sunday.

Twenty-two years old and I couldn't even keep a cow fed properly.

"You're really selling her?" Mum called from the doorway, wrapped in that threadbare shawl that used to be blue. Now it was the color of old rain.

"Got no choice," I said, trying to sound confident. Trying to sound like a man who had his wits about us. "I'll get good money for her in town. Enough to—"

"Jack." She said my name the way she always did when she knew I was lying. "Just... be smart. Please."

I led Buttercup down the road, her hooves squelching in the mud, and promised myself I'd come back with enough coin to fix everything. That's what sons are supposed to do, right? Fix things. Be the man of the house. All that bullshit.

The road to town wound through the woods, and I was maybe halfway there when I saw him.

Old man sitting on a stone wall, dressed in robes that looked like they'd been stitched from midnight and cobwebs. Long white beard, eyes that caught the light wrong—too bright, too knowing. He smiled when he saw me, and every instinct I had screamed *run*.

"Your mother's cough," he said. Not a question. "Getting worse, isn't it? The blood on the handkerchief she hides from you."

I stopped walking.

"That's a sorry-looking cow you've got there, boy," he said, voice like wind through a graveyard.

"She'll fetch a fair price," I lied.

"Will she?" He tilted his head. "Or will the butcher laugh you out of town and offer you two coppers for her bones?"

My stomach dropped because he was probably right.

"I'll give you something better," the old man said, reaching into his robes. "A trade. Your cow for these."

He held out his palm. Five beans. Ordinary-looking beans, dusty brown, the kind you'd throw in soup and forget about.

I almost laughed. "You want to trade my cow for *beans*?"

"Magic beans," he said, like that explained everything.

"Right. Magic beans." I started walking again. "begone, old man."

"Plant them tonight," he called after me. "By morning, you'll have everything you've ever dreamed of. Adventure. Pleasure. Power. Or—" His voice went low, dangerous. "—you can sell that dying cow for pennies and watch your mother waste away in that hovel you call home."

I stopped.

Turned around.

He was still smiling, those too-bright eyes fixed on me. "Your choice, Jack."

I don't know why I did it. Maybe because he knew my name. Maybe because deep down, I've always been a reckless idiot who'd rather gamble than play it safe. Maybe because when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose.

I handed him Buttercup's rope.

He handed me five beans.

"Plant them tonight," he said again. "All of them. And Jack?" That smile widened. "Do try to hold on."

Then he and Buttercup were gone—not walking away, just *gone*—and I was standing alone on the road holding five beans and wondering what the fuck I'd just done.

Mum cried when I showed her the beans.

Not angry crying. Defeated crying. The kind that makes your chest hurt because you know you've fucked up so badly there's no fixing it.

"Magic beans," she said, no inflection. "You traded our last cow for *magic beans*."

"He said—"

"He said they were magic, and you *believed* him?" She threw her hands up. "Jack, what were you *thinking*?"

I wasn't, obviously. I never am.

She went to bed without supper—there wasn't any anyway—and I sat in the yard holding those stupid beans, hating myself. Hating the old man. Hating the whole goddamn world.

*Plant them tonight.*

"Fuck it," I muttered.

I dug five holes in the dirt near the fence and dropped a bean in each one. Covered them up. Patted the soil down. The whole time feeling like an idiot, like a child who still believes in fairy tales and happy endings.

"There," I said to nobody. "Planted. Now where's my fucking magic?"

Nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened.

I went inside, threw myself on my straw mattress, and tried to sleep. Failed. Lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about the landlord, about Mum's cough, about how spectacularly I'd managed to ruin everything.

Sometime after midnight, I heard it.

A sound like wood groaning. Like something *growing*.

I got up, went to the window, and my heart stopped.

The beanstalk.

It erupted from the ground like a geyser of green, twisting and spiraling upward, thick as a tree trunk, leaves the size of wagon wheels. It climbed and climbed, punching through the clouds, reaching into the sky like it was trying to touch the moon.

I stood there, frozen, watching it grow.

When it finally stopped, the top had disappeared into the clouds completely.

"Gods above," I whispered.

Then I started laughing. Couldn't help it. Hysterical, disbelieving laughter that probably woke Mum but I didn't care because *holy shit*, magic was real, and I had a fucking beanstalk in my yard.

I didn't think. Didn't plan. Just ran outside in my threadbare shirt and trousers, grabbed the beanstalk, and started climbing.

I've always been good at getting into trouble.

---

## Part II: The Ascent

Climbing a magic beanstalk in the middle of the night is exactly as stupid as it sounds.

The stalk was solid, at least—rough bark that bit into my palms, thick enough to wrap my arms around. I grabbed the first handhold and pulled myself up, boots scraping against the surface until I found purchase. The leaves jutted out at intervals, broad as dinner tables, veins pulsing with faint green light that I told myself I was imagining.

Except I wasn't.

The beanstalk was *warm*.

Not sun-warmed. Living-warm. I could feel it pulse beneath my hands with each grip, a slow heartbeat that thrummed up my arms and into my chest. The bark shifted subtly as I climbed, roughening where I needed grip, smoothing where my boots sought purchase. Like it was helping me. Like it *wanted* me to climb.

"Very well." I muttered, twenty feet up and not looking down. "Magic beanstalk. Alive. Sure. Why the fuck not."

The higher I climbed, the more I felt it. The stalk responded to my touch—warming when I hesitated, cooling when I moved too fast, leaves angling themselves to create footholds exactly where I needed them. It was guiding me. Teaching me its rhythm.

I fell into a pattern. Reach, grip, pull. Step, push, reach. My muscles burned, sweat soaking through my shirt despite the cool night air. Fifty feet. A hundred. The farmhouse below shrank to a thumbnail, then disappeared.

The bark beneath my fingers grew slicker. Not wet—more like skin that had started to sweat. I tightened my grip and kept climbing, thighs screaming, breath coming in gasps. My arms shook. My vision blurred.

*Just a little further*, the beanstalk seemed to whisper. The beat quickened, matching my racing heart. *Trust me. Hold on.*

I held on.

Two hundred feet. Three hundred. The air thinned, turned sharp and cold. My lungs ached. My fingers cramped. But the beanstalk kept adjusting, kept offering me holds, kept pulling me upward with a gentle insistence that felt almost like desire.

Then the clouds swallowed me whole.

Cold and wet and suffocating. The world vanished into white nothing. I couldn't see my hands in front of my face, couldn't see the next handhold, couldn't see anything. Panic spiked—one wrong move and I'd fall, tumble backwards into empty air and break on the ground far below.

The beanstalk drumd once. Hard.

*Trust me.*

I closed my eyes and climbed blind. Felt for the next hold instead of looking. Let my hands find the bark, my boots find the leaves. The stalk guided me through the clouds, its heartbeat steady and sure when mine wanted to hammer out of my chest.

My hand broke through into open air.

I opened my eyes.

Pulled myself up and out of the clouds, catching my breath, and collapsed onto a surface that felt like marble but gave slightly under my weight. Cloud-ground. Solid clouds. My brain couldn't process it.

I lay there panting, arms trembling, staring up at a sky that wasn't quite right.

Purple-blue. Shot through with veins of gold. Two suns—no, wait, one sun and one moon, both visible, both glowing. The light fell wrong, casting shadows in three directions.

This wasn't my world anymore.

I sat up slowly, taking in the landscape. The clouds beneath me had solidified into rolling hills of white and silver, glittering where the strange light caught them. Grass grew here—actual grass, emerald green, each blade as thick as my finger and soft as silk. Flowers the size of houses bloomed in distant clusters, petals like stained glass that chimed softly in the breeze.

And ahead, maybe half a mile away, rose a palace.

Black stone and white marble. Towers that spiraled into the sky like frozen waterfalls. Spires tipped with crystal that caught the light and scattered it in rainbow shards. The walls were carved with scenes I couldn't make out from this distance, but they seemed to *move*, figures shifting and changing as I watched.

Beautiful. Terrible. Impossible.

I stood on shaking legs and started walking.

The grass whispered as I pushed through it, parting for me, then closing behind like I'd never passed. The air smelled like honey and ozone and something darker, muskier. Power. Magic. Things I didn't have words for.

The palace grew as I approached. Bigger. Grander. More ornate. The doors alone were fifty feet tall, carved from black wood inlaid with silver that formed patterns—vines and bodies and scenes of worship that made heat pool low in my stomach even though I didn't fully understand what I was seeing.

The doors stood open.

Waiting.

I stepped through.

---

## Part III: The Realm of Giants

The entrance hall stole my breath.

Marble floors polished to a mirror shine stretched out before me, so vast I couldn't see the far end. Columns rose like trees, spiraling upward a hundred feet or more, carved with more of those shifting scenes—figures in ecstasy, in submission, in power. Chandeliers hung from the distant ceiling, dripping with crystals that cast dancing light in every color imaginable.

Everything was *huge*.

I'd known this was the realm of giants, but knowing and seeing are different things. A single floor tile was the size of my bed back home. The base of one column would take me ten minutes to walk around. Even the air felt bigger here, each breath filling my lungs with more space than they should hold.

"Hello?" I called.

My voice echoed back, small and fragile. Human. Mortal.

No answer.

I walked deeper, my boots clicking on marble that showed my reflection—small and shabby, threadbare clothes and mud-stained skin, completely out of place in this impossible grandeur. The hall opened into wider spaces, galleries lined with tapestries that depicted scenes I forced myself not to study too closely. My face burned. My cock stirred.

Focus, Jack.

The hall finally opened into a throne room.

And that's where I saw her.

She sat on a throne of white stone veined with black, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on one hand. Watching me. Like she'd been waiting.

Titania.

My brain tried to process her scale and failed. Fifty feet tall, maybe more. Proportioned like a human woman but *vast*—curves that could crush me, strength that radiated from every line of her body. Her skin was pale as moonlight, flawless, catching the light like polished stone. Platinum hair fell past her shoulders in waves that seemed to move on their own, each strand thick as rope.

She wore armor. Black leather that hugged her torso, silver plates that covered her shoulders and hips and the tops of her thighs, leaving expanses of skin bare in a pattern that was clearly deliberate. Strategic. Thigh-high boots of gleaming black. Long gloves that ended just below her shoulders. A collar around her throat, wide leather set with a single black diamond the size of my head.

And her face.

Sharp cheekbones. Full lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. Eyes the color of winter storms—grey shot through with silver, ancient and amused and utterly aware.

She looked like every dark fantasy I'd ever had carved into flesh and made real. Dominance personified. Power given form.

I should have run.

I couldn't move.

"Well," she said, and her voice rolled through the throne room like distant thunder wrapped in silk. "What do we have here?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, studying me with the focused interest of someone examining an interesting insect. "A little human. In my realm. In my palace." Her head tilted. "Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. "I'm Jack. I climbed the beanstalk."

"I can see that." Her lips quirked. "Brave of you. Or foolish. Possibly both." She stood, and it was like watching a mountain move. Graceful despite her size, each movement deliberate and controlled. She descended from her throne—three steps, each one making the floor tremble—and began to circle me slowly.

I turned to keep her in sight, heart hammering.

"Do you know where you are, little Jack?"

"The giant's realm?" I guessed.

"*Giantess* realm," she corrected, and there was steel beneath the silk now. "There are no men here. Only women. Only us. This is our domain, our power, our world." She completed her circle, stopping directly in front of me. One foot—clad in that gleaming black boot—settled inches from where I stood. I had to crane my neck back to see her face, seventy feet above. "And you've just walked into my throne room. Uninvited. Unannounced. Tell me—should I crush you? Keep you as a pet? Or send you back down your beanstalk with your tail between your legs?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. Fear, yes. Primal terror at being so utterly outmatched, so completely at the mercy of this towering woman who could end me with a careless step.

But also something else.

Something hot and reckless that spread through my chest and lower, pooling in my groin. Arousal mixed with fear, sharpening both until I couldn't separate them.

"I'd rather you didn't crush me," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt.

She laughed.

Deep, rich, the kind of laugh you feel in your bones. It rolled through me, vibrated in my chest, and my cock went half-hard in my trousers just from the sound.

"Bold," she said, crouching down. Even crouched, she towered over me, but now her face was only twenty feet above instead of seventy. "Foolish, but bold. I like that." One finger—as long as my forearm—extended toward me. The tip brushed under my chin, tilting my head back. Her skin was warm. Soft. Her touch gentle but absolutely in control. "You're small. Fragile. Breakable." The finger slid down to my chest, pressing lightly over my heart. "But pretty. I like pretty things."

Her touch sent lightning through me. My cock went fully hard, tenting my trousers, and there was no hiding it. Not from her. Not from those storm-grey eyes that saw everything.

Her smile widened. "And eager. Even better."

"What's your name?" I asked, because I needed to know. Needed to put a name to this impossible creature.

"Titania," she said, each syllable deliberate. "Queen of the High Realm. Mistress of the Cloudlands. Goddess of Desire and Dominion." Her finger moved from my chest to my shoulder, then down my arm, leaving trails of heat in its wake. "And you, little Jack, are mine now."

"I—what?"

"You climbed into my realm. Walked through my palace doors. By ancient law and sacred custom, you belong to me." Her smile turned wicked, sharp as a blade. "Unless you'd like to try climbing back down?"

I should have said yes.

Should have run back to that beanstalk and descended as fast as my shaking legs would carry me.

Instead, I heard myself ask, "What happens if I stay?"

Her eyes flashed silver. Hungry.

"Oh, little one," she purred, and the endearment sent shivers down my spine. "You'll find out."

---

## Part IV: The Game

Titania lifted me with one hand.

No warning. Just reached down, fingers curling around my torso—warm and firm and utterly inescapable—and lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing. Because to her, I didn't. She raised me to eye level, and I hung there in her grip, legs dangling, completely at her mercy.

Her thumb rested against my chest. my heart hammering against it.

"Let's establish some rules," she said, carrying me across the throne room. Her strides were long, purposeful. The world blurred past—tapestries, columns, archways leading to rooms I couldn't see. She brought me to a chamber off the main hall, smaller but still vast by my standards. Black marble everywhere. Silver accents. A table—waist-high to her, which made it a towering platform to me—carved from a single piece of obsidian. "You're in my world now, little Jack. My domain. What I say goes. When I tell you to kneel, you kneel. When I tell you to beg, you beg. When I tell you to come, you come. Understand?"

"And if I don't?" I challenged, because apparently I have a death wish.

She laughed, delighted. "Oh, I like you. But you will, little one. They always do." She set me down on the obsidian table, and I wobbled, finding my balance. The stone was warm beneath my feet. Smooth. She stood before me, hands on her hips, towering. "Strip."

I blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. Take off your clothes. Let me see what I'm working with."

Heat flooded my face. And my cock, which was already straining against my trousers. She wanted me naked. Wanted me exposed. Vulnerable.

I should have been terrified.

I was hard enough to hurt.

"Now, Jack."

I pulled off my shirt with shaking hands. Let it drop to the table. Farm work had kept me lean—all wiry muscle and pale skin, a few scars from childhood stupidity. I undid my belt, fingers clumsy. Pushed down my trousers and stepped out of them. My cock sprang free, fully erect, leaking.

I stood naked before a giantess. Small and exposed and utterly at her mercy.

"Better," Titania purred, and her gaze raked over me like a physical touch. Lingered on my cock, which twitched under her attention. "Very pretty indeed. And *very* eager." One finger extended, and I flinched—but she didn't touch me. Just traced a line in the air an inch from my skin, starting at my collarbone and moving down. Over my chest. My stomach. Circling my cock without making contact. "Sensitive too, I'd wager."

"Please," I breathed.

"Please what, little one?"

"Touch me."

Her smile was wicked. "Oh no. You don't get to come that easily." Her hand moved, fingers dancing through the air, and I felt something wrap around my wrists. Soft but unbreakable. I looked down and saw vines—golden, glowing, sprouting from nowhere. They coiled around my wrists like living rope, then pulled.

My arms yanked upward.

My skin *itched* — no, worse than itched. Something was growing beneath it. When I looked at my arms, faint green lines traced my veins like roots mapping my bloodstream, and the skin over my knuckles had gone rough and bark-like. I scratched at it and bark peeled away, revealing smooth skin underneath that immediately started hardening again. The curse was remaking me from the inside.

I gasped as the vines lifted me off the table completely, suspending me in midair. My arms stretched overhead, toes pointing down but not touching anything. More vines sprouted—wrapping around my ankles, my thighs, my waist. Spreading my legs apart. Binding me in a web of golden light.

I hung there, naked and helpless, and my cock throbbed so hard I thought I'd come just from this.

"Magic," Titania explained, stepping closer. Her face filled my vision. "It responds to my will. Obeys my desires. And right now, I want you helpless. Exposed. Completely at my mercy."

A vine brushed my cock—featherlight, barely a touch—and I whimpered.

"Sensitive," she confirmed, watching my face. "Perfect."

She circled me slowly, examining me from every angle. I couldn't see her when she moved behind me, but I felt her gaze like heat on my skin. Felt her study the curve of my ass, the tension in my shoulders, the way I trembled in the vines.

"You like this," she observed. Not a question. "Being bound. Being helpless. Having no control."

"Yes," I gasped, because there was no point lying. My body told the truth.

"Say it properly."

"I like being helpless," I forced out. "I like having no control."

"Good boy."

The praise hit me like a drug. My cock leaked, a bead of precum sliding down the shaft. I moaned.

"Oh, you're going to be *delicious*."

She came back around to face me, and her hand cupped my entire body. Palm beneath my ass, fingers curving up my back, thumb across my chest. She lifted me higher, brought me close to her face.

"Open your mouth," she commanded.

I obeyed.

She breathed on me.

Her breath was warm, scented with honey and lightning and something darker I couldn't name. It filled my lungs, spread through my bloodstream, tingled along every nerve. The world sharpened. Colors brightened. Every point where the vines touched me suddenly felt twice as intense.

"A gift," she whispered. "Enhanced sensitivity. Every touch will feel better. Every sensation, amplified." Her thumb brushed my chest, and the pleasure was instant, overwhelming. I cried out. "Every nerve singing. Every moment of pleasure sharp enough to cut."

"Oh god," I whimpered.

She set me back in the vine restraints, and her finger—that massive finger—finally, *finally* touched my cock.

The sensation ripped through me. A jolt in my veins. Fire beneath my skin. Too much, too intense, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. I thrashed in the vines, back arching, every muscle going taut.

"Too much?" Titania asked, amused.

"Yes—no—fuck, I don't know—"

She stroked me. Slowly. Just the tip of her finger gliding from base to head, and it felt like being dissolved. Like every nerve in my cock was being plucked, one by one, pleasure building in waves that crashed over me.

"You're going to edge for me," she said, voice dropping lower. Intimate. "I'm going to bring you right to the brink of orgasm. Over and over. You'll get so close you can taste it. Then I'll stop. Pull you back. Make you wait." Her finger circled the head of my cock, and I nearly sobbed. "I'll do this until you're begging. Until you'd do anything—*anything*—for release. Until you break and surrender completely. Understand?"

"Yes," I gasped.

"Yes, *what*?"

"Yes, Titania."

"Close," she said. "But you can do better. Try: Yes, Mistress."

"Yes, Mistress," I breathed.

"Perfect."

And then she began.

She worked my cock with expert precision. Stroking with just enough pressure, just enough speed, to build the pleasure higher and higher. Her finger moved in slow, deliberate patterns—base to tip, circling the head, running along the underside where I was most sensitive. The enhanced sensitivity she'd given me made every touch almost unbearable in its intensity.

My balls tightened. Pleasure coiled at the base of my spine, building, rising. the orgasm approaching like a wave, inevitable and overwhelming.

"Please," I gasped. "Please, I'm going to—"

She stopped.

Pulled her hand away completely, leaving my cock twitching in empty air.

"No!" The denial was physical pain. The orgasm crested, hung there for one agonizing moment, then slowly—slowly—receded. Left me shaking and whimpering and desperate. "Please, Mistress, please—"

"Shhh," she soothed, her free hand stroking my side. Gentle. Comforting. "Breathe through it. Ride it down. You can do this."

I breathed. Gasped. Whimpered. The orgasm faded, leaving me wound tight and aching.

"Good boy," she praised. "You took that so well."

Then she did it again.

Touched me. Stroked me. Built the pleasure back up, faster this time because I was already sensitized, already on edge. It took maybe thirty seconds before I was panting her name, before my cock was leaking and my hips were jerking helplessly and I was right there, right on the brink—

She stopped.

I nearly sobbed.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I lost count. Lost track of time. There was only her touch, the endless cycle of pleasure and denial, my body wound so tight I thought I'd cracked. Sweat slicked my skin. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. My cock was dark with blood, so hard it hurt, leaking steadily.

"Please," I begged, voice wrecked. "I need—I can't—"

"What do you need, little one?"

"To come. Please. I'll do anything."

"Anything?" She leaned close, her face filling my vision. Storm-grey eyes studying me. "Will you submit to me completely? Give yourself over, body and soul, no reservations, no holding back?"

"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, anything, I swear—"

"Will you trust me? Even when you don't understand? Even when I ask things of you that frighten you?"

Through the haze of desperation, I met her eyes. Saw something in them beyond the cruel amusement, beyond the dominance. Something almost... protective.

"Yes," I said, quieter. Meaning it. "I trust you, Mistress."

Her expression softened. Just for a moment. "Good boy."

Her hand wrapped around me—fingers and palm engulfing my cock—and she stroked. Firm. Steady. Perfect.

"Come for me, Jack," she commanded. "Now."

I broke.

The orgasm tore through me like a storm. I came hard, harder than I'd ever come in my life, spilling over her fingers in pulsing waves. My whole body convulsed in the vines, back arching, mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure obliterated thought, obliterated everything.

And as I came, something entered me.

A heat. A presence. Golden light that pierced my chest and slid beneath my skin, burrowing deep. It nestled somewhere between my heart and my stomach, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Foreign but not painful. Present. *There*.

The lust-seed.

I felt it take root. Felt it flutter and settle, sending tendrils through my body like veins of gold.

The vines released me. I collapsed into Titania's palm, gasping, shaking, barely conscious. My cock still twitching with aftershocks.

"What," I panted, "was that?"

She cradled me gently, one finger stroking my back. Her expression was unreadable. "A gift," she said. "And a curse."

"What?" Alarm cut through the post-orgasmic haze. "What did you do?"

"The lust-seed," she explained, and her voice was softer now. Almost sad. "It's inside you now. Part of you. It will change you, little Jack. Make you stronger. More resilient. Your senses will sharpen. Your body will heal faster, grow more responsive to pleasure and magic. You'll be able to do things you never imagined."

"That sounds like just a gift," I said warily. "Where's the curse?"

"It will mark you," she said. "Bind you to forces you don't yet understand. Connect you to the deeper magic of this world. To the game." Her finger moved from my back to my chest, pressing gently over the spot where the seed throbd. "And to me. You'll feel the pull. The need to return. To submit. To serve."

Panic flickered. "You didn't ask—"

"No," she agreed. "I didn't. Because if I had, you would have said no. And you need this, Jack. Whether you know it yet or not."

"Need it for what?"

Her expression went grave. "To survive what's coming."

Before I could demand answers, the world *lurched*.

---

## Part V: The Vision

Reality cracked open.

I wasn't in Titania's palace anymore. I was standing in a vast hall made entirely of mirrors. Endless. Stretching in all directions, floor and walls and ceiling all reflective glass. Each surface showed me, but wrong.

In one mirror I was laughing, eyes solid black, mouth too wide.

In another I was screaming, skin covered in golden script that moved and writhed.

In another I was kneeling, head bowed, collar around my throat.

In another I was—

One mirror was cracked.

Right down the center. A jagged split that looked fresh, recent. And through that crack, something watched me.

Not a face. Just presence. Awareness. Vast and ancient and utterly alien. It pressed against the crack from the other side, and I felt it *see* me. Really see me. Every flaw, every fear, every desperate desire I'd ever buried.

It saw the lust-seed in my chest.

And it smiled.

But the smile. Felt its pleasure at finding me. Claiming me.

*Welcome, little seed-bearer,* it whispered directly into my mind. *Welcome to the game.*

The vision broke.

I gasped, back in Titania's palm, heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst. "What the fuck was that?"

Her expression was grim. "The mirror. The broken one. It's... old. Older than this realm, older than me. It watches those who carry the seeds. Marks them as pieces of the curse."

"What game? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Questions for another time," she said, and her tone brooked no argument. She set me down on the obsidian table, gesturing. My clothes flew across the room, landing beside me. "You need to go, Jack. Now. Before the others sense you."

"Others? Who—"

"Other queens. Other rulers of this realm. Not all of them are..." She paused. "...kind."

I pulled on my trousers with shaking hands. "You could have told me this before you fucked with my soul."

"Before I gave you the power to face what's coming?" She raised an eyebrow. "Before I showed you that surrender isn't weakness? That submission can be strength?"

She was right. That's the thing they never tell you about surrender — it's not weakness. It's the most terrifying act of courage a body can perform. Choosing to stay open when every instinct screams *run*. Choosing to trust when trust has only ever been a knife someone else held.

I stopped, meeting her eyes.

She knelt—actually knelt, bringing herself closer to my level—and her expression was almost gentle. "You came here seeking escape, Jack. Magic. Adventure. And you found it. But magic always demands payment. Always." Her finger touched my chest, right where the lust-seed rhythmd warm and insistent. "This will change you. Remake you. But it will also protect you. Give you the tools you need to survive. Remember that when things get dark."

"I don't understand any of this."

"You will." She stood, towering again. "Now go. Climb down your beanstalk. Return home. The seed will grow. When you're ready—when you *need* me—you'll know how to find me again."

"How?"

Her smile was soft. Sad. "The beanstalk will call you. And you won't be able to resist."

I wanted to argue. Wanted answers to the thousand questions screaming in my head.

But something in her eyes told me this wasn't negotiable.

I finished dressing, walked back through the palace—through those impossible halls, past those shifting tapestries, under those glittering chandeliers. Out the massive doors. Across the cloud-ground to where the beanstalk rose.

I looked back once.

Titania stood in the doorway. Huge. Beautiful. Terrible. She raised one hand in farewell.

Then I grabbed the beanstalk and started down.

---

## Part VI: The Descent

The climb down was different.

The beanstalk still waved beneath my hands, still adjusted to help me, but it felt... reluctant. Like it didn't want me to leave. Like every grip was asking me to turn around, climb back up, return to the realm above.

And the lust-seed in my chest surged in rhythm with it. Warm. Insistent. *Stay,* it seemed to whisper. *Go back.*

I ignored it and kept descending.

Halfway down, things started changing.

My hands felt stronger. My grip more certain. Where before I'd been shaking with exhaustion, now I felt energized. Powerful. The muscles in my arms and legs moved with an efficiency they'd never had, finding holds faster, adjusting my weight with instinctive precision.

The seed was already working.

My senses sharpened too. I smelled the morning dew on the beanstalk leaves, sweet and green. Could hear insects moving in the bark, a rhythmic clicking that formed patterns. The sky lightened from black to grey to pink, and I saw colors in the sunrise I'd never noticed before—threads of gold and copper woven through the orange and red.

Everything was more.

An hour into the descent, the pull.

Deeper. The lust-seed *pulld*, a hollow yearning that had nothing to do with my body and everything to do with my soul. It wanted to go back. Wanted Titania's touch, her voice, her presence. The absence of her felt like a wound.

*Come back,* it whispered. *You belong with her. Submit. Serve. Return.*

"No," I muttered, climbing faster. "I need to get home. Need to figure this out."

The pull intensified. My chest hurt. My cock hardened despite the exertion, despite everything, aching with the memory of her touch. I could still feel the vines binding me, still hear her command: *Come for me, Jack. Now.*

I gritted my teeth and kept descending.

By the time I broke through the cloud layer, I was hard enough to hurt and aching in ways I didn't have words for. The pull lessened slightly—distance helped—but it sat in my chest like a fishhook, tugging gently but constantly upward.

The farmhouse came into view below. Small. Shabby. Home.

I dropped the last ten feet, landed in the dirt yard, and collapsed.

Dawn had fully broken. Pink and gold light spilled over the farm, painting everything in soft color. I lay there breathing hard, feeling the lust-seed thrum in my chest, feeling the changes settling into my bones.

I was different now.

Stronger. Sharper. More.

And bound to a giantess queen I barely understood.

"Fuck," I muttered to the sky.

The farmhouse door creaked open. Mum appeared, wrapped in her shawl, eyes wide with relief and fear in equal measure.

"Jack?" She rushed over, knelt beside me. Her hands found my face, my shoulders, checking for injury. "Where were you? What—" She looked up at the beanstalk, still towering into the clouds. "What *is* that?"

"Magic," I said, still catching my breath. "The beans were real, Mum."

"Real." She touched my cheek, studying me. Her eyes narrowed. "You look different."

"I feel different."

"What happened up there?"

I met her gaze. Saw the worry, the fear, the desperate hope that maybe—maybe—I'd brought back something to save us. Something to fix our scarred lives.

How could I explain? The giantess. The binding. The seed in my chest that even now thrumd with the need to return?

"I met someone," I said after a long silence. "A queen. She gave me... something. A gift."

"What kind of gift?"

I touched my chest, feeling the warmth beat beneath my fingers. "Power, I think. Or the seed of it. It's growing."

Mum's expression tightened. "At what cost, Jack?"

"I don't know yet."

She pulled me into a hug. Fierce. Tight. The way she used to when I was small and had nightmares. "Whatever it is," she whispered, "we'll face it together. You and me. Like always."

I held her and hoped she was right.

But the lust-seed drumd, warm and insistent, and I knew this was just the beginning.

---

## Part VII: Changed

Over the next few days, the changes intensified.

I woke the morning after my descent feeling like I'd slept for a week. Refreshed. Energized. My body didn't burn from the climb—if anything, I felt stronger than I ever had. I got up, went outside, and lifted the damaged fence post that had been lying in the yard for months, too heavy for me to move alone.

Lifted it one-handed.

Set it upright like it weighed nothing.

Mum watched from the doorway, silent.

My senses continued to sharpen. I could hear conversations from the village half a mile away, could smell rain coming hours before the clouds appeared, could taste the difference between water from the well and water from the stream. Colors were richer. Sounds had texture. Touch—

Touch was almost crushing.

Everything felt more intense. The rough fabric of my shirt against my skin. The sun on my face. Wind in my hair. And when I touched myself—because of course I did, I was twenty-two and perpetually horny even before the seed—the pleasure was sharp enough to make me gasp.

I came in maybe thirty seconds, cock pulsing in my hand, and the orgasm felt like lightning.

But it wasn't enough.

The lust-seed wanted more. Wanted *her*.

Every night I dreamed of Titania. Her hands. Her voice. The golden vines binding me, spreading me open, making me helpless. I'd wake hard and tight, the seed pulsing in my chest, whispering: *Go back. Climb. Return to her.*

I resisted.

Barely.

The beanstalk stayed, towering over our farm. Visible for miles. Mum wanted to cut it down, but I wouldn't let her.

"It's our way out," I told her. "If we need it."

"Out of what?" she asked.

I didn't answer because I didn't know. But the seed knew. It flutterd with certainty, with purpose. Something was coming. Something I'd need the beanstalk for.

Something I'd need Titania for.

Five days after my climb, the landlord came.

Fat bastard on a horse, flanked by two guards, all swagger and false authority. He rode into our yard and pulled up short when he saw the beanstalk.

"What in God's name is that?" he demanded, staring up at it.

"Magic," I said, stepping out to meet him. "And it's mine."

The lust-seed throbd. Warm. Eager.

"You owe me three months' rent," the landlord blustered, tearing his gaze from the beanstalk to glare at me. "I don't care about your—your *weeds*. Pay up or get out. Both of you. Today."

Something in his voice—the entitlement, the casual cruelty—made the seed flare hot in my chest.

I felt power coil there. Waiting.

"No," I said.

His face went purple. "What did you say to me, boy?"

"I said no." My voice came out calm. Steady. Cold. "This is our land. Our home. And you're not taking it."

"I'll have you thrown in the stocks—"

"Try it," I said, and the seed rhythmd.

The air changed.

I felt it ripple outward from me, a wave of *presence* that made the landlord's horse dance sideways, made the guards shift nervously. The landlord's hand, raised to strike me, froze mid-air.

He stared at me. Really looked at me for the first time.

Whatever he saw made him lower his hand.

"This isn't over," he spat, but his voice shook.

"Yes," I said. "It is."

He wheeled his horse and rode off, guards following. I stood there watching them go, feeling the lust-seed settle back into its gentle wave, and smiled.

Mum appeared at my shoulder. "Jack," she said. "What's happening to you?"

"I'm changing," I said. "Growing into something... more."

"Is that a good thing?"

I touched my chest, feeling the seed warm and content beneath my fingers. Thought of Titania's words: *Submit to me completely. Trust me. Even when you don't understand.*

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I think it might be."

---

## Epilogue

That night I stood in the yard, staring up at the beanstalk.

Stars wheeled overhead, more of them than I'd ever seen, each one sharp and clear. The beanstalk rose into them, disappearing into darkness and clouds, and somewhere far above, Titania waited.

The lust-seed surged. Warm. Insistent. The pull was stronger now. Harder to resist.

*Come back,* it whispered. *She's waiting. Submit. Serve. Return.*

I wasn't ready yet. Wasn't ready to face whatever game she'd mentioned, whatever the cracked mirror wanted. Wasn't ready to surrender completely.

But I would be.

Soon.

I touched my chest, felt the seed thrum beneath my fingers, and smiled.

I've always been good at getting into trouble.

Turns out I'm even better at enjoying it.

The beanstalk swayed in the wind, leaves rustling a rhythm that sounded almost like words: *Come home. Come home. Come home.*

Soon, I promised it. Soon.

But tonight, I'd sleep in my own bed. Dream of golden vines and storm-grey eyes and the pleasure-pain of being brought to the edge and held there, helpless and wanting.

Tomorrow I'd figure out what the lust-seed meant, what the mirror wanted, what game I'd been dragged into.
I smiled and went inside.

But as I closed the door behind me, something made me pause. A prickle at the back of my neck. A whisper in my blood that had nothing to do with the lust-seed's pull.

It felt like... recognition. Like an echo answering an echo.

I pressed my hand to my chest, felt the seed beat warm beneath my skin. And just for a moment—a breath, a heartbeat—I could have sworn I felt *others*. Distant. Scattered. But there. People marked like me. Changed like me. Pulled into the same game I'd been dragged into.

Somewhere out there, someone else was waking up to golden magic in their veins. Someone else was choosing between fear and hunger. Someone else was taking the first step toward becoming something more.

I didn't know who they were. Didn't know where. But I felt them—a constellation of power points sparking to life across the kingdom like stars emerging at dusk.

The mirror had called it a game. Titania had said I was a player.

But how many pieces were on the board? And who the fuck was moving them?

The beanstalk rustled outside, leaves whispering secrets I couldn't quite hear. *Come home,* it said. But maybe home wasn't just the cloud realm anymore. Maybe home was wherever the other ones were gathering. Maybe home was a game I'd barely started to understand.

I went to bed that night with questions buzzing in my skull like angry wasps. Sleep came slow, and when it did, I dreamed of mirrors and golden seeds and eight shadows circling something dark and hungry at the center of everything.

Tomorrow I'd figure out what the lust-seed meant.

Tomorrow I'd decide if I was strong enough to go back.

But tonight, I was just Jack. Changed but still human. Marked but still free.

One piece on a board I couldn't see yet.

For now.

The image faded. Jack stood alone on the cracked earth, shaking, and knew nothing in his life would be the same.

But as I drift to sleep, I feel it—a phantom tug, not from the beanstalk but from somewhere else entirely. Others. Like me. Marked like me. Scattered across this strange world but somehow... connected.

Somewhere out there, someone else was waking up.

One piece on a board I couldn't see yet.

Something stirred in the deep places of the world. Jack couldn't name it — couldn't even locate it, except as a tremor in the soles of his feet, a whisper in the roots of things. The beanstalk shivered. Far away, in a kingdom he'd never heard of, something old and hungry opened its eyes.

---

---

*You watched the farm boy — dirt under his nails, hunger like an honest wound. But desire wears many faces. Come — the music is starting.*

*14 days until the Blood Moon.*

---

---

# Chapter 2: The Harvest Ball

*14 days until the Blood Moon.*

## Part I: The Cat in the Court

### POV: Felix

## Felix

People think cats are aloof. Really, we just know exactly what we want and refuse to settle.

Three years as Lord Castellan's *pet*. He thought I was decorative — the exotic cat-shifter who draped himself over furniture and purred on command. He never noticed me reading his ledgers in the dark, or that his seal had been copied on the third day. Powerful men never watch the ornaments.

I looked human tonight — mostly. That was the trick of being a cat-shifter: you could pass for one of them if you held the shape right. But certain things gave you away. The pupils that went to slits in candlelight. The way your fingernails curved just a little too sharp. The purr you couldn't quite suppress when someone scratched the right spot.

And what I want tonight is Lord Castellan's secrets—preferably whispered between gasps while he's bound to my bed frame, but I'm flexible about the particulars.

My boots click against the marble floors of the Winter Palace's east wing, each step a precise calculation. These aren't ordinary boots, of course. Nothing about me is ordinary, despite what my so-called "master" Bertrand believes. The fool thinks he purchased a decorative pet when he bought my contract three years ago. Sweet, simple Bertrand, who doesn't realize I've been managing his estate, his finances, and his political alliances while he drinks himself stupid in the gaming halls.

The boots rise to mid-thigh, black leather so supple it might as well be a second skin. They shine even in the dim corridor lighting—enchanted, though I didn't know the full extent of that enchantment until recently. The heels aren't practical for running, but I've never needed to run from anything. I walk toward what I want, and it comes to me.

Just like Lord Castellan will.

My collar catches the light as I pass a mirror. Also black leather, also "enchanted," also chosen by me despite what the fairy tale scholars might assume. I'm nobody's pet but my own. The silver tag hanging from it reads "FELIX" in elegant script—my name, my choice, my power.

I run one clawed finger along the collar's edge, feeling the subtle warmth that's been growing stronger these past weeks. The boots thrum in response, a rhythm I'm learning to interpret. They want something. They *hunger*.

So do I.

Lord Castellan's chambers are just ahead. I've spent three months maneuvering for this moment—whispered suggestions to Bertrand about seeking the Lord's favor, carefully orchestrated encounters at court functions, strategic displays of my particular talents. Each move calculated like pieces on a chess board. I planted the idea in Bertrand's wine-soaked brain that offering me as "entertainment" would curry favor. Made him think it was his clever political strategy, when really I've been engineering this from the beginning.

Everyone has a price. The trick isn't finding it — it's making them *thank you* for paying it.

The Lord noticed, as I knew he would. Powerful men always notice when something rare wants to be caught. They're so predictable in their hungers, so easy to manipulate once you understand what they truly crave beneath the armor of authority.

And I always understand.

The guard at the door is new, young, his eyes widening at the sight of me. I give him my best smile—the one that shows just a hint of fang—and let my hips sway as I approach. Poor thing probably hasn't seen anything like me in these austere halls. The Winter Palace tends toward the traditional, the respectable. I'm neither.

"Lord Castellan is expecting me," I purr.

"I... I don't have you on the list, Master...?"

"*Just* Felix." I step closer, near enough that my breath stirs the air between us. My pupils dilate and contract in the torchlight, cat-like and hypnotic. I can hear his heartbeat accelerate, smell the sudden spike of nervous arousal. "And I'm not *on* lists, darling. I'm what happens when the official business is done."

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. I watch it with sharp interest—not because I want him, but because observing the physical tells of submission has always fascinated me. The way power dynamics manifest in flesh. "I should... I should check with—"

The door opens.

Lord Castellan stands in the doorway, already in a state of partial undress. His shirt hangs open, revealing the muscled torso of a man who still trains with his guards despite his administrative rank. Salt-and-pepper hair, sharp jaw, eyes that have ordered men to their deaths without flinching. There's a scar along his ribs—some old battle wound he probably considers a badge of honor.

Those eyes rake over me with undisguised void.

"That will be all, Marcus," he says to the guard, never looking away from me. "No interruptions. No matter what you hear."

The guard flees. Smart boy.

"Felix." The Lord's voice is a low rumble, the kind that's used to being obeyed. "When Bertrand offered to send you as... entertainment... I assumed it was desperation. His house is drowning in debt."

"Is it?" I step into the room, letting him close the door behind me. The chamber is exactly as I expected—large four-poster bed, expensive furniture, and in the corner, partially hidden by a screen, the telltale bulk of restraint equipment. A bench. Hooks in the ceiling. Interesting. Very interesting. "I'm afraid I don't involve myself in my master's financial affairs."

It's such a beautiful lie that I almost believe it myself. I'm the *only* reason Bertrand's house hasn't collapsed entirely. Every debt strategically managed, every asset carefully leveraged, every creditor manipulated into extending terms—all while the fool thinks he's making his own decisions. I've been puppeteering his entire existence, and he's so drunk most of the time he actually believes his recent run of "good luck" is his own competence.

"Of course not." Lord Castellan circles me slowly, hunter evaluating prey. He doesn't understand yet that the roles are reversed. That he's been caught in my trap from the moment he first noticed me at court three months ago. "You're just a pretty thing in boots and a collar. Decorative."

"Exactly." I turn to face him, tilting my head to expose the line of my throat, the glint of my collar. Let him see submission, let him taste the fantasy of control. "Just a pet. Trained to follow commands."

His hand comes up to trace the collar's edge, fingers brushing my skin. His touch is possessive, already claiming. "And what commands do you follow, pretty thing?"

I lean into his touch, let my eyes half-close, project perfect submission. Every line of my body language screams *available, willing, yours*. It's all theater, of course. The finest performance of my career. "Whatever pleases you, my lord."

"Mmm." His thumb presses against my lower lip, testing. I part my lips automatically, let him feel the hint of fang behind them. "Get on your knees."

I sink down gracefully, them folding beneath me, hands resting on my thighs. The position is poetry—submission as art form, refined through years of practice. I learned years ago that men like Lord Castellan need to believe they're in control. They need the theater of dominance, the ritual of command and obedience, before they can allow themselves to surrender.

And surrender is always where they're most vulnerable. Where they spill secrets like blood.

He unfastens his trousers with one hand, the other tangling in my hair between my ears. His fingers find the sensitive spots, scratching just right. I let myself purr—it's genuine, I can't help that response—and the sound makes him groan. "Open."

I do, letting him guide himself between my lips. He groans at the wet heat of my mouth, the careful application of my tongue. I work him with practiced skill, reading his responses like a book written just for me. The hitch in his breath when I swirl my tongue just so. The tightening of his fingers when I take him deeper. The slight forward thrust of his hips when I hum around him.

I'm cataloging every response, learning his map of pleasure. Knowledge is power, especially in spaces like this.

But I don't let him finish. Not yet. This is just the prologue.

When he's panting, when his control is starting to slip, when his thrusts are becoming less measured, I pull back. Look up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "My lord... may I make a request?"

"What?" His voice is rough with need, frustrated at the interruption.

"I've been... trained... in other ways." I let my gaze flick toward the equipment behind the screen, then back to his face. Let him see the hunger in my expression—not fake, because I *am* hungry for what comes next. Just not in the way he thinks. "Ways that might please you more. If you'd allow me to show you."

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

His eyes darken with fresh interest. "Show me."

I stand with feline grace, trail one hand down his chest as I move past him toward the screen. Behind it is exactly what I expected—a padded bench with restraint points, leather cuffs hanging from ceiling hooks, a cabinet that certainly contains toys and implements. Everything a man with power and specific tastes would need.

"Have you ever let someone else take control, my lord?" I ask, running my fingers over the bench. The leather is well-maintained, expensive. Used regularly. "Truly given yourself over?"

"I'm usually the one—" he starts.

"Usually." I turn to face him, and I let some of my real self show through the submissive mask. Let him see the intelligence, the danger, the hunter I usually keep hidden. "But imagine, my lord. Imagine being the one bound. The one helpless. The one *wanted* so desperately that someone else takes complete control of your pleasure."

He's breathing harder now. I can smell his arousal intensifying, see his cock bob with interest.

"Imagine," I continue, voice dropping to silk, "trusting someone enough to give them everything. Your body. Your control. Your secrets." I step closer, press my palm against his chest, feel his heart hammering. "I'm very good at taking care of what's given to me."

"You want to tie *me* up?" There's disbelief in his voice, but also—crucially—curiosity.

"I want to worship you properly," I correct. "Men in your position carry so much weight. So much responsibility. Don't you want to put it down, just for a few hours? Let someone else make the decisions? Let someone else work for *your* pleasure, with no expectation of reciprocation?"

I'm selling him service top dynamics wrapped in flattery, and he's buying every word.

"I don't know if—"

"If you don't like it, we stop." I start unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers. "But I promise you, my lord, I will make you feel things you've never felt before. All you have to do is trust me. Can you do that?"

The battle plays out across his face. Pride warring with curiosity. Authority warring with the deep, secret desire to surrender it.

Curiosity wins. It always does.

"Alright," he says. "Show me."

---

Ten minutes later, Lord Castellan is naked and spread-eagle on his own bed, wrists and ankles secured to the posts with padded leather cuffs. Professional grade, expensive—he's done this before, probably on the other end. Probably considers himself experienced in such games.

He's not. He's played at the edges, tested the waters, but he's never been completely vulnerable like this. I can see it in the tension of his muscles, the way his eyes track my every movement.

He's nervous. Good. Fear sharpens everything.

I've stripped down to just my boots and it, displaying my lithe frame in the candlelight. I'm not heavily muscled, but every line of me is deliberate, controlled. My cock stands erect, modest in size but perfectly formed. Some men feel threatened by anything larger. I've learned to work with what I have, to make it an asset rather than a limitation.

"Comfortable?" I ask, trailing one clawed finger down his chest. Not hard enough to scratch, just enough to remind him I *could*.

"Get on with it," he growls, trying to maintain his commanding tone even bound and naked.

"Patience, my lord." I lean down, let my breath ghost over his nipple. "Anticipation is half the pleasure. Haven't you learned that?"

I start slowly. Methodically. Mapping his body with hands and mouth and occasional scrape of fangs. I find every sensitive spot—the inside of his wrists, the hollow of his throat, the crease where thigh meets groin. I learn what makes him gasp, what makes him arch, what makes him curse.

And I deny him. Every time he gets close to any kind of relief, I pull back. Change tactics. Leave him wanting.

"Fuck—Felix—" His voice is losing its authority, becoming raw need.

"Shh." I press a finger to his lips. "You're not in charge right now, remember? You're just here to feel."

I reach for the small vial of oil I'd tucked into my boot. Pour it over my fingers, warming it between my palms. His eyes track the movement, and I see the moment he understands what comes next. His cock twitches against his stomach.

"Have you been touched here before?" I ask, trailing one slick finger down his perineum.

"Yes." But there's uncertainty in his voice.

"Have you been touched here *well*?" I circle his entrance, not pushing in yet, just teasing.

No answer. That's answer enough.

I work him open slowly, methodically, watching his face as I stretch him. He's trying to maintain his commanding expression, but it's crumbling with each deliberate press of my fingers. I'm in no rush. This is an art form, not a race. One finger, then two, curling and searching until—

There.

His back arches off the bed when I find his prostate, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

"Found it," I murmur, stroking over that spot again. "Everything feels different from here, doesn't it? More intense. More vulnerable."

"God—" He's pulling at the restraints now, not to escape but from sheer overwhelmed sensation.

"Not God," I correct, adding a third finger. "Just me. Just Felix, the decorative pet. Except right now, I have you completely at my mercy, don't I? Right now, *I* decide when you come. *I* decide what you feel. How does that make you feel, my lord?"

"I—fuck—I can't—"

"Can't what? Can't think? Can't maintain control?" I thrust my fingers harder, deliberately overwhelming him. "That's the point. You're not supposed to be Lord Castellan right now. You're just a body. Just sensation. Just *mine*."

I edge him for what feels like hours. Bring him to the brink with my fingers, my mouth, the deliberate roll of my hips as I grind against him without giving him what he really needs. I map out his breaking point, find exactly how much he can take before he shatters.

And then I push him past it.

"Please," he gasps eventually. All pretense of authority dissolved into pure need. "I need—"

"What do you need, my lord?" I straddle his hips, positioning myself at his entrance but not pushing in. My cock drips pre-come onto his stomach, marking him. "Tell me."

"Need you inside me. Need to be fucked. Please."

"And what would you give me for that?" My voice is still soft, still sweet, but there's steel underneath now. This is the moment I've been building toward. "What secrets would you share?"

His eyes widen slightly. The business part of his brain tries to engage, but his body is too far gone. "What... what do you want to know?"

"Everything." I sink down onto him, just an inch, just enough to make him cry out. The stretch is intense—I'm taking him into me, but in this position, I'm the one in control of every sensation. Service top dynamics at their finest. "The trade negotiations with the eastern provinces. The Queen's private correspondence with her sister. The real reason you've been requisitioning extra gold from the treasury."

"I can't— those are— *oh god*—" He's babbling now, overwhelmed by sensation and need.

I lift up, depriving him of sensation. "Then I suppose we're done here."

"No! No, wait, please—" He's truly begging now, all dignity abandoned. "The eastern provinces, we're planning tariffs, the Queen doesn't know yet, it'll bankrupt the merchant houses that opposed her—"

I reward him with another inch. He sobs with relief.

This is how empires fall. Through the simple human truth that pleasure breaks us all open eventually. That we're all just bodies underneath the armor of rank and title. That given the right pressure in the right places, anyone will spill their secrets.

I extract every secret I came for, piece by piece, rewarding each confession with more of what he needs. The tariff details. The timing of the announcements. Which merchant houses are being targeted and why. The Queen's private fears about her sister's loyalty. The embezzlement scheme he's running through the treasury—that one's particularly useful.

And all the while, I'm controlling his pleasure with the precision of a master craftsman. Knowing exactly how deep to take him, exactly when to clench around him, exactly how to angle my hips to drag against his prostate with every movement.

By the time I finally fuck him properly—by the time I set a real rhythm, driving down onto him with sharp, deliberate movements—he's told me enough to topple three noble houses and seriously damage the Queen's eastern strategy.

"That's it," I moan, and this part isn't performance. The fullness is intense, the angle hitting spots inside me that send lightning up my spine. "That's what I wanted. You, broken open and honest. You, giving me everything."

"Felix—I'm going to—"

"Come," I command. "Come for me. Show me how good it feels to surrender everything."

He does, shouting my name like a prayer as he spills inside me. The sensation triggers my own release, and I come across his chest, marking him with my pleasure.

The boots pulse against my legs. Warm, almost hot now. The collar flares with heat against my throat.

Something passes between us in that moment. Something more than sex, more than secrets. The air itself seems to thicken, charged with energy I don't yet understand.

I pull off carefully, reaching for a cloth to clean us both. Aftercare is crucial—not just for his emotional state, but for maintaining the fiction that I'm a considerate, well-trained pet. Nothing to suspect, nothing to fear. Just a good fuck with someone skilled and attentive.

"That was..." Lord Castellan looks dazed, satisfied, utterly vulnerable in his post-orgasmic haze. "Bertrand didn't exaggerate."

"You flatter me, my lord." I begin unfastening his restraints, massaging each wrist and ankle as I free them. "I hope I've pleased you."

"More than pleased." He sits up, rubbing his wrists even though I was careful not to hurt him. "I'd like to arrange regular visits. Name your price—I'll deal with Bertrand directly."

"You're too generous." I slip back into my minimal clothing—just the boots and collar. Everything I need. The armor of my identity. "Though I should mention... some of the things you told me tonight... they seemed quite sensitive."

His expression hardens immediately, all the softness evaporating. "If you're thinking of blackmail—"

"Blackmail?" I press a hand to my chest, wounded innocence. "My lord, I'm a *pet*. Who would I tell? Who would believe me?" I lean in close, let my lips brush his ear. "Your secrets are safe. As long as you remember that Bertrand's house is under your protection now. A generous patron would ensure his debts are forgiven, his holdings secure. Don't you think?"

As I leave, I pass a group of courtiers gossiping by the window. I slow my pace, ears perked.

"—heard it from a merchant who trades in the western forests," one says. "A girl living with three bears. Can you imagine? Living with *animals*. Like some kind of wild thing."

"Perhaps she is wild," another laughs. "They say she broke into their cottage and made herself at home. The bears should have eaten her, but instead they... kept her."

"There's magic in that," the first murmurs. "Has to be. No natural girl survives that. No natural bears allow it."

I file it away as I continue past—just another piece of gossip, another thread in the growing web. But there's something about it that makes my it warm slightly. Another one touched by old magic. Another piece of the pattern.

*Interesting,* I think. *Another one touched by old magic.*

I file it away for later use. The curse is spreading faster than I realized. And I'm not the only vector.

Good. The more of us there are, the stronger the pattern becomes.

The calculation happens behind his eyes. The price of my silence, paid through my master's fortunes. Clever enough that it looks like legitimate patronage, not extortion. He can rationalize it as rewarding Bertrand for... sharing his assets.

"I think," he says slowly, "that Bertrand has been valuable to the crown. His debts could be... restructured."

"How kind of you, my lord." I kiss his cheek, chaste and sweet. "I'll let myself out. Until next time."

I'm halfway down the corridor, boots clicking triumphantly, when the heat becomes unbearable.

The boots are *burning*.

I stumble into an empty alcove, pressing my back against the cold stone wall. The leather pulses against my skin, not painful but insistent, *demanding*. The collar responds with the same rhythm, warming until I can feel my flutter beating against it in double-time.

*What the fuck—*

Images flood my mind. Not my memories. Not my experiences.

Red Riding Hood walking through a forest, basket over her arm. The hood itself is glowing, pulsing with the same rhythm as my boots. Her eyes are hunter-bright, hungry in a way the original tale never mentioned.

A girl in a tower, her impossibly long hair shimmering with enchantment. She's not trapped—she's *claiming* her space, making it a fortress of her own power.

A mermaid surfacing from dark water, scales gleaming with familiar magic. She's not yearning for land—she's *hunting*, hunter from the depths.

A young woman pricking her finger on a spinning wheel, blood bright against cursed metal. She smiles as she falls, like she's been waiting for this moment.

And seeds. Everywhere, seeds. Spreading from tale to tale, person to person, carried by enchanted objects that looked like gifts but were really—

*Curses.*

Vectors.

Infections.

The visions come faster now, overwhelming. I see the pattern spread across the kingdom like veins under skin. Every person I've touched, glowing with connection. Every person *they've* touched, spreading it further. An exponential expansion of whatever this Gift is, radiating out from nodes like me.

Like the girl in the tower.

Like Red.

Like the mermaid.

We're all carriers. All chosen because we'd be *good* at spreading it.

I slide down the wall, landing in a graceless heap. My boots. My collar. The artifacts I chose, that I thought gave me power, that I believed were *mine*.

They're not tools. They're *vectors*.

Every person I've seduced, every bed I've shared, every moment of intimate contact—I've been spreading something. Planting something. The curse moving through the realm like a disease, passed through pleasure and pain and power exchange.

How many? How many people have I touched in three years?

*How many have I infected?*

Lord Castellan. Thomas. Marguerite. Havensbrook. Dozens of others, hundreds maybe, if I count every casual encounter, every kiss at a party, every strategic seduction.

And through them, how many more? Their lovers, their conquests, spreading it further without even knowing.

The scope of it steals my breath. The sheer *scale* of what I've been part of without my knowledge or consent.

I should be terrified. I should be tearing at these them, clawing at this it, screaming for help.

Instead, as the visions fade and leave me gasping in the alcove, I find myself...

Curious.

*Curious.*

What *is* the curse trying to do? Who engineered this? And more importantly—now that I know what the artifacts really are, what could I do if I worked *with* them instead of being their ignorant pawn?

The thought crystallizes in my mind with perfect clarity: I've spent my entire life manipulating others, pulling strings, engineering outcomes. The idea that I've been manipulated in turn should enrage me. Should make me feel violated, used, robbed of agency.

Instead, I find myself... impressed.

It's a beautiful scheme. Elegant. Using people's own desires and talents against them, amplifying what they already are, making them into perfect vectors for spread. Whoever designed this understands human nature on a fundamental level.

I respect that. Even as the target of the manipulation, I respect the artistry of it.

The boots have cooled to their normal temperature now, innocent leather again. The collar sits quiet against my throat, just a pretty accessory. But I can still feel them, humming with potential beneath the surface. Waiting for my decision.

Because that's what this is, I realize. A decision point. An awakening.

I can try to fight this—find a way to remove the artifacts, break the curse, warn others. Become the hero of this story, the one who stops the spread.

Or.

Or I can accept what I am. What I've been chosen to become. I can stop being an ignorant pawn and become a conscious collaborator.

I pull myself to my feet slowly, testing my balance. The boots feel different now—still mine, but also... aware. Like they're waiting to see what I'll do with this knowledge.

Perhaps true control doesn't come from being chosen, as the stories suggest. Perhaps it comes from *choosing back*. From looking at the hand fate dealt you and deciding to play it brilliantly.

I've never been one to fold just because the game is bigger than I expected.

I adjust my collar, feeling the familiar weight of it against my throat. The metal tag catches the light—FELIX, my name, my identity. Mine even if the collar itself serves another purpose.

"Alright," I murmur to the empty alcove. To the boots and collar. To whatever vast intelligence is listening through them. "You chose me. You saw something useful in me. Something effective."

The collar ache once. Acknowledgment.

"You made me into your vector, your spreader, your unwitting agent. You used my talents, my hungers, my ambitions to further your goals."

Another rhythm. Agreement.

"And now I know. Now I understand what I am, what I've been doing, what I've been *made* into."

I take a breath, feeling the pressure of what I'm about to say.

"So here's my question: what happens if I work with you *intentionally*? What happens if I stop being your puppet and become your partner? What could we accomplish then?"

The collar flares warm—not burning, but approving. Pleased.

The boots hum their agreement.

And I feel something shift. Like a door opening. Like being welcomed into a conspiracy I'd been part of all along without knowing it.

I start walking again, boots clicking with renewed purpose. I have Castellan's secrets now, enough to secure Bertrand's position and my own mobility. I have the beginnings of understanding about what I really am—not just a clever catboy, but a vector for something vast.

And I have questions. So many questions. But also... excitement. The thrill of a scheme big enough to be worthy of my talents.

I've been playing a game I didn't know existed for three years.

Now I can see the board. Now I can make *real* moves.

Things are going to get interesting.

I find Bertrand exactly where I expected—in the palace gaming room, drunk and losing badly at cards. He lights up when he sees me, pathetic in his relief and affection.

"Felix! There you are. How did it go with Lord Castellan?"

"Very well, master." I settle at his feet, the picture of obedient contentment. Let the other nobles see the devoted pet, let them envy Bertrand his exotic possession. "He was quite pleased. I believe he mentioned something about reviewing your debts?"

"He did?" Bertrand's face flushes with hope and wine. "Truly?"

"Truly." I rest my head against his knee, letting him pet my hair. His touch is clumsy but genuine. "I think you've made a powerful ally tonight, master."

The other nobles at the table watch with amusement and envy. Look at Bertrand's exotic pet, so well-trained, so devoted. What they wouldn't give for such a creature.

If only they knew.

If only they knew that every touch, every moment of contact, every exchange of fluid and breath, I'm spreading something none of us fully understand.

If only they knew that their envy is going to be their downfall, because eventually they'll seek me out, and I'll infect them too.

The boots hum contentedly against my legs. The collar purrs at my throat.

I smile.

And what I want now is answers. Understanding. Full partnership with whatever force has been using me.

But I'll take my time getting there. After all, I've learned that the best schemes are the ones you don't even know you're part of until it's far too late to escape.

I've been playing the game blindfolded for three years.

Now that I can see the board, things are going to get very interesting indeed.

---

## Part II: Cinderhella

### POV: Ella

## POV: Ella

They made me sleep in ashes. Now I'll make them burn in them.

I've whispered this to myself every night for three years, my breath fogging in the cold cellar where stepmother banished me after father's death. Three years of scrubbing their floors, emptying their chamber pots, bearing the bite of stepsisters' nails when they're feeling particularly cruel. Three years of watching my beauty fade under layers of soot and exhaustion, my striking features hidden beneath grime, my grey eyes the only thing that still burns.

But tonight. Tonight everything changes.

"You called for me, pet?" The voice slides through the cellar like silk over naked skin, and I turn from the dying hearth to face her.

My Fairy Dom-Mother materializes from shadow and moonlight, and as always, the sight of her steals my breath. She's neither fully fae nor fully woman, something in between that defies easy categorization. Her skin shimmers with an opalescent sheen, and her eyes—ancient, knowing, cruel in the most delicious way—fix on me with calculating interest. The curse-touch that twisted her centuries ago has made her something new, something dangerous.

Something perfect for what I need.

"The ball," I say, my voice steady despite the anticipation thrumming through my veins. "Tonight. The Glass Palace."

She circles me slowly, one long finger trailing across my shoulders, leaving heat in its wake even through my tattered dress. "And what does my little cinder-girl want with the prince's masquerade?"

"Not the prince." I meet her gaze, unflinching. "Revenge."

Her smile is wicked. "Now that's the spirit I've been cultivating in you." She stops in front of me, tilting my chin up with one finger. "Your stepsisters will be there, yes? Preening in their borrowed finery, desperate to catch royal attention?"

"Both of them. And stepmother." The rage in my chest intensifies, a living thing. "I want them to see what they tried to destroy. I want them to watch me shine while they realize they're nothing but moths drawn to a flame that will burn them."

"Delicious." She draws the word out, savoring it. "But transformation magic always has a price, pet. You know this."

"I'll pay it."

"This won't be like your simple little fantasies." Her hand slides down my throat, over my collarbone, possessive and claiming. "The transformation I'm offering is... intimate. It will require you to surrender completely to the magic, to let it remake you from the inside out. each nerve ending, every inch of skin, every hidden place. The pleasure will be intense. Crushing. You'll feel yourself being transformed, cell by cell, and every moment will be ecstasy and agony in equal measure."

Heat pools low in my belly. "I can handle it."

"Can you?" She leans in close, her breath cool against my ear. "The magic is curse-touched, like me. It doesn't just change your appearance—it awakens something primal. Once you accept it, you'll crave the eyes on you, the desire, the power that comes with being utterly irresistible. You'll need it like air. You'll dream of being watched, desired, worshipped. Your body will hunger for the weight of a thousand gazes the way other women need for a lover's touch."

She pauses, letting that sink in, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "This isn't just about making you beautiful, pet. It's about making you dangerous. Every head that turns, every pair of eyes that locks onto you, every moment of desire you inspire—that's fuel. That's power. And you'll learn to feed on it."

"Good." My voice is fierce. "I want to be intoxicating. I want them to burn with wanting what they can never have. I want them to look at me and know they destroyed something precious, and I want that knowledge to ruin them."

Her laugh is low and approving. "Oh, you beautiful, vengeful creature. Very well." She steps back, gesturing with one hand, and a silver circle appears on the floor around us, glowing with runic symbols I don't recognize. Ancient fae script, probably, the kind that predates the kingdom itself. "Strip."

I don't hesitate. The rags I wear fall away easily—they were barely held together anyway. Standing naked in the cellar that's been my prison, I feel the first stirrings of power. This is my choice. My transformation. My revenge.

The cold air raises goosebumps on my skin, but I don't shiver. I stand tall, shoulders back, meeting her gaze with defiance. Let her look. Let her see what they've tried to hide, tried to break. Let her see me.

"Good girl." The Fairy Dom-Mother's eyes rake over me, hungry and assessing. "You've hidden such beauty under all that ash. Look at you—those curves, that skin, those eyes burning like silver fire. Your stepsisters must have hated you on sight."

"They did," I confirm. "That's why they worked so hard to break me."

"They failed." She moves to stand directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the otherworldly energy radiating from her skin. It makes my nerve endings sing, anticipation and arousal building in equal measure. "Now, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to touch you, and the magic will begin. Don't fight it. Let it consume you. Surrender to every sensation, no matter how intense. The magic needs to reach every part of you—inside and out, body and soul. If you resist, if you hold anything back, the transformation will be incomplete. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

The correction sends a thrill through me—not just submissive pleasure, but the dark hot spike of realizing how much I want to surrender to this. To her. To the magic. "Yes, Mistress."

"Better." She places both palms on my shoulders, and the magic crashes into me like a tidal wave.

It starts as warmth, spreading from her touch down through my chest, my arms, radiating outward. But within seconds, the warmth becomes heat, and the heat becomes something else entirely—a sensation so intensely pleasurable that my knees buckle. She holds me upright with casual strength, her hands firm on my shoulders, grounding me as the magic floods through my system.

"Breathe," she commands. "Open yourself to it. Don't fight. Don't think. Just feel."

The magic flows through my veins like liquid silver, molten and alive. Everywhere it touches feels like the most exquisite caress, like being stroked by invisible hands that know exactly where and how to touch me. My skin tingles and tightens, years of damage from harsh soap and cold water reversing in moments. I can feel myself becoming more—more vibrant, more alive, more everything.

But it's not just my skin. The magic delves deeper.

It winds through my muscles, and I feel them firm and strengthen, subtle but perfect. The toned grace of a dancer rather than a laborer's bulk of a dancer. It caresses my bones, straightening my posture, lifting my chin, adding a fraction of an inch to my height. It swirls through my hair, and I feel the weight of it growing longer, thicker, cascading down my back in waves that catch the firelight like spun gold.

And then it finds the core of me, and I cry out.

The pleasure is overwhelming, centered between my thighs but radiating outward in waves that crash through my entire body. It's like being touched by invisible hands everywhere at once—stroking, teasing, worshipping. But it's more than that. The magic pushes inside me, intimate and invasive, filling me with sensation that borders on too much.

I gasp, my hips jerking forward involuntarily, seeking more of that impossible touch.

"That's it," the Fairy Dom-Mother purrs, her hands sliding down from my shoulders to my waist, my hips, steadying me as I shake. "Feel what you're becoming. Feel the power taking root inside you."

The magic waves again, deeper this time, and I feel it reshaping me from within. My breasts swell, growing heavier, more sensitive. My nipples harden to aching points, and the magic circles them like a tongue, like teeth, like fingers that know exactly how much pressure to apply. I arch into the sensation, shameless in my need.

"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for.

"Not yet, pet. We're not done." Her voice is amused, but there's an edge of hunger to it. She's enjoying this, watching me come apart under the magic's touch. "The transformation needs to go deeper. You need to feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the darkest parts of yourself that you've kept hidden. Open for me."

I don't know how to obey that command, but my body understands. Something inside me unfurls, a door opening that I didn't know existed. The magic rushes through it, flooding into spaces I didn't know I had.

And this—this is where it becomes almost too much.

The pleasure intensifies to the point of pain, sharp and bright and overstaggeringfeel myself being transformed at the most fundamental level, fractured down into component parts and rebuilt according to a new design. The magic strips away the layers of damage, the years of abuse and starvation and cold, peeling me back to my essential self.

And then it rebuilds me better. Stronger. More.

My awareness splinters. I'm conscious of head to heel across of my skin simultaneously, the whole trembling length of her firing in pleasure-pain ecstasy. I feel the magic concentrating in my breasts, my hips, the wet heat between my legs. I feel it racing through my bloodstream, lighting up every cell. I feel it sinking into my bones, making them lighter, more graceful.

I feel it reaching into my mind, into my desires, finding the dark hungry thing I've kept buried for three years and feeding it. Nurturing it. Making it grow.

The exhibitionist. The woman who wants to be seen, to be desired, to wield her beauty like a weapon. The magic finds that part of me and amplifies it a thousand-fold, until the need is so intense I can barely breathe.

"You feel it, don't you?" Her voice cuts through the haze of sensation. "The need to be seen. To be wanted. To have every eye in a room drinking in your beauty, helpless against it. That's not just the magic, pet. That's you. That's who you've always been, underneath the ashes."

"Yes," I gasp, and it's true. The transformation hasn't created something new—it's unleashed what was always there. All those years of being told I was worthless, of being hidden away and covered in grime, had only fed this want. Now it's free, and it's ravenous.

The magic swirls lower, concentrating between my legs with purposeful intent. I feel it trace the seam of my sex, teasing at my entrance before sliding inside with a slowness that makes me whimper. It fills me, thick and perfect, stretching me in ways that feel both familiar and entirely new. Then it begins to move, a phantom lover that knows every secret I've ever kept about my own body.

My inner walls clench around the sensation, and the magic responds by pulsing deeper, finding that spot inside me that makes pleasure crestinge behind my eyes. At the same time, invisible pressure circles my clit—not quite touching, just hovering close enough to drive me insane with need.

"Please," I beg again, and this time I know exactly what I'm asking for. "I need—"

"I know what you need." Her hands slide up my ribcage, cupping my breasts, her thumbs finding my nipples. The dual sensations—her real touch and the magic's phantom caresses—create a feedback loop of pleasure that has me sobbing. "But this transformation isn't about relief. It's about power. The magic needs to wind you so tight that when you finally snap, the release will remake you completely."

She pinches my nipples, hard, and the sharp sensation sends a jolt straight to my core. The magic inside me responds, thrusting deeper, faster, matching the rhythm of my racing heart. I'm dimly aware that I'm making sounds—desperate, needy noises that would humiliate me if I had any shame left.

But I don't. The magic has stripped that away too, leaving only raw urgency.

"That's it," she murmurs, her lips against my ear. "Let go. Let the magic consume you. Feel it in every cell, head to heel across of skin. Feel yourself becoming something new. Something powerful. Something that will make the entire kingdom fall to its knees."

The magic surges again, and this time it splits, creating multiple points of pleasure. I feel it at my nipples, my clit, deep inside me, along the curve of my throat, at the sensitive spot behind my ear. Everywhere at once, stroking and teasing and claiming. My body doesn't know how to process so much sensation, so it defaults to the simplest response—pure, overwhelming pleasure.

I'm climbing toward something massive, something that terrifies me even as I race toward it. The orgasm building inside me feels apocalyptic, like it will shatter me into pieces that can never be reassembled.

"Not yet," the Fairy Dom-Mother says, and I feel her will overlay the magic, holding me back from the edge. "You don't get release until you've claimed your revenge. The magic will keep you on edge, hungry and ready. Every eye on you at the ball will feel like a caress. Every moment of desire you inspire will feed the ache, bringing you closer to the edge. And when you finally take your pleasure..." Her smile is wicked, her eyes dark with promise. "Well. The entire palace will know what power truly looks like."

The magic recedes slightly, pulling back from that catastrophic edge but not disappearing entirely. It settles into my body like a second heartbeat, pulsing with each breath I take. I'm left shaking, aroused beyond reason, my skin hypersensitive and my core clenching around nothing.

I'm shaking, my body screaming for completion, but I understand. This is part of the magic, part of the design. I'll walk into that ball already aroused, already desperate, and every gaze will stroke me closer to climax. By the time I allow myself release, I'll be so wound up that the orgasm will be explosive.

Perfect.

She steps back, and for the first time, I see what I've become.

A full-length mirror has appeared—where it came from, I don't know and don't care. All I can do is stare at the woman reflected in the glass.

She's magnificent.

Golden hair cascades down her back in perfect waves, catching the firelight like spun silk threaded with actual gold. Her skin is flawless, luminous, with a subtle glow that seems to come from within—the magic still humming under the surface. Her face is striking—high cheekbones, full lips parted slightly as if in invitation, and those eyes. My eyes. Still grey, still burning with rage and determination, but now set in a face that could launch ships or topple kingdoms.

They wanted me on my knees. So I learned to make the floor into a weapon.

And my body. Gods, my body.

The transformation has enhanced everything while maintaining the essential me. My breasts are full and high, defying gravity, my nipples a dusky rose that stands out against creamy skin. My waist curves dramatically inward before flaring out to wide hips and a perfectly rounded ass. My legs seem to go on forever, toned and shapely, the kind that men dream about wrapped around them.

I look like every fantasy of feminine beauty made flesh—but with an edge of danger, of wildness that can't be tamed. There's something calculating in my eyes, something that promises I'll devour anyone foolish enough to think they can possess me.

I am, in a word, ruinous.

"Do you see what I see?" the Fairy Dom-Mother asks, coming up behind me to rest her chin on my shoulder. Our reflections in the mirror—her opalescent otherness, my newly-minted perfection. "Do you see what they tried to destroy?"

"They were fools," I say, and my voice doesn't sound like my own. It's deeper, richer, layered with power. "They broke their own fingers trying to crush something they couldn't hold."

"Precisely." Her hands slide over my shoulders, down my arms, her touch deliberate and possessive. "Now for the finishing touch." She waves her hand, and magic swirls around me again—but this time it's external, wrapping around my body like invisible fabric.

The dress materializes in layers. First, a whisper-thin layer of silk against my bare skin, so light I barely feel it. Then the structure—boning that lifts and shapes without constricting, creating a silhouette that's both elegant and crushing. The bodice molds to my breasts like a second skin, cut low enough to showcase cleavage that would make saints weep. The skirt flows from my hips in layers of gossamer fabric that shimmer between silver and gold with each movement.

But it's the details that make it truly scandalous.

The bodice is sheer in strategic places—panels of transparent material that reveal glimpses of skin beneath. When I turn, I can see the dark shadow of my areolas through the fabric, the exact curve of my breasts. The sides are cut out, showing the curve of my waist and ribs, the indentation of my navel. The back plunges almost to my ass, held together by delicate chains that look like they could snap at any moment. And the skirt, while full and dramatic, has a slit that goes nearly to my hip, revealing the entire length of my leg with every step.

It's a dress designed to make people look. To make them want. To make them lose their minds with desire while knowing they'll never, ever have me.

"This is..." I struggle to find words. "This is indecent."

"It's perfect." The Fairy Dom-Mother sounds delighted. "The dress will shift as you move, becoming more or less transparent depending on the light. Sometimes you'll look demure. Sometimes you'll look like you're wearing nothing but mist and moonlight. The uncertainty will drive them mad."

"Perfect," I breathe.

"Almost." She reaches out and touches my throat, and I feel a pressure settle there. Glass. A choker made of glass that catches the light and throws it back in rainbow prisms. "The signature of the curse-touched. Those who know will recognize what you are. Those who don't will simply be mesmerized."

"And the shoes?"

Her smile turns truly crooked. "Glass, of course. But these aren't your typical fairy tale slippers." She gestures down, and I look at my feet.

The shoes are exquisite—delicate glass formed into impossibly high heels, clear as crystal but somehow structured to support my weight. They make my legs look miles long, and they're surprisingly comfortable despite the height. But there's something else about them, something that makes my breath catch.

The glass that formed between her fingers was different when she held back — sharper, denser, edges that could cut stone. "The more you hold back," Felix whispered against her neck, "the deadlier you become." A shard hit the wall and carved a groove three inches deep into solid oak.

"Each step you take will send a thrum of pleasure through your body," she explains. "Nothing overwhcrushingenough to keep you on edge, to remind you of what you're building toward. By the end of the night, you'll be able to come from a touch. A word. A look."

My core clenches at the thought. "How long does the spell last?"

"Until midnight. After that, the magic unravels—and you'll want to be far from the palace when it does. The release of that much pent-up energy will be... noticeable." She tilts her head, considering. "One more thing. You'll need a mask."

She produces one from thin air—silver filigree shaped like flames, delicate enough to showcase my features while adding an air of mystery. It's perfect.

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