Chapter 4: Tight-Lipped Women

The horse ride was killing me so I didn't have much space in my head to think about other potential problems. And if I ever thought about anything besides my sore ass, it was this ridiculous Law of the Road thing.

 

But there was another issue that from time to time pushed to the surface of my thoughts just from being around them constantly.

 

My party members.

 

Corinne and Vashira.

 

The issue was: are they even capable?

 

Garreth paired me with them, but to whose benefit? Clearly theirs—no question about it. They're his daughters in the end. I'd relied on his expertise when it came to mercenaries since he was one, or used to be.

 

The bottom line was: he knew my worth. He knew I'd be an asset. The untested question was whether his daughters were the best option for me.

 

I watched them.

 

Vashira rode ahead, and every time she pulled the reins, the muscles in her forearms rolled under sun-browned skin—thick, roped. CrossFitter vibe, if I had to put a word to it.

 

Corinne was taller—my height—and even nimbler than her sister. She handled the horse automatically, effortlessly, one hand on the reins while the other rested loose on her thigh. I caught her hands when she adjusted her grip. Calluses. Minor scars across the knuckles. Fingernails like a manual laborer's—short, blunt.

 

Absolutely no makeup in any shape or form on either of them.

 

I'd still fuck them if I were a straight man, no question.

 

I'd fuck them if I were a lesbian.

 

I could still fuck them if they were lesbians and there was any merit in fucking them.

 

To me, they looked like the real-deal adventurers.

 

But who was I to actually judge it? What if they're just dumb bitches waiting to get mugged by the first real bandits?

 

Well, I suppose then I'd join those bandits and rethink my options.

 

Got some answers that very same day.

 

Dusk hit and the road went quiet.

 

Nothing felt out of the ordinary to me, but Corinne's inhuman ears flickered—like a cat or a deer catching something on the wind.

 

Vashira tensed and drew her sword and shield.

 

She was so loud.

 

No—not that she was loud. Everything else was just quiet.

 

Wrong quiet. I got it then. The birds stopped. The insects stopped.

 

The horses heard it before we did.

 

Both mares screamed simultaneously—sharp, terrified. Vashira's horse reared so hard it nearly flipped backward. Corinne's spun sideways, hooves cracking against stone.

 

Then the chittering started.

 

From everywhere.

 

I spun. Couldn't locate it. Sound bouncing off trees, off the road, off my own skull. Like static layered over screaming.

 

Corinne's horse snapped its tie. The rope shredded like thread and the mare bolted straight into the tree line—branches cracking, gear bouncing off its flanks.

 

"Gibberlings," Corinne said it the way someone says "fire" in a crowded theater. Calm. Flat. But absolutely fucking terrified underneath—I could sense it, because I felt that myself!

 

Vashira was already wrestling her horse sideways, trying to keep the thrashing mare from crushing her against a tree. The horse went wild—rearing, slamming its hooves down, nearly catching Vashira in the shoulder. The mare broke free and bolted down the road, saddlebags bouncing.

 

Then I saw them. A mass of pale flesh and black hair pouring out of the tree line.

 

Dozens.

 

Grinning faces with black eyes that had no right to look that happy. Long arms dragging on the ground, some of them clutching crude weapons—knives, daggers, a short sword, maybe. Or just clubs.

 

Fucking monkeys! Furry little shits!

 

They fucking swarmed us! A wall of screaming meat coming at us from three directions.

 

I might have pissed myself a little.

 

But I had this. This was it. You were either a fantasy witch in a magical world, or you were dead.

 

And I wasn't keen on dying.

 

Not now. Not ever!

 

I was already incanting my own atomic bomb, the most powerful magic I'd managed to learn during my months at the Keep.

 

The words and hand gestures needed to be exact or it would never happen.

 

So no pressure. Just a horde of little motherfuckers storming me!

 

I spilled a pinch of fine sand at the exact moment to complete the incantation. It poured out of me. Not a whisper, not a scream—a current. The spell had shape and I gave it direction, pointed it at the center mass like aiming a hose. The energy knew what to do. I just had to let it.

 

The wave hit the center mass.

 

Bodies dropped. One moment they were shrieking, the next they were collapsing mid-stride—pale limbs folding under them like puppets with cut strings. Fifteen, maybe twenty. I couldn't count. They just went down, piled on each other, twitching in sleep they didn't deserve.

 

Brad, you small-dick, manchild, useless piece of shit motherfucker—you were right. Sleep spell was the fucking best AOE in "early game."

 

Well. Game on.

 

And the rest of this apelike filth didn't stop.

 

Didn't even slow down.

 

That was the horror. No pause. No "oh shit, half the swarm just dropped." The remaining ten—or fifteen, or however many—kept coming with the same mindless, grinning frenzy. They stepped over their sleeping kin. Some stepped *on* them.

 

Waking some up!

 

Vashira met the first wave head-on. Her sword came up and down, up and down. No wasted motion. She caught a gibberling mid-leap. The blade took it through the chest. She kicked it off her sword without breaking stance.

 

Thank god. Gods. My angel. Whatever. She actually knew how to fight!

 

Another one lunged. She pivoted, cut downward, removed the motherfucker's arm. It kept crawling toward her with the one it had left.

 

She didn't flinch. Just bashed its skull with her shield.

 

*Okay. She's capable.*

 

I'd cast Mage Armor on myself earlier that day. It probably still held.

 

Hard to track time without a clock!

 

So after Sleep, I was out of big guns.

 

A gibberling-thing broke from the right. I hit it with the same power I killed Borys.

 

They had a name for it here. Mind Sliver.

 

It was actually a minor spell, a cantrip.

 

Not because I was less powerful in this reality than on Earth, but because magic was a thing here, so all creatures were more used to it.

 

And more resistant.

 

Made sense, I supposed.

 

Didn't help my victim, though. The psychic spike lanced out and its skull rattled—that barely-there brain scrambling inside bone. It stumbled. Kept coming. Stumbled again. Dropped.

 

One down. Too many left.

 

Corinne was on it.

 

She sidestepped a charging gibberling, let its own momentum carry it past, and opened its throat in a single backhand stroke. Two more came at her together. She gave ground—one step, two—then drove her pommel into the first one's face and cut the second across the belly.

 

Guts hit the dirt. The thing kept trying to crawl.

 

Corinne stomped its skull open. She was already tracking the next one.

 

I hit another with Mind Sliver. It shrieked and collapsed.

 

I'm not gonna lie. I was getting more and more into it.

 

They weren't even people. I mean, not like people. Or, I don't know. Elves, I suppose?

 

They were just annoying animals. Pests.

 

I fucking hated pests.

 

But putting them down?

 

That was actually invigorating.

 

My head was pounding. I could taste copper.

 

That D&D nonsense about magic users shooting magic without any downsides beyond burning through their slots for the day? Bullshit, straight out the bull's ass!

 

The last three rushed Vashira together. She batted aside one sword, took a claw across the forearm that opened her sleeve and the skin underneath, and buried her blade in the lead gibberling's throat. Corinne came in from the side and took the second. The third threw itself at me.

 

I flinched.

 

Mage Armor held. The impact bounced off the invisible barrier like it had hit a wall. The gibberling rebounded, stunned for half a second.

 

Corinne's sword took its head off.

 

Vashira wiped her blade on a dead gibberling's mane. Blood ran down her forearm from the claw wound. She didn't seem to notice.

 

Corinne scanned the treeline. Sword still up. Still ready.

 

*They're capable,* I thought. *They're very fucking capable.*

We stood in the dark surrounded by twitching bodies and the stink of gibberling blood. My head was splitting, but I cast Light anyway.

 

Because we needed it.

 

And because I wanted to see how sleeping motherfuckers would die when I finished them off one by one with my spells!

 

"We need the horses," Corinne said, as she and her sister joined me in finishing off the unconscious gibberlings.

 

No shit.

 

Didn't find them that night.

 

Didn't find them the next day either.

 

We actually walked to the nearest town on foot.

 

So Ostwick happened to be the first city I'd visited in this world.

 

Without money. And in the company of two horseless women who, even if they'd had any cash yesterday, today were as broke as I was.

 

But at least my companions were capable muscle. They could really swing those swords, I supposed.

 

So it could've been worse.

 

It shouldn't have surprised me that Ostwick's market was a bazaar-style affair—dozens of merchants hawking their goods, encouraging potential buyers, screaming over each other.

 

"Silk! Pure silk from the southern coast!"

 

I stopped. Touched the fabric. The sheen was wrong—flat, single-toned, more like cheap satin than real silk. I bunched it in my fist. Let go. The wrinkles stayed. Real silk bounces back. This stuff had the drape of a lining fabric. Back home I'd use it to wrap a gift, not wear it.

 

Six gold for a scarf.

 

Undergarments. A woman selling linen shifts, properly cut, with stitching that wasn't garbage. I held one up. Soft enough. Eight silver.

 

A tailor's stall with fitted dresses. A leatherworker selling women's gloves. Bone combs at one silver each.

 

I touched everything. Bought nothing. Every merchant's smile faded when I moved to the next stall.

 

Perfumes. An old man with tiny glass vials of rosewater and something musky. I uncorked one. Closed my eyes. For a second I was back in my bathroom. My real bathroom.

 

Five gold. For rosewater.

 

Next stall—pigments. Berry wax lip color in a clay pot. Two silver. Almond kohl. Three silver. A woman grinding something with a mortar and pestle, selling it by the pinch. I tested the lip color on my wrist. Streaky. Under-pigmented.

 

Still fucking wanted it.

 

I needed my own gold. Fast.

 

A girl brushed past me at the pigment stall—young, pretty, with kohl already smudged under her eyes. She dropped three coppers on the counter, took the same berry wax lip color I'd just been fondling, and disappeared into the crowd.

 

I watched her go. The direction she walked. Toward the south side of the market, where the upper-floor windows had red cloth hanging.

 

Brothels. Of course.

 

Ostwick had maybe a few thousand people. For me it was a village. By this world's standards it was a town—a trade town. And a trade town like this probably had more than one brothel. All those merchants, all those caravans, all those men with coin and nowhere to spend it.

 

Locals wanted a piece of that.

 

Local girls wanted a piece of that.

 

And merchants wanted a piece of ass.

 

Open free market at its finest.

 

Every working girl needed lip color, kohl, perfume, linen shifts. And they were the ones who could actually afford it.

 

That's who this market was really for. Not noblewomen. Not merchant wives.

 

Well, I wasn't a fucking spellcaster, a fucking sorceress, to be outdone by common village whores!

 

I looked around for my companions.

 

My party members.

 

Found them near the south end of the market, at a cart stacked with traveling gear—saddlebags, rope, flint, waxed canvas.

 

Vashira was doing the talking. Arms crossed, weight on one hip, head tilted like she was sizing the man up for a fight.

 

Like she was constantly trying to die a virgin.

 

She was a virgin. That much came out when we'd discussed the whole Law of the Road debacle again. Trying to hit on Garreth Vane's daughter meant you had to get through him to get at any of his little princesses. Whatever daddy issues blondie might've had, it was clear Garreth had been cockblocking every guy in her life since she was young.

 

Obviously the same Garreth Vane had no moral qualms about getting some from any other man's daughter.

 

Men are men. Simple as that. Abandon all logic.

 

Corinne wasn't so open about her experiences, which made sense. No point in telegraphing. I kept having to remind myself she only looked twenty-ish, but she was older than me. A grown woman in a world of swords, sorcery, unshaven pubes, and armpits.

 

And Road marriages.

 

"The eastern pass. How far to the mines from the fork?" Vashira continued to interrogate a guy who just wanted to sell her some gear.

 

The merchant held up fingers. "Three days if the weather holds. Four if the mules bog down."

 

"Bandits?" Corinne leaned in.

 

He shrugged. "Seen fewer carts coming back than going. Draw your own conclusions."

 

The sisters hadn't shut up about the mines since we left the Kindly Rest. Every cart, every merchant, every poor bastard within earshot got the same interrogation.

 

Not once had either of them stopped at a perfume stall.

 

Fucking tomboys. I wouldn't be fucking surprised if I caught them pissing standing up.

 

"I'm sure we can get work as escorts for some merchant heading in the direction of the mines," Corinne filled me in as I joined them.

 

That had legs. The sisters had been in this trade for some time—Corinne especially.

 

But if we traveled from here without cash, I wouldn't be able to buy anything.

 

I didn't argue. I nodded, but also added: "We could also look for some local work."

 

Corinne considered, then inclined her head. Vashira rolled her eyes. "Fine."

 

What the fuck was wrong with that girl?

 

Anyway.

 

Ostwick had a substantial hospitality sector due to being a vital trade hub for the local economy. Multiple taverns. All geared toward visitors—locals drank elsewhere without fancy liquor and inflated prices.

 

Even places that weren't brothels had working ladies freelancing.

Because the town was so saturated with whores, no one tried to catcall my companions. With options like that, harassing armed women didn't seem like a good idea.

 

Plus, considering our predicament, our sweat-stained asses weren't standing out so much in a room full of professionals offering their services.

 

But on the other hand, that meant if someone actually wanted to approach us, it wasn't because he wanted a piece of something we weren't about to sell.

 

Well, if not for my tomboy escort, I'd easily get myself a drink and dinner on someone else's dime. I was sure of that.

 

"Um… Yuna, I don't think we can afford this place," Vashira said conspiratorially when we entered the fanciest tavern in town.

 

"I don't think we can afford any place," Corinne clarified, but kept it cool.

 

I gave them a confident look, as a true leader should.

 

They didn't show the slightest sign that they opposed my position right now.

 

They also wanted a solution.

 

And leadership was just that—the ability to project a path to a solution.

 

But a leader didn't just need to sell her followers on the plan.

 

She also needed to be shameless enough to believe it herself.

 

And I believed it.

 

I'd wasted enough evenings of my past life on boring D&D sessions to know that a tavern floor was the best place for potential quests.

 

Some jerk slapped the waitress's ass so hard she stumbled…

 

Tray full of drinks and all…

 

Looked like they'd land on me and the sisters.

 

Not on my fucking watch.

 

I cast Shape Water—yet another cantrip I'd mastered during my months at the Keep. My angel was right. I was a natural-born magician, and doing magic felt natural.

 

So right.

 

Ale and wine froze solid midair—ruby and amber shards that bounced off our clothes and shattered on the floor.

 

Not only did the liquid freeze—the whole fucking tavern froze, staring at us.

 

I smirked.

 

Now that's an entrance.

 

We sat down.

 

And lo and behold, some kid zeroed in on us from across the tavern like we had a sign over our heads.

 

I knew what he saw. Three women who'd walked into town looking like they'd been dragged through a hedge, fought something in it, and lost their horses in the process.

 

Vashira's sleeve was still crusted with dried blood from the gibberling claw.

 

Corinne's cloak was torn at the hem.

 

As for me, I'd freshened up with a Prestidigitation cantrip, but God knows I needed a bath!

 

We looked like people who'd killed something recently and hadn't bothered to clean up after.

 

Apparently that was exactly what this idiot was looking for.

 

He crossed the room with a grin that had no business being that confident.

 

Young. Maybe twenty. Clean hands, clean nails. 

 

He smelled like perfume. Actual perfume.

 

A sword at his hip that was too ornate, too well-maintained. Riding boots that had never seen mud.

 

Handsome little shit. I'll give him that. Dark hair swept back, a jawline that belonged to a Vogue cover.

 

A privileged playboy type.

 

Wait… is that a noble?

 

He swept into a bow. Actual bow.

 

I glanced at the sisters. Vashira was impressed, Corinne not a fucking bit.

 

Ok, he is a noble.

 

"Ladies," he started politely. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but I find myself in desperate need of three women who look like they could ruin someone's evening."

 

He was a smooth fucking talker. I'd fucked so many boys like him that I wanted to vomit right then and there.

 

The waitress brought the wine I'd already ordered to our table before I'd figured out who would pay for it.

 

She didn't raise the issue when I ordered it. Not after our grand entrance.

 

But that was behind us now, since a sponsor had just graced us with his presence.

 

His eyes moved between us. Lingered on Vashira, Corinne's ears, and my cleavage. Back to my eyes. He grinned like he'd been caught stealing.

 

I took a sip.

 

"Is this a foursome proposition?" I smirked.

 

Vashira choked on her drink.

 

Corinne cleared her throat.

 

The boy opened his mouth, closed it, and then smiled.

 

Such a slimeball.

 

"I'm Dallin Lockley, and… I need protection. Stunning, intimidating, armed protection."

 

He looked at the three of us like we were exactly what he'd been praying for.

 

"What's the job?" asked Vashira.

 

"My friend is in a spot of trouble—misunderstanding with the local establishment. Three men are hunting her. Armed men."

 

Oh, so he was just a simp.

 

"What's the pay?" Corinne inquired.

 

"Three hundred gold."

 

I smiled.

 

Dallin led us through the back streets of Ostwick.

 

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Vashira snorted.

 

"'Cause this kind of pay for protection always means trouble," Corinne replied.

 

I did the math in my head myself. Something was fishy about it. I knew it. The sisters knew it. Dallin knew we knew it.

 

I didn't comment—didn't have to. Vashira and Corinne voiced their concerns but didn't argue about taking the job. They were adventurers, and that was the mindset. Take a big risk to earn big bucks. Work hard, play hard, that kind of thing.

 

Not exactly what I preferred in my past life, but I understood it well enough. In the end I'd been about to get killed in my mid-thirties, and only my magic powers had saved me before my angel snatched me out of there.

 

So in this life, I'd decided to be more proactive. Take more risks. Besides, my girls and I had just swept three or four dozen gibberlings yesterday. We were capable.

 

We found Dallin's sweetheart outside a boarded-up warehouse near the east gate. Leaning against the wall like she'd been waiting for hours and wanted us to know it.

 

Tall, raven-haired, sharp-jawed. Late twenties maybe, but working hard to look early twenties. She wore a dress that was trying to be elegant and landing on "available." Rings on three fingers. None of them matched.

 

Her eyes went to Dallin first. Warm. Proprietary. The way you look at something you own.

 

Then her eyes went to us. First the sisters, then me. Back to Dallin. Her jaw tightened for exactly one second before she caught it and rearranged her face into something pleasant.

 

"Dallin. I see you've found your… protectors," she said, looking at me again.

 

"I have! This is—"

 

"I didn't ask for names." She cut him off without looking away from me. "I asked for swords."

 

Her eyes stayed on mine. Assessing. I knew that look. I'd given that look. She was calculating whether I was competition for the resource she was milking.

 

And I was.

 

I smiled at her. She didn't smile back.

 

"You hired women," she said to him. Flat.

 

"You have a problem with that?" Vashira asked In no-bullshit fashion. Being a female adventurer, she probably got this kind of crap a lot, and her tone indicated she wasn't going to take it from anyone—especially not another woman.

 

Obviously Vashira totally misread the situation. Dallin's chick wasn't doubting our capabilities—on the contrary, she instinctively viewed us as competition.

 

Me in particular.

 

As she should.

 

Because small-tits gals like her should know their place in the pecking order!

 

I watched her work through it. The jealousy was real—sharp, instinctive. She didn't want other pussy near her meal ticket. I'd seen it a hundred times in corporate wives at Christmas parties. The way they'd circle their husbands when a new secretary walked in.

 

The tight smile—If their other lips were that tight, they wouldn't have to worry!

 

But this one was smart enough to recalculate. She knew Dallin's weakness because she'd exploited it herself. Pretty women made him stupid. If three pretty women were standing here, it was because Dallin's dick had done the hiring.

 

Not a threat to her gig. Just more tools in the box.

 

Her shoulders relaxed. The smile came back. Real this time.

 

"Well." She pushed off the wall. "I suppose I should explain the situation."

 

She looked at the three of us like a manager briefing contractors.

 

"Three men are coming for me. Merchants. They claim I wronged them—lies, of course. The ravings of bitter, grasping men. They will arrive soon, and they will threaten me. Your job is simple: dispose of them when they do."

 

Vashira snorted, looked at me, then at her sister. Our read of the situation was identical. This was assassination work. Dark alley, evening—somehow merchants were going to 'arrive' here to 'threaten' her.

 

Definitely not her setting up an ambush on them in a dark alley. No, no.

 

I inclined my head, smiled at her and Dallin. "We will act as your guard, with all that it involves—such as 'disposing' of threats to your life. For the agreed price." I said it calmly and looked at Dallin. The sisters nodded slowly. It was clear to me they weren't happy with straight murder.

 

The woman smirked. "Good. And I would advise you—strike fast. Whatever you do, don't speak with them." She paused. Let that sit. "One of them is a mage. His mystic words can sway even the most wise of men. Or women."

 

I raised an eyebrow. So recruiting me in particular made even more sense now. Fight fire with fire, I supposed. That was Dallin's idea.

 

And yeah, that made sense. Don't let a mage get a word in. Obviously.

 

But then.

 

But then I'd said that exact phrase to Brad's lawyer once, before a meeting with a competitor's CFO. "Don't let him talk. Just get the signature." You say that when you know the other side's explanation will fuck your narrative.

 

I looked at her. She looked at me.

 

She knew I knew.

 

She didn't care. She thought I was just another greedy adventurer who'd take the money and swing the sword or spell.

 

I smiled at her again.

 

She smiled back.

 

We were both lying.

Chapter 3: The Law Of The Road

The road was a dirt track with ambitions—hence the name: The Drakeroad.

 

Wagon ruts carved deep by centuries of wheels, filled with mud that sucked at the horses' hooves with every step. I sat on a sack of grain in the back of the merchant's cart, bouncing on every rut like the sacks themselves.

 

The fat, red-faced merchant talked too much. But he had a wagon and was heading to my destination. So I made him feel like my favorite person in this world.

 

Forests pressed close on both sides of the road. Thick, dark, no hiking trails or park rangers. Real wilderness. The things that lived out there could eat you.

 

Real deal.

 

"Bandits have been hitting the trade road more and more," the merchant said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Used to be safe. Now? Not so much. Iron's worth blood now, lady. Literal blood." He winked as a horsefly bit him on the neck. He smashed it with the palm of his hand.

 

I couldn't help but smirk. No insects for me.

 

Another useful spell in A Lady's Companion to the Arts of Flesh and Bloom was Vermin's Last Favorite. A cantrip that worked a bit like a first-circle Shield spell.

 

Well, not exactly a shield from insects—more of a redirection of their appetite. As long as there was any other living creature next to me, flies, mosquitoes, bedbugs, lice, fleas—they'd prefer it. Him or her instead of me.

 

Horseflies preferred the merchant now.

 

By late afternoon, the trees thinned. Then a roof appeared above the treeline.

 

"That's the place," the merchant announced. "The Kindly Rest."

 

The most prominent building around this shithole—I mean, 'hamlet'—was a stone keep which housed the titular inn. This establishment was apparently a popular stop for people traveling on the Daggershore Road.

 

Daggershore—the region I was in, as I'd learned some time ago.

 

Apart from the inn, a wall surrounded a temple, a handful of houses, stables, and an accompanying horse pond.

 

A temple in the fantasy-world sense. The merchant explained that there was actually some witch-doctor—presumably a real magical practitioner—who could heal.

 

Not for free, though. It was a business, after all.

 

A sign hung above the door, painted with a faded pictogram of a tankard. Most common people in this world were probably illiterate, so signs with written words wouldn't make much sense, I supposed.

 

I hopped off the cart before it fully stopped. My legs ached. My ass ached. My everything ached.

 

But I was here.

 

Got inside the inn. Smoke, noise, the stale greasy warmth of too many bodies in a stone room.

 

Getting my clothes soaked by tobacco smoke—or whatever passed for tobacco here—wasn't fun for a lady. But then, when you're lacking every basic hygiene product, reeking of this instead of sweat, rot, or piss was probably better. I suppose.

 

I scanned the room.

 

Merchants at two tables near the hearth, their escorts clustered nearby—armed, drinking, not mixing with the locals. A handful of hamlet folk.

 

Then some types in the far corner who carried themselves like they'd killed things for money and would again tomorrow.

 

I'm not saying that was a fact—couldn't verify it, and it's not like I'm speaking from experience walking into fantasy taverns. Just speaking from the experience of being alive for over three decades and having seen some shit. People who want to look a certain way look that way. Simple as.

 

They could be adventurers—they could be cutthroats—hell, they could be one and the same.

 

Hotel lobby. That's what this was. Some generic chain near a major airport, the kind where businessmen in cheap suits drink overpriced beer while waiting for delayed flights. Except here the flights were caravans and the suits were armor.

 

Without being humble, I could fairly assume that even after months of luxury deprivation at Wickhold Keep, I was probably still the hottest specimen these guys had ever seen.

 

I was never humble, by the way.

 

I did what I could with my own hands and wits, with some help from my favorite title, A Lady's Companion, again. My hair was done up as well as I could manage after hours on the road. Robes open enough to give a decent preview of the cleavage, belt tightened to emphasize the round ass.

 

So. Considering my limited resources, I was dressed to kill.

The bartender was busy with men at the bar. But damn sure he noticed me the moment I entered. That was his job.

 

He was a big guy. A hot barista type.

 

How do guys in this world even get hot like that? Seriously. Even brushing your teeth was a challenge—I knew because I'd done it every day since I ended up in this world. And yet the scribes I fucked, this guy—they still managed to be hot.

 

A bit too hairy, but hot nevertheless.

 

He was too hot to be just a bartender here. The way he carried himself, scanning the place like he owned it. He probably actually did. I'd heard the owner of this place had been some adventurer himself back in the day. Apparently this was some "evil-doer" den he and his party had rescued.

 

That's some Western shit, but I dig it. Wouldn't mind "rescuing" a vital establishment for myself that way.

 

The guy had a sexy snow-white, decently trimmed beard and mustache. Damn, he was giving silver fox vibes.

 

Going by Earth logic, I'd say he was a fit, lean sixty-ish, maybe even sixty-plus. But hey, this was a medieval-ish world. He could be my age.

 

I walked over and addressed the guys gatekeeping access to the bar with their bulky frames.

 

"May I squeeze in?" I chirped in my heavily accented local—yes, it was actually called "Common." Couldn't be any other way, could it?

 

The one on the left turned. Eyes went straight to my face, then south, then back up so fast he nearly pulled a muscle. His drink stopped halfway to his mouth.

 

His buddy was less subtle. Leaned back on his stool, looked me up and down like he was appraising livestock at auction. Slow. Thorough. Grinning the whole time.

 

A perfectly normal reaction, I'd expect. To be honest, the one I deserved after all the hard work I'd put into my look.

 

"Buy you a drink, love?" he said.

 

I let the corner of my mouth curl up.

 

"And what do you think I should drink, handsome?" I lied. As good a time as any to start building tolerance for whatever passed for a buzz in this world.

 

The first one laughed—loud, eager. His buddy stayed cool. Held up two fingers to the bartender without looking away from me.

 

The bartender chuckled.

 

"Someone's gonna pay for that," he promised, and pulled a bottle of something different from what those two had been drinking.

 

Which showed promise, since I really didn't fancy drinking something that smelled like urine.

 

I was kinky, but I had limits.

 

He poured me a glass of deep red liquid. Decent wine—I could smell it before the glass even touched my lips.

 

"Where you from, beautiful?" my sponsor pressed, smiling.

 

"Far away, no doubt," the bartender added in passing.

 

"You wouldn't believe me," I said, touching the glass to my lips and taking a sip.

 

That was actually more than decent wine.

 

"Wouldn't have lived this long if I believed every word from a beautiful woman's mouth," the bartender responded, polishing a tankard with a cloth.

 

"Need a travel companion?" asked my sponsor.

 

I smiled.

 

"And where would you like to travel?"

 

He grinned.

 

"Got a room upstairs. What do you think?"

 

I laughed.

 

"Good sir, I just arrived, and you're already asking if I'm up for an all-night ride?"

 

Now his friend laughed.

 

"I think you came on a little strong with that one."

 

"That's gonna be one gold," the bartender said simply to my sponsor. The other man choked on his drink with laughter.

 

I'd already figured out the local economy enough to know that was well above average for a drink—expensive territory, especially for a bloke who'd probably gushed himself in some one-silver or couple-coppers-worth ale.

 

Well. Me, myself, and I had no money. But I also wasn't about to fuck a guy for a drink. Not this guy, not his friend. So I decided this was a good time to flex some magic.

 

I slid my hand into my pocket to touch some phosphorescent moss I always kept there. I was about to cast Light—I could've used fireflies instead of moss, but I wasn't big on bugs, especially touching them!

 

I cast this spell damn near every day. It was that useful in a world without electricity. I wasn't about to kill my eyes and lungs with candlelight and smoke—fuck no.

 

Because of that, I was pretty proficient at pulling this trick off. A flawless gesture and a quick incantation, and my glass lit up with a glow colored red by the wine inside.

 

"Worth it," I said in passing, like I was just commenting on the drink price.

 

My sponsor's hand froze halfway to his ale. His buddy straightened on his stool.

 

The guy's eyes went from my chest to the glass to my face. Back to the glass. Processing.

 

He reached into his pouch. Dropped the gold on the bar without a word. His hand stayed on the bar after—not getting accidentally touchy-touchy this time. The perimeter had been redrawn.

 

His buddy picked up his own drink. Took a long pull. Eyes forward now, not on me.

 

The bartender chuckled and collected the coin. The tankard he'd been polishing went back on the shelf.

 

"That was a nice flex," he commented, picking up another. Started wiping. Watching me in the reflection of the glass behind the bar.

 

I took a sip.

 

The other guy finished his ale and slammed the tankard on the bar. Dropped a few coppers as well. He put a hand on my benefactor's shoulder.

 

"I've had enough. Marsh, see you tomorrow." He excused himself.

 

Marsh stayed until he finished his drink—he needed to save face. Then he fucked off too. I didn't object, since I had no use for that face. Not to look at, not even to sit on.

 

When he was gone, the bartender sighed.

 

"Poor sods."

 

I raised my glowing glass.

 

"Not that poor," I pointed out.

 

He laughed.

 

"The ladies they can afford don't look like you," he said calmly, then added, "ma'am."

 

Was this motherfucker calling me a whore? Regardless, I put on a feigned, sanctimonious, outraged face.

 

He didn't budge.

 

Cocky.

 

I took a sip. He smiled.

 

"Yeah, no point rushing it, I suppose," he teased. "Not until someone's paying for another drink."

 

I raised an eyebrow.

 

"You think I can't pay for my drinks?"

 

He chuckled.

 

I finished my wine.

 

"I'm sure you can pay. But is it gold?" He raised an eyebrow too.

 

"Would you prefer another gold coin, if you could choose?"

 

He refilled my glowing glass.

 

"So…" he started casually, in passing. "You into the iron crisis?"

 

"In a sense," I answered, taking a sip.

 

"Been in the adventuring trade myself. But you already knew that," he said, working with glasses. I didn't know it—I'd deduced it. The inn was supposedly run by an ex-adventurer, and he was behind the bar looking like he owned it.

 

"Obviously," I said.

 

"Met some folk from the Sunrise Lands before. You're really far from home."

 

I'd read that term during my time at the Keep. It was the equivalent of "here be dragons" for the eastern part of the known world map.

 

"Map" was doing some heavy lifting there. These weren't actual blueprints—filled with symbolism and nonsense, scale totally off.

 

"Anyway, you're in luck," he continued. "There's a group arriving in a day or two. Decent souls," he explained.

 

I sipped my drink.

 

"That's a long time," I said. "You want me to burn money in your place, don't you?" I asked. Of course, I had no money of my own to burn—something he might or might not have known.

 

"Don't worry about it," he said.

 

"I'm not worried," I smiled.

 

He chuckled.

 

So the bartender was in fact the owner of this place—and by this place, I meant the whole Kindly Rest hamlet.

 

Garreth Vane was his name.

 

And he was a great fuck.

 

After the first night I could still chalk it up to being sensory deprived after months of playing with nerdy scribes who I had to teach everything and take the lead in everything. So when I was actually, for once, really taken, I could say it was just a body response.

 

So I fucked him a second night too.

 

He didn't disappoint.

 

Garreth was a yummy piece of meat—on the older side but still manly and bulky. He hobbled, thanks to some nasty injury that forced him to retire from adventuring, but he was no cripple.

 

Not at all.

 

He manhandled me and carried me in his arms like I was nothing—fucking me against the wall or in midair.

 

He was on the average side in the dick department, but he damn well knew how to use his tool. He fucked like a pro—playing with my tits, thumb in, all that good stuff.

 

And he knew how to eat pussy.

 

Somewhere between the first and second night in his bed, I had one of the best fucks of both my lives.

 

My silver fox was a true gentleman—always pulling out.

 

I took some other measures, following advice from A Lady's Companion. But after months spent with horny, selfish scribes, it was refreshing to have a mature partner.

 

So I rewarded my silver hunk with tit jobs and head, finishing with messy facials.

 

"You sure you're not a working girl?" he asked as I rested my head on his sweaty, hairy chest.

 

"Don't be an asshole, darling," I purred and bit his nipple. He laughed and slapped my ass. I huffed and put up minimal resistance as he manhandled me and fucked me doggy one last time.

 

The day after that night, the group Garreth mentioned arrived.

 

"Group" was generous. It was a pair. Two young women.

 

Armed women with real swords and gear. The blonde one walked like she owned whatever room she entered.

 

The other…

 

Pointed ears.

 

Not costume. Not prosthetics. Actual, real, slightly swept ears poking through copper hair.

 

I knew from the books and conversations at the Keep that this world had inhuman fantasy races like dwarves and elves, but seeing one was something else entirely. I tried not to stare.

 

Was she an elf or a half-elf?

 

"Hi, dad," the blonde said.

 

Dad.

 

Garreth smiled and looked at me. "Yuna, these are the adventurers I told you about—Vashira," he nodded at the blonde, then to the other, "and Corinne."

 

So she was half-elf. Garreth dipped his dick in nonhuman pussy. Of course he did.

 

"Oh, I'm sure 'talking' wasn't all you did," Vashira said mockingly.

 

"I have no idea what you're talking about, girl," Garreth lied.

 

He was shit at lying.

 

"Father…" the half-elf started carefully. "Your neck is covered in lovebites. Like… from last night."

 

Garreth bit his lip.

 

"Oh? That's bedbugs," he lied again, then shrugged. "Anyway—stop it, will you? Yuna is a magic user looking to join a fair group. I vouched for you."

 

"I'm sure you did, dad," Vashira rolled her eyes, but then focused on me and inclined her head in a nod.

 

"It is our pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Yuna," her half-elf sister said politely.

 

"Likewise," I nodded back, then looked at Garreth.

 

"So… pulling out wasn't always the case," I smirked.

 

Garreth cleared his throat.

 

"Oh, can you spare me the details?!" Vashira snarled with more annoyance than actual anger. She apparently knew her father well.

 

They both did.

 

"My sister is not wrong," Corinne looked at me calmly, then half-smiled at Garreth. "However, father, I'm relieved that you at least made an effort. I love my sister, but I'd rather not raise another sibling. Again…"

 

Sweet. There were some serious daddy issues here.

 

Marvelous.

 

I looked at them. They both looked about twenty-ish, but Corinne was apparently old enough to look after Vashira—probably due to some elven blood longevity. The half-elf could be my age or even older.

 

"Don't you worry," I said to them, and rolled my eyes hearing Garreth breathe a sigh of relief.

 

Asshole.

 

We moved out the same day.

 

Riding double was an education in suffering.

 

On the second day, my thighs screamed. My ass ached worse than the cart ride to the Kindly Rest. Every goddamn trot step sent a jolt through muscles I didn't know existed.

 

Vashira was behind me now—her turn to share a saddle. I'd been on Corinne's horse that morning, switching at midday to keep the animals fresh.

 

"You really can't ride," Vashira said.

 

We'd started talking today. The first day had been awkward—nothing but business, negotiating how we could help each other. Me being able to cast Light was already a dealmaker.

 

I wasn't thrilled. I knew what that meant—dungeons.

 

Well, we were going to the mines, so there was no other way, I suppose.

 

"Where I'm from, women of my station didn't ride," I said. "Carts, sedan chairs, carriages. Horses were for soldiers and messengers." I bullshitted my answer.

 

Corinne, riding alongside, tilted her head. "Truly? In all the Sunrise Lands?"

 

I pretended to look surprised. "Is it not like that here?"

 

They exchanged a look. Vashira shrugged.

 

"Fair enough."

 

I focused on not falling off.

 

"So," I said. "You're half-sisters. Care to share that story?"

 

"You met our father…" Corinne chuckled, then continued. "My mother was a young elf back then—well, a bit younger than now, I suppose," she clarified. "Father couldn't have been more than twenty, I think. They traveled together, and she was his Road Wife, so he kept collecting what he was entitled to take. And kept doing that… until I came along."

 

That made sense.

 

"He and my mother traveled for a few years, then he provided for me and her. When I was six or seven, she left—went back to her people."

 

Corinne said that like it was the most normal thing in the world. If I read the situation right—and I probably did—a halfbreed like her wasn't welcome among elves, and her mother was considered young even now.

 

But I still felt like I was missing something, so I pressed further.

 

"So she left Garreth and you?"

 

"She didn't leave. I mean… she just stopped adventuring with father. Went back to her people."

 

"Road marriage terminated. Simple as that," Vashira explained, then continued. "My mom was adventuring with dad when Corinne was already like…" she gave her sister a questioning look "Dunno, twenty?"

 

"I think I was just eighteen when she joined us. You were born a year and a half later."

 

"Yeah," Vashira nodded. "I remember Mom from when I was little. She died adventuring. Corinne looked after me since. Dad is… well," she chuckled, "not parent material."

 

"So… he never married since?" I asked.

 

"What? No—dad's a lawful guy, great adventurer. He married every woman in his party, every time," Vashira stated from behind me with some pride.

 

I was really missing something here.

 

"Wait, like… every single one? What if there's more than one woman in the party?"

 

"What about it?" she asked, confused. I looked at Corinne riding next to us, who was already giving me a confused look.

 

"Your father was married to multiple women at the same time?"

 

"He's an adventurer."

 

"So?"

 

"What do you mean, 'so'? He was married under the Law of the Road. I'm confused, Yuna," Vashira said honestly.

 

"Me too," Corinne added.

 

I was confused as fuck myself, so I asked:

 

"Never heard of this Law of the Road. Is it some local thing?" I turned on the horseback to look Vashira in the face, then at Corinne too.

 

They were dumbstruck.

 

"The Law of the Road," Vashira said slowly. "You don't have that where you're from?"

 

"No."

 

Corinne pulled her horse closer. "We assumed it was universal. Known everywhere adventurers travel."

 

"It isn't where I'm from."

 

Vashira exhaled through her nose. "Alright. The Law of the Road is how adventuring parties handle… relationships. A man and a woman—or a man and more than one woman—bond on the road. He's her Road Husband. She's his Road Wife. It gives her standing. Protection. Legitimacy. If she gets pregnant, the child is recognized as legitimate. Born in wedlock."

 

Okay.

 

Okay…

 

What the actual fuck?!

 

"He had obligations," Vashira continued. "Provision, protection, child support if it came to that. Couldn't abandon a Road Wife while she was pregnant—hardest rule there is. Break it, and you're an infamous—an oathbreaker. Social death. No guild contracts, no tavern service, no one parties with you. Your name is poison."

 

Okay. At least that. It made some sense. This was a pretty standard patriarchal, Dark Ages-style world, and women who took up adventuring were on the hook. That was actually kinda neat, in a way.

 

"And the ladies?" I asked.

 

"Fidelity," Corinne said. "Operational loyalty. Don't betray the party, don't take a second Road Husband behind his back. Don't desert him in the field."

 

Okay, so this was some fucking harem heaven for manchild fuckboy dickheads. This was where my "guardian" asshole angel dumped me.

 

Great.

 

Fucking great!

 

After a short rest, I was on Corinne's horse again.

 

We were still discussing the Law of the Road.

 

I was flabbergasted that I'd completely missed this in my readings at the Keep.

 

No—I didn't miss it. It was just never mentioned, not even in passing. Not because it wasn't important, but because it was so fundamental it went without saying. Like breathing.

 

It was like that… what did they call it in that Netflix show my boss watched on the bedroom projector after we fucked? The Law of Surprise. Something that passed as common knowledge for all inhabitants of the world.

 

That was total fantasy bullshit, of course.

 

But… I was in a fucking fantasy world now.

 

"Road marriage," Vashira was explaining. "It's not permanent like a household marriage. It dissolves—formally, before witnesses. Clean break. Both our mothers were free to."

 

"What if there's only one girl in a party full of guys?" I asked.

 

"Adventuring party has a leader. He takes it upon himself to be the Road Husband," said Corinne.

 

"And the rest? Just not fucking that girl?"

 

"Not if she's not into it. That would be rape, wouldn't it?" Vashira pointed out simply with a shrug. "Who would travel with a party like that?"

 

I processed that.

 

"What if the woman gets knocked up by another guy?"

 

Corinne shrugged.

 

"If a Road Wife gets pregnant, by law the father is her Road Husband."

 

"Yeah," Vashira smirked. "That's the reason you get some half-orc adventurers."

 

"Oh, shut up, little sister!" Corinne scoffed at her.

 

I didn't get the context.

 

Until I got it.

 

Oh fuck…

 

That wasn't such chauvinist dog shit after all. I mean, it was—but it had some actual use. The guy—party leader, merchant employer, mercenary commander, you name it—could have a harem of wives among his group. But if anything pregnancy-related happened to them…

 

Apparently anything.

 

The Road Husband was not only a legal father but also a cover. A way out with a face, without the stigma of shame.

 

And in many cases you never even fucked this guy—especially if you weren't hot or just didn't end up with someone like Garreth Vane.

 

That's what the sisters told me.

 

I was surprised when they said most guys weren't jerks about it. It wasn't a private harem first and foremost—it was a mercenary arrangement. Business. Involving people with weapons who knew how to fight and killed for a living. You didn't want to make enemies of your work colleagues or staff, I suppose.

 

I smirked.

 

I… kind of dug it.

 

Corinne looked at me sideways. "So… how do people where you're from handle it? Women traveling with men, adventuring?"

 

I didn't have a good answer for that. What the fuck should I say? We're civilized?

 

"Where I'm from," I said carefully, "we handle things differently."

 

Vashira chuckled.

 

"Well, here we're civilized.”

Chapter 2: A Lady's Companion to the Arts of Flesh and Bloom

"No, please, no! Wait!" I panicked—and who wouldn't? I was being dropped from the fucking sky!

"Sir! Your Highness! Great One! My angel! Please!" Some massive body of water was closing in fast. Middle of the fucking sea—no way I'm gonna survive that!

"Whatever I said, I'm sorry! I don't want to die!" And the shore—I could actually crash into the cliffs!

"You fucking asshole!"

I plunged into cold salty liquid—dark and freezing. I was thrashing my limbs in every direction. Somehow I didn't die just then and managed to surface.

Only to be pulled under a moment later.

That repeated back and forth for some time.

Until I passed out.

I woke up staring at a stone ceiling.

The fuck?

Rough blanket below my chin. My body ached like I'd been the main event at some serious office party.

I looked down. White linen shirt. Long, loose, medieval-looking.

Chemise.

The word surfaced before the memory did. Then it hit me—shoulders back, chin up, playing the innocent village girl for a CEO while he called me "wench" and tried not to cum in thirty seconds.

I ran my hands down my body quickly. Nothing broken. Nothing missing. Didn't feel like someone had fucked me either.

Good sign, considering someone had dressed me and put me here while I was completely out.

The room smelled like dust and candle wax.

Looked like I'd been saved by nuns or monks.

I stood up and explored the room—cell, really. A glassless window looking out over the cliff and the open sea. Yeah, they must've pulled me from the shore. Took me for some castaway. Which I technically was, I suppose.

Next to the window sat a bucket—the toilet arrangement became instantly clear. Sweet.

There wasn't much else to explore in the cell, so I grabbed the door handle. The door opened. Another good sign—I wasn't trapped.

I stepped through the doorway and had to duck my head.

The frame was low. Too low for me—and I wasn't exactly a giant back home. Five-seven, five-eight in heels. So either this place was built for short people, or I was on the taller end here.

I didn't know if it was good or bad at this point. I supposed it was good to be a tall woman, but if I gave off the vibe of some giant Amazon, I'd kill myself...

I straightened up on the other side. Stone corridor stretched ahead. Torches on the walls—actual fucking torches, not themed restaurant props. Rough-hewn stone, arched ceiling, the whole aesthetic.

Exactly what I'd braced myself for. Medieval castle. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I rounded the corner and walked straight into a wall of robes and belly.

"Fuck—"

Short, chubby, balding on top with a fringe of white hair wrapped around the back of his skull like a monk's tonsure gone wrong. Round face, ruddy cheeks, little dark eyes that widened when I almost knocked him flat. He stumbled back a step. I didn't.

He was maybe an inch or two shorter than me. Old. European-looking—whatever that meant here. Big nose, heavy brow, the kind of face that looked like it belonged on a beer stein.

He clutched a bundle of cloth to his chest and stared up at me with his mouth open.

Great. First contact.

We quickly established that he didn't speak Japanese, Chinese, Korean, English, Spanish, French, or Russian. And I didn't speak whatever he was throwing back at me, either.

 

More voices echoed down the corridor. Footsteps.

The old man turned and started calling out. Within seconds, three more rounded the corner. Then two more behind them. All men. All wearing the same rough robes.

Some of them were young. Teenagers, maybe—hard to tell when you didn't know the local aging curve.

Then I spotted the tall one in the back. My height. Maybe even a hair taller.

Good. Not a freak here.

All male. Every single one. Monastery, convent—whatever. Male-only. I watched their faces. Some blushed. Didn't see women often, I supposed.

Wait...

One of these fuckers found me, didn't he?

One or more.

Naked on the beach.

I smirked.

Bet there's been some serious meat-beating going on...

And then I felt it again. The force. Is that what they called it here? No, fuck it—that space samurai Star Wars thing. No, here it was warp, wave, or something like that. Anyway—I felt it. It was happening, right there, from one of them. I locked onto one of the old guys—moving his hands, moving his lips. I tensed. Can I attack like in the boardroom?

But he wasn't hostile—they weren't.

"Greetings, fair lady."

I understood him. Just like that—mid-sentence—the words stopped being gibberish and started being words. One of the older monks had his hands raised, lips still moving. Some kind of language spell. Handy.

I bowed my head. Corporate reflex. You smile, you nod, you figure out the power structure before you start making demands.

"Greetings to you too, gentlemen. I take it you're the ones responsible for me being here, in these garments?" I said, testing how this even worked. I broke the sentence into three different languages I knew. Nevertheless, the guy understood me perfectly now.

"That is indeed. We found you abandoned by the sea... stripped of your clothes."

"Such a noble act on your part, good sir. I am Lady Yuna..." I started. He'd already called me lady, so why not take it further? Anyway, just look at me—I was probably like a goddess to them.

"...of House Park..." That was my surname, so no lie there.

"...First daughter of Areum." Whatever. The guys got stiffer.

"I am Master Corwyth, Abbot of Wickhold Keep," he said.

So this is where I was now. Not like it told me anything at this moment.

"I take it you are from the far lands?"

"Indeed, Master Corwyth," I said. "Far east from this place. I was part of a merchant expedition. Did..." I made a dramatic pause. "Did you recover any of my men or cargo?" I asked, really playing it like I hoped that was the case.

The Abbot made a polite face intended to brace me for horrible news. I played into it.

"Not... yet, my lady. It appears you were the only castaway in the area."

"The Daggershore is dangerous to navigate even without the storm, my lady," added a younger man from beside his boss. "The Treaty of Navigation by Ron the Bold is explicit about it," he added like a fucking nerd—which most of them probably were.

The Abbot shot the boy a look, apparently scolding him for not making the situation better. This was probably the moment when a fair lady should start to lament.

"Oh..." I gasped. Looked around, then at the Abbot. "It appears I am at your mercy, good sir."

 

The Abbot folded his hands. "Wickhold Keep is not an inn, my lady, nor a hospice. We are an order of scribes—custodians of the written word. Our walls hold the greatest library on this side of the continent, and our purpose is its preservation."

He paused. Weighed his next words.

"That said—we are not without understanding of your predicament."

Here it comes.

"I could not help but notice you attempted several languages when addressing us." His eyes sharpened—just a fraction. Behind the grandfatherly mask, the gears were turning. "We possess no record of any of them. In all our collections—thousands of volumes—we have nothing that matches."

Fucking nerds. There you go. Okay, let's play...

"May I ask what languages those were?"

"Hangugeo, Zhōngwén, Nihongo, Russkiy, English, Français, and Español," I listed, basking in the awe and lust for knowledge that burned in their eyes. "I can write in them as well—in all their distinct scripts," I added, smirking on the inside.

The Abbot's eyebrows rose. Barely, but still.

I saw it then already. The angle. The deal being assembled in real time behind those old eyes. He wasn't offering charity—he was scoping an acquisition.

"My lady," he said carefully. "We are keepers of knowledge. What you carry in your mind—languages and scripts unknown to this library—would be of immense value to this order. If you were willing to teach them, transcribe them, perhaps create rudimentary dictionaries or transliteration guides... we could offer you a place here. As a scribe."

He let that settle.

"In exchange, you would have lodging, meals, and access to learn the tongues of this Realm. And..." another careful pause, "...access to the library, for your own study. Within the bounds of reason."

Limited access. Not full. Limited. He was holding the good stuff behind a paywall—classic move. Give the new hire the starter package, make her earn the clearance.

Well. We'll see about that. I fucking need to know this world and this place is perfect.

For now.

I let my face soften. Let relief flood my features just enough.

"Master Corwyth," I breathed. "You are most generous."

We were both smiling. Both thinking we'd robbed the other blind.

But only I was right.

 

Turned out the monastery's main purpose was looking after a vast library. Thousands of titles. I could probably fit the whole thing on a laptop back on Earth, but here? Here it was a big deal. Hence the order of scribe-monks.

 

I wasn't the only woman they'd seen. But the way they looked at me—blushing, stammering, avoiding eye contact—I might as well have been.

The word they used was "esteemed."

I knew what that meant. Well-developed. Wax-smooth. Healthy hair. Porcelain teeth—all teeth. I gave off aristocracy without even trying. A modern woman with a body worth killing for? In this medieval European sausage fest? I was top-tier nobility by default.

I didn't correct them.

 

Being a polyglot was oversold, at least the way it was marketed. I'd put in real time and effort learning languages, but depth and breadth traded off—a jack of many was rarely a master of any single one at the highest level. Part of what got called "polyglot skill" was really just performance: pattern-matching enough phrases to convince people I was fluent, which helped me get my way socially even when the depth wasn't there. What I actually had was narrow, topic-specific fluency—I was solid within a given domain or subject, but I went off the rails outside that lane.

But that was enough. And without being humble, I could say they found me a real prodigy here.

I'm not humble, by the way.

Turned out, the scribe thing wasn't a huge stretch.

I'd spent years practicing calligraphy. Korean first. Then Japanese, because kanji looked impressive on restaurant menus. Chinese brush work I picked up from a Seoul art professor I was fucking for a semester. He thought I was cultivating my soul.

The hand-eye was there. The precision was there.

The tool was wrong.

Brush isn't quill. Different pressure, different angle, different everything.

But I learned fast.

 

That's how I 'paid' for my access to knowledge.

Access—that's what was being sold here.

Among thousands of books here, hundreds were about magic.

Magic. "The Art," the monks called it. Just another discipline. Learnable. Teachable.

Everyone could learn it. Same way everyone back home could become a nuclear engineer.

If you had the money. The time. The resources.

The hierarchy was clear as day: magicians were the top dogs in this world. I dug it, since I was one of them.

No surprise it was a male-dominated field, at least in this part of the world—the Realm, or whatever they called themselves. The world was big, but I didn't have much hope for some matriarchal great power lurking in the political spectrum. Not like I gave a fuck anyway.

There were female mages in this world, just like there were female rulers in real-world history, or warriors. That was just how any world worked, apparently.

 

Even the Comprehend Languages spell the Abbot cast that first day needed components—a pinch of soot and salt, on top of gestures and words.

He used it from time to time to explain things to me in the first weeks as I still struggled with the local language. He couldn't do it indefinitely, though. I never saw him cast it more than once a day, and the effect lasted about an hour—which I could confirm since, even with only one mechanical clock in the whole Keep, we still had plenty of hourglasses.

Obviously, I started practicing that spell myself since the components were easy to obtain. Most of the time you needed components—snake eyes, rat balls, bird feathers—but also fucking diamonds or rubies. On top of that, there was a limit to how many spells you could cast per day or week. The mind just couldn't take more. You needed to build resistance, like to poison or pain.

The formulas themselves were gibberish in a long-forgotten or straight-up fake language.

I had an innate ability—being a sorceress—so I didn't need to spend years learning theory like those guys.

I was a natural.

That's just genetics, or rather 'the gift.'

It fucking worked! I could do magic!

But it was exhausting, especially in the beginning. I could do it twice a day at first, and I was totally knackered.

In time, though, I built my own resistance.

A bit like anal stretching.

Eventually, I could cast Comprehend Languages to cover most of my daily life in the Keep. I was still learning the local language, but I could multitask and spend time on other things too.

Like obviously learning more magic!

Magic tomes weren't especially restricted—for an untrained mind, the pages were harmless.

Well, my mind wasn't trained per se, but I could try to learn whatever I wanted.

As long as I could transcribe it.

As long as I could transcribe it at my own expense.

As long as I could cover component costs.

And finally, as long as I could actually reproduce the technique precisely—which might take one attempt, but might need several, multiplying cost and time.

So in practice, I couldn't learn much.

For now.

My magical aptitude was quickly noticed, followed by the revelation that I was a sorcerer. My gift was rare, but to these librarians it wasn't unheard of. It actually played nicely into the narrative pushed by the books on the subject that formed the foundation of their worldview: sorcerers were unpredictable and undisciplined fools, often females who needed to be shown their errors by true scholars—wizards, often male.

So all those guys who practiced some magic here were eager to "help me."

I dug it.

I played into the narrative. Made big puppy eyes of awe as I listened to their teachings, accidentally bumped into them in the corridors, and so on.

They needed to show me the right way, right?

Well, I needed scrolls and components to practice.

Sponsor me, boys. Oh... you're so nice...

I knew the cost before it ever crystalized in their heads—or rather, their testicles.

I entered an informal component exchange market among the Keep's magic practitioners. Nothing like diamonds or rubies—just certain eggs, plants, mold, teeth.

On my part, I was the only supplier of "maiden pubes" and "moon blood."

It wasn't hard to notice that demand was highest among my biggest sponsors.

I couldn't find a spell that actually required this kind of ingredient in any book I had access to. So I came to several conclusions:

They had one—probably taken from the library and hidden from me.

They planned to use it on me.

Obviously it was some seduction spell...

Boys... They could've just asked. I would've fucked them for something they could provide, but they were too antisocial to put it straight, so they went with overkill.

I played... no—I was forced to participate in too many D&D sessions to know how those boys think.

Well, in the end, they'd basically secured the type of book I was most interested in. Now I just needed to collect.

I chose my victim and proceeded. One of the quirks of the Keep was that most doors to the ordinary scribes' cells had no lock—just a basic latch on the inside. Locking mechanisms cost money in a medieval-ish world, I supposed.

I looked between the cracks in the door.

He was standing in the middle of his cell. Naked. Surrounded by six candles arranged in a half-circle. Eyes closed. One hand pinching his nipple hard enough to leave a mark. The other wrapped around his cock, working it with a slow, deliberate rhythm, edging himself.

His lips were moving. Reciting something. Phonetic gibberish—the verbal component for whatever spell he was drilling into his skull.

Ah. Daily spell preparation.

And there it was. The big secret. The mystical, arcane, prestigious practice of wizardry that every pasty fucker at the gaming table described in hushed, reverent tones. "My wizard spends the morning in deep meditation, preparing his spells for the day."

Yeah. This is what that looks like.

This. A lonely kid yanking his dick in a candlelit room, edging himself just long enough to hit the right neurological frequency to imprint a cantrip.

One hour of uninterrupted study.

In D&D sessions, these manchildren would describe their wizards with such dignity. Posture straight. Voice measured. "Aldric the Wise consults his spellbook, committing three new spells to memory."

Committing them to memory. With his cock in his hand.

I smiled.

I was a sorcerer, not a wizard like him, like the rest of them. I was the magic. Hence, I didn't practice similar things.

Not like I didn't finger myself—God knows I did!

But the concept was right. Sexual energy as a conduit.

I was really getting into this magic thing. Which made sense, since I was born into it, I supposed.

I was no picklock by any modern sense of the word, but the bar wasn't high for the task before me: old, worn-out wood, decades if not centuries of use, wooden door fitted to a wooden frame.

I inserted a knife between the crack and lifted the latch.

I pushed it open.

He gave a cute little scream.

Not a war cry. Not a manly shout of alarm. A high-pitched, throat-tearing shriek—the sound a virgin makes when his mom walks in on him watching porn.

Which I was—in the sense: the mother he would like to fuck.

And I could make this happen.

He scrambled backward, knocked over two candles, tripped, and hit the stone floor hard. His cock was still hard, slapping against his thigh as he flailed.

I smirked and moved forward. Seductively.

"Get—get out! GET OUT!"

I opened my robe and showed him my boobs. That froze him and shut him up.

How do you like this magic, Edric, you little cummer? I thought—but said:

"Relax, Brother Edric. Let me help you with your studies." I grabbed his hard cock—which was quite a dick, to be honest. I mean, not big-big, but in the right size zone: above average, below porn freaks.

Suffice to say, he was not prepared for someone stroking his cock while sucking his balls and still maintaining eye contact.

He spilled fast.

Also—about his and his fellow conspirators' "masterplan."

Five guys were working on a spell to seduce me.

As much as I despised these nerds, I couldn't deny that it flattered my ego too.

So this was where all my pubes and period blood had been going.

After sexually subjugating Edric, I took all those jerks one by one. Within a matter of days, they were orbiting around me like cummers should—around sun-hot pussy.

And that was how I got to the book they'd been playing with all this time:

A Lady's Companion to the Arts of Flesh and Bloom.

Thin. Handwritten in a careful, feminine script—didn't take a genius to figure out a woman had authored it.

Pages were divided into sections. Depilation methods—resin, ash, sugar paste. Moon-cycle tracking charts. Herbal remedies for cramps, bloating, and heavy flow. Contraceptive tinctures, dosages, and warnings about which herbs would poison you if you mixed them wrong.

Then—makeup. Pigment recipes. How to darken lashes with burnt almond. Lip stains from crushed berries and beeswax.

And the last chapter?

On the Arts of Soft Binding.

Love magic. Attraction charms. Sympathetic rituals involving hair, blood, and semen.

Someone had dog-eared that chapter. Pages were soft and worn at the edges from repeated handling.

That was the first book here I read back-to-back, like a dozen times over. Life without running water, waxing with candle, shaving with a straight razor, and shitting in a bucket was a nightmare!

Plus once a month I was out for a couple of days.

Plus there wasn't a single bra in this fucking place.

And my ass was in constant pain from all the anal. I was a grown woman—I had my needs, but I wasn't risking getting fat with one of the young scribes' maggots, no matter how hot the guy looked.

Because Erick and two other of my boys were actually hot in that sense.

I gave them head, ass, let them suck or even finger me—but pussy was off the table.

I got horny only once.

Once!

And was shitting myself until my next period. That was actually the only period in both my lives that I was genuinely happy to have.

For one day...

I needed to leave this place. This fucking monastery full of old farts and a few younger ones I'd convinced myself were handsome enough to fuck.

I was a fucking sorceress in a magical world. I was better than that.

I was losing my fucking mind.

Not because of the stone walls. Not because of the bucket toilet. Not even because of the food—boring, bland, brown. I'd survived worse in college.

No. It was the lack of basic fucking dignity.

No moisturizer. No proper soap. No razor blades—just a fucking straight knife that I had to sharpen myself. No bras. No panties worth the name—just rough linen shifts that chafed in places I didn't want chafed. My skin, which I'd spent years cultivating into a weapon, was drying out. My hair was losing its shine. I was turning into one of them.

A monk.

I was becoming a fucking monk.

And the worst part? I couldn't just leave. That was the bitch of it. This place—Wickhold Keep—operated on a simple rule. You want in? Bring a book. A good book. Something the library doesn't already have.

The Abbot stretched the rules for me when he decided to let me in, but I'd bought my way in with languages. Four writing systems, multiple living tongues, transliteration frameworks. A one-time deposit. I couldn't just walk out the front door and come back Tuesday. If I left, I needed re-entry currency. A tome. A rare one. And those didn't exactly grow on trees outside these walls.

So I was stuck. Mining.

Every day, I copied. Not just the dictionaries they assigned me—I was building my own private collection of notes. Charms. Cantrips. Component lists. Herbal references. Anything I could get my hands on through the Keep's internal economy. Favors traded, components bartered, a blowjob here and there for access to a restricted shelf.

Tedious.

But necessary. Because when I walked out of here, I was walking out with enough notes to keep practicing on my own. Not master-level stuff. Not the shit locked behind diamond-component paywalls. But the basics. The survival kit.

Weeks turned into months. My note pile grew. My calligraphy improved. Didn't need to rely on Comprehend Languages to have conversations anymore. Apparently I had a "seductive accent"—I dug it!

And then the traders started talking.

Supply caravans brought food, candles, parchment, ink. The drivers gossiped. Always gossiped. And lately, the gossip had shifted from weather and crops to something else.

Iron.

Something was wrong with the iron supply. Mines near some town—I couldn't pronounce it properly yet—were producing less. Quality was dropping. Prices were climbing. Bandits were hitting shipments. The Realm's economy was getting squeezed over metal.

I shrugged it off.

Iron. Fucking iron. Not dragons. Not demons. Not some dark lord rising from a tomb. Ore and metallurgy. Mining problems. Probably some vein ran dry or some lord mismanaged his operation. Mundane. Boring. The kind of real-world problem that didn't come with an epic questline.

But it was causing a stir. And where there was a stir, there was money. And where there was money, there were adventuring parties forming. The Abbot mentioned it in passing—one of the supply drivers had told him about groups gathering at a tavern, a day's ride from the Keep. Adventurers looking into the iron shortage. Hiring muscle, hiring scouts.

Hiring magic users.

That was my exit.

I didn't need a dragon to slay. I needed a party with funding. Real funding—the kind that bought components, rare books, proper equipment. The kind that could get me to a bigger city where I could actually buy things. Luxury things. Soap that didn't feel like sandpaper. A real razor. Linen that didn't make me want to scream.

And maybe—maybe—if the adventure went well, I'd come back to the Keep with a recovered tome or stolen manuscript. Re-entry currency. A round-trip ticket.

One more week of copying. One more week of notes. Then I'd be gone!

Chapter 1: Suffer No Witch to Live

The meeting was scheduled for 11 PM.

 

That should have been my first warning.

 

Fourteen years of reading silences between words, pauses between emails, the way men adjust their collars when they're about to do something cruel. I built my entire existence in the spaces where powerful men become stupid.

 

So when the CEO's calendar invite popped up at 9:47 PM for a private meeting at the company building's executive suite, I felt that cold tickle at the base of my skull.

 

Fool me once, you absolute fucks.

 

I texted back: "Coming sweetie. Should I wear the black dress?"

 

Three dots. Then: "Whatever's comfortable."

 

Whatever's comfortable. Not "the one I like" or "something for me." This boy always had an opinion. He always wanted input. He was a consumer, through and through. Software, steaks, women. Same energy.

 

No opinion meant no tomorrow.

 

I put on the black dress anyway.

 

The mirror didn't lie. That was why I loved it.

 

I unhooked my bra and let it fall. My tits spilled free — heavy, round, mature. The kind that swing when you ride a man hard enough to make him forget his own name. I cupped them from beneath, lifting them, feeling their weight. Nipples fat and pink, already hardening from the cold air or maybe just from watching myself. Didn't matter. Both got me wet.

 

I shimmied out of my panties, letting them pool at my ankles. Stepped out. Stood there bare.

 

There she is.

 

Hips wide enough to grab fistfuls of. Waist I could still wrap both hands around. Stomach flat but soft — not gym-hard, *woman*-soft. The kind that drives men insane at three AM when they're drunk and willing to trade stock options for five more minutes pressed against it.

 

I turned slightly, checking the ass. Round. Full. The kind that fills a man's hands and makes him stupid.

 

Between my legs, smooth. Waxed that morning. Plump outer lips, neat and tight. A pussy worth killing for. Literally, apparently.

 

I pulled the black dress up. No bra. No panties. Both would ruin the line.

 

Let them wonder.

 

I smiled. The mirror smiled back.

 

Perfection.

 

The elevator to the 42nd floor took exactly ninety seconds. I counted.

 

My heels clicked against marble. The executive suite doors were already open. Inside, the CEO sat at the head of the conference table. Beside him was the CFO, the pathetic sack of shit who wouldn't stop talking about Critical Role campaigns after two drinks. At the far end stood a woman I didn't recognize. Asian, maybe Korean. Young. Pretty. New.

 

Ah. There it is.

 

"So who's this?" I smiled, sitting down, crossing my legs. The dress rode up exactly three inches above the knee. I'd measured it in the mirror.

 

"She's the new VP of Operations," Brad said. "Starting next quarter."

 

"Next quarter." I tilted my head. "I wasn't informed."

 

"There's a lot you weren't informed about, Yuna."

 

Yuna.

 

Not "sweetheart." Not "babe." Not any of the pet names he'd whispered into my hair while I rode him in his corner office. Just Yuna.

 

I looked at the CFO. The little worm wouldn't meet my eyes. Studying his laptop, hand trembling. He was soft. He'd told me once, drunk and pathetic, that I reminded him of his mother.

 

You have no idea what I'd do to your mother.

 

"The merger requires certain," the CEO paused, selecting his word with care, "restructuring."

 

"Restructuring." I let the word hang. "And where do I fit in the new structure?"

 

He didn't answer.

 

The Korean woman did.

 

"You don't."

 

There it fucking was.

 

I knew things. About the merger. About the offshore accounts in Singapore. About the "consulting fees" paid to regulators in Shenzhen. About the girl in Taipei who disappeared. I knew all of it because powerful men become stupid after sex, and I was very, very good at sex.

 

I thought that made me untouchable.

 

I was wrong.

 

"You know I won't sign an NDA," I said lightly, examining my nails. "We've been through this before."

 

"No one's asking you to sign anything."

 

The Korean slut stood. Reached into her jacket pocket. My eyes tracked the movement.

 

The syringe was small. Clinical. Almost elegant.

 

"I'm sorry," the CFO whispered from the far end of the table.

 

"Don't be," I said, still smiling. "You were always a terrible lay."

 

The Korean bitch moved fast.

 

So apparently being a fuck toy wasn't enough anymore; my replacement was some kind of assassin as well. I kicked the table hard, sending it sliding into the CFO's knees. He cursed. The syringe caught air instead of my neck.

 

I was up and moving toward the door when a company security officer came in.

 

Big. Not some techbro soft boy, gym-hard. Built like a fucking problem. Borys, Russian or something like that. I actually fucked him once; for once, he was actually fun. Now his hand closed around my wrist like a shackle.

 

I drove my stiletto heel into his instep. He grunted, grip loosening for a half-second.

 

I almost made it to the hallway.

 

The fire extinguisher caught me at the base of the skull.

 

The floor was cold against my cheek. Vision swimming red and black. I could taste copper, and something else, something chemical. The syringe. They'd used it while I was down.

 

My body was becoming heavy. Sluggish.

 

Above me, voices.

 

"...tell the press it was a heart attack..."

 

"...the Singapore files, we need to find where she kept..."

 

"...should've done this years ago..."

 

I stared at the ceiling lights. They blurred, doubled, tripled.

 

Then the panic hit.

 

Not the cold clinical kind. The real kind. The animal kind. The kind that smells its own death and screams.

 

"Wait—" I tried to speak. My tongue was thick. "Wait, wait, wait, please—"

 

"Please."

 

The word tasted foreign in my mouth. I never said please. Please was for weak women. Please was for victims.

 

"Brad—" I gasped to the CEO. "Brad, I won't— I won't say anything, I swear, I swear on my—"

 

"Shut her up."

 

"Brad, please, I'll sign whatever you want, I'll— I'll disappear, you'll never see me again, I'll go to— to fucking Bali, I'll—"

 

My fingers clawed at the carpet. Useless. Numb.

 

"Brad, I sucked your cock in that bathroom— I let you— I did everything you—"

 

"Jesus, just do it already."

 

"Marcus! Marcus, you soft little shit, I know you're there, I know you can hear me, tell them— tell them I'll— I'll fuck you both, right now, right here, I don't care, I'll do anything—"

 

My voice broke. Something wet ran down my cheek. Tears? When was the last time I cried? I couldn't remember.

 

"Please. I don't want to die!"

 

Borys' shoe pressed down on my throat.

 

"—just let me—"

 

"Please—"

 

Pressure.

This is so unfair.

Blackness. Darkness. It…

 

Blink.

 

Something behind my eyes ruptured. Not a blood vessel. Not only that. Something else, curled tight, like it had been waiting for the moment I was desperate enough to wake it.

 

This moment was now.

 

I opened my mouth and what came out wasn't a scream. It was a wall of force that hit Borys like a collapsing building. His eyes turned black. Blood erupted from his ears, his nose, his mouth. His grip on my throat vanished.

 

His skull caved inward.

 

Just like that.

 

And I fucking loved it.

Just like those jerks were always saying, how it plays out in their stupid games. To say I had power was wrong; it was just... like realizing you have a sense of smell, or sight. I was probably tripping from fuck-knows-what they injected me with, or the fucking fire extinguisher had already mushed my brain and I was just experiencing it leaking onto the carpet behind my cracked skull. But hell, if this were just an illusion, I'd take it!

 

I despised all those manchildren's fantasies, manga, anime, D&D, RPGs, games. I spent years playing along with those freak fucks, smiling, even participating in some cosplay fuck-fests for them. If my dying fantasy is to actually be the one with the powers and use them on them, I'm gonna fucking murder them in ways they could never imagine in their wildest, hentai-stained, fucked-up dreams!

 

Borys's body hadn't even finished hitting the floor when something grabbed me from behind.

 

An odd trip, considering I was lying on the floor.

 

Not hands. Not claws. Something colder. Something that felt like the floor itself had grown teeth and swallowed me whole. I sank backward through the carpet, through the concrete, through reality itself, like a stone dropping through water.

 

Then there was nothing.

 

Dark. Silent. Endless.

 

And the sound of wings.

 

Massive wings. Each beat pushed warm air against my bare skin. My body hung suspended, weightless, held by talons that gripped my shoulders with impossible gentleness. Below me—nothing. Above me—nothing. Just the rhythm of flight and the heat of golden eyes watching from somewhere in the black.

 

"Gotcha!"

 

The voice was triumphant. Genderless. Massive.

 

A shape emerged from the darkness. Scales like black mirrors, each etched with runes. Wings that blotted out stars I couldn't see. A face too hot and too uncanny to be human.

 

"Heh. Relax, little witch. I'm your guardian angel. Angel… or devil. In that sterile reality of yours, that's what you'd call me, right?"

 

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Could only stare.

 

The thing smiled. Its fangs caught light from nowhere.

"I don't want to die," I said it just to hear my own voice, if nothing else. And I heard it, but that wasn't proof I was alive. People heard their own voices in their own heads all the time.

 

"I figured as much," the thing, I started. it interrupted

 

"Seriously? ‘The thing’?”

 

"You read my mind!?"

 

"Don't flatter yourself, witch. The word 'reading' is doing the heavy lifting here," it chuckled. I bit my lip, trying hard not to think about it.

 

"Oh, that's cute." It then added, "It? Thing? I'm not expecting much, but you could get more creative."

 

I just... I started to think, and then I said it out loud—whatever that meant here.

 

"I wasn't sure what gender you were."

 

"Oh, this thing again? How many do you have?"

 

"I have one," I said.

 

"You are such a bitch, aren't you?"

 

"And you're a dick!" I spat, deciding this angel fuck was a guy. Yeah, he was definitely a guy.

 

"Sure, babe, call me a guy," he chuckled.

 

"Stop reading my mind!"

 

"Mind?" he laughed. "Do you see yourself in your body? Oh, you are, aren't you? So lame... Tell me, witch, are you breathing air? Can you see anything?"

 

I blinked, or thought I did. I was in... emptiness. Then I could see my body—a nude body, my dress having disappeared somehow. I could see the creature that held me, clearly. But... what was the light source? How was I able to see...

 

...in the dark?

 

"I don't want to be dead," I cried.

 

"You selfish little shit," my 'angel' growled.

 

"Don't angel me now, witch," he grumbled. "Just because you didn't want to die, you decided to pollute a perfectly good sterile reality with your foul sorcery," he accused.

 

"Polluted? They wanted to kill me!"

 

"So what! You're just one soul out of billions in that sterile universe, from the moment it was created by some god, the Big Bang, or whatever nonsense you mortals believe down there! And you dared—dared!—to unleash your corruption."

 

"Fuck you," I spat. "Go fuck yourself, asshole!" That probably wasn't the smartest thing, but I was a woman, a mess of emotions.

 

The angel snarled, then sighed.

 

"It is not your judgment day... yet," he clarified. "And to your, well... credit; all this experience makes you a person of a certain hmm... level."

 

His talons shifted on my shoulders. Not painfully. A reminder.

 

"Just don't let it go to your head, this is only the first level. Still, most mortals live their entire lives, no matter how subjectively long, living a zero-level existence, literally and figuratively. Eh, zero-levelers. How many lives does it take for someone to show how much they deserve... Hell." He paused. "Or Heaven, of course..."

 

*No fucking way,* I thought.

 

"No fucking way!" I said.

 

"Precisely," the angel interjected.

 

"So this is some isekai setup. So these fucks, these boys with too much money, what they dream about—it's all actually true." I looked up at my angel. "So what now? I'm going to get reborn as some village girl and become a hero?"

 

The angel laughed. The vibration of it rattled through my ribcage like a second heartbeat.

 

"You? A hero? You are funny. Mortal, you're not hero material. You're a villain. And you will prove it time after time, and then, eventually, I will judge you and punish you."

 

"So what now?" I asked. My angel sighed again. His breath was hot. Not warm—*hot*, like standing too close to a furnace.

 

"Being a sorcerer in a Sterile Reality is just not fair," he declared. "First, you will probably destroy all this reality in a short time, or at least contribute to it. Billions of victims of your whims, fits, and moods. I don't know of any mortal who hasn't been corrupted by being the only sorcerer in the universe. There are two possibilities: the first, the unlikely one, is that the sorcerer will become the savior of the universe. They will deserve Heaven, and it will be a really valuable asset."

 

The angel looked at me.

 

"Feel like one?"

 

I didn't answer. My fingers curled against my bare thighs, nails digging in. He nodded.

 

"The second possibility is that the sorcerer will earn Hell, but it will come rather easily to them. You see, my witch, quality matters, and I'm not going to bet on something like that, not if I can do anything about it."

 

He bent his unreal, handsome face toward mine. The heat of his gaze pressed against my skin like a sunburn from the inside.

 

"In a traditional, typical, and most common reality, a Corrupt Reality, magic is everywhere and almost any mortal could learn it. In a Sterile Reality—the rarest kind in the multiverse—it isn't possible. However, if someone has an innate talent for magic, which is the rarest talent among all mortals regardless of reality, they just know it, and that's it. Even if you've never studied spells, in a moment of stress, you could just... improvise. The problem is that, with no control over it, you might as well have opened your world to a demonic invasion or something."

 

He made a crooked smile.

 

"But you didn't give a damn."

 

He was right, I didn't. If I was going to die, better to burn the world than let it happen.

 

"That's exactly what I thought you'd think about it," he chuckled. "I don't normally interfere with mortals, you see... against the rules. At least when it comes to zero-levelers or any low-levels in general. But you've been hidden from me for so long! I hate it when someone exists in a Sterile Reality, it's so fucking annoying! The concept of anything different has to be so heavily contrived; some fucking 'aliens' bullshit is about the max that can pass."

 

I felt his grip tighten. Not enough to hurt. Enough to shut me up.

 

"That's why it's not easy to take someone out of there, and believe me, we'd all love to take our charges out of one. From time to time, some wiseass tries an 'alien abduction' and thinks he's clever. Heh, those idiots usually suffer the consequences later..."

 

"Wait..." I grabbed my hair, or at least believed I did. "So you... care about me? Is this some BDSM thing or what? Want me to call you master and grovel?" I asked, then added, "I can do it."

 

"I am not your creator, little one; in my heart, there is no love for you. I am your guardian, not your protector. I watch you. I do not defend you, but I judge. I also judge the circumstances of your... path. If I decide something outside your control threatens your path, I step in."

 

"Wait... I am a witch, right? The only witch on Earth, in the universe. I wasn't in danger there, I could... oh, you absolute asshole!"

 

The angel laughed.

 

"So predictable, you little despoiler. But yes—when I saw you start unleashing your corruption inside the Sterile Reality, I thought to myself, this universe is going down anyway, so I don't think anyone will mind if I take my lamb to some secluded place. Especially since, surprise, surprise, my lamb turned out to be a natural-born eldritch, dirty, wicked witch! Do you know how rarely a witch's gifts wake up in Sterile Realities? Each of you is an exception that proves the rule. Which is why my intervention was justified. You could say thanks to me your universe was at least partially saved from imminent destruction, ha!"

 

"Like I give a fuck! I could... I could be a fucking goddess there!"

 

The angel laughed. "So ambitious already, huh? Sorcery is getting to your head, I see."

 

"So what now, my guardian?" I spat. "Just another powerful male who loves to hear himself talk!"

 

"It is you who called me male."

 

"Because only a male can be such a jerk!"

 

"By that logic, only a woman could be as big a cunt as you."

 

"Asshole!"

 

The angel chuckled. "The fact that you lie to yourself even outside time and space proves you're a corrupt creature. So be it, witch. But I want you to grow. I will force you to grow in a reality more suited to your talents, and then, when your time finally comes, your punishment will be glorious."

 

*My angel is a psycho!*

 

"Wait... but I can change, right?" I asked.

 

The angel rolled his eyes, then gave me a fake, corporate smile.

 

"Of course you can, dear." Then he looked aside. "And here we are."

 

I suddenly found myself hanging in orbit around an Earth-like planet. Except that the continents were arranged differently.

 

"The fuck?!" I yelled.

 

My angel drew nearer with the power of his wings, and soon we were flying into the atmosphere.

 

"Don't you worry, witch, you'll definitely withstand the fall," chuckled the angel.

 

"Fall?... wait! NO—"