Chapter One

The continent of Elyria holds old grudges and vast divides. Centered in the mainland, the Kingdom of Rosthorne projects an image of undisputed strength. Grand stone castles hide a dying treasury. Rosthorne bleeds coin to maintain its borders, desperate for resources it can no longer generate alone. To the west sits the independent Realm of Penrith, suspicious of central politics. To the south, the Coastal State of Brey relies on maritime trade and ignores the inland struggles.

North of Rosthorne stands the Arbor of Iryll. This ancient, matriarchal wood elf kingdom remains insular. Dense trees and guarded borders create a barricade between the human lands and the northern peaks. The elves revere their women and isolate themselves from the affairs of men, refusing outside influence.

Behind the green canopy of Iryll lies the very secret that Rosthorne needs. The Auric Basin rests within a hidden mountain valley. It contains an untouched deposit of gold large enough to fund the human kingdom for centuries. The problem is geographical. Rosthorne cannot march a mining operation or a military force to the basin without going through the Arbor of Iryll. Crossing the elves would trigger a war the humans lack the funds to fight.

The untamed spaces between these kingdoms belong to the warlike orc tribes. Scattered outposts dot the continent. The Bracken Maw sits in the rugged hills between Rosthorne and the elven forest, acting as a violent buffer. Further north, beyond the mountains, the fortress city of Krax’s Anvil houses the most brutal chieftains in Elyria.

This is the continent of Elyria, and this is where our story unfolds.

❖

The Great Hall inside Rosthold Castle held centuries of human history within its cold stone walls. Today, those ancient walls hosted a failing diplomatic summit. King Alden sat rigid on his carved throne at the head of a sprawling oak table, his stern face etched with the exhaustion of a ruler trying to hide his kingdom’s empty coffers. High windows lined the eastern wall, showing the distant hills of the human capital, but the king kept his eyes focused inside. He wore a fancy embroidered tunic and a grand iron crown, projecting an illusion of wealth that his treasury lacked. The king rested his calloused hands on the armrests and maintained a forced diplomatic smile.

Standing opposite him was Queen Maevia of the Arbor of Iryll. The elf queen commanded the room without raising her voice. She wore a revealing gown woven from a shimmering green material native to her forest. The fabric was lightweight and left her pale shoulders and midriff bare, yet it possessed a defensive strength that human blacksmiths could not replicate. Her imposing posture and cold demeanor made her seem taller than anyone else in the hall. She stared at the human king with undisguised contempt, her delicate hands folded neatly in front of her waist.

Two royal bodyguards flanked the queen. Rhea and Tamsin stood in stoic silence, their athletic frames adorned in revealing elven armor. The metallic pieces covered their vital organs but exposed their toned stomachs and thighs. This armor was crafted from a forest metal so strong and unique that human soldiers could not wield it. The two female guards kept their hands near the hilts of their curved blades, their pointed ears twitching at every sound echoing through the hall. They watched the human guards by the door, ready to draw their weapons if a fight broke out.

Prince Lorian ignored the mounting tension in the room. He sat slouching in a tall wooden chair near his father, his leather boots resting directly on the polished oak table. The young human prince wore a fine velvet doublet unbuttoned at the chest. He held a crisp red apple in his hand. While the elf queen spoke of the politics between the two nations, Lorian took a loud bite of the fruit. He chewed with his open mouth, smacking his lips and letting the sweet juices run down his chin. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and let out a bored sigh.

Maevia stopped speaking. She turned her cold gaze toward the prince.

Lorian took another bite of his apple. He swallowed loudly and kicked his boots further onto the table, crossing his ankles and leaning back until the front legs of his chair lifted off the floor.

“Is there a problem?” Lorian asked with a grin. “You stopped talking.”

Maevia looked back at King Alden. She didn’t bother to hide her disgust.

“Your bloodline produces uncultured children,” the queen said. “We came to Rosthold expecting a serious discussion about your passage through our lands, but I see we waste our time. My people will not negotiate with unintelligent oafs who cannot even sit properly at a table. I expect better from the ruler of Elyria’s central kingdom.”

Alden held up a weathered hand and leaned forward in his throne.

“Queen Maevia, please forgive my son,” Alden said, shooting his son a warning look. “He is young and still learning. We still have crucial matters to discuss regarding our travel routes. If you grant my men safe passage through the Arbor of Iryll, we can establish new trade agreements that benefit both our kingdoms.”

“We have nothing to discuss,” Maevia replied. “Rosthorne has nothing to offer my people. Your kingdom is in decline. You ask to march through our borders because you need something hidden beyond them, but we don’t need your coin or your trade. The elves remain isolated because interacting with your kind brings nothing but noise and disrespect. Your patriarchal society is a stain on this continent. You breed arrogant young men who lack discipline and manners. We are leaving.”

“I assure you that we have much to offer,” Alden said, standing up from his throne in a desperate bid to keep her in the room. “We can provide protection from the orc raids if you allow our caravans through the forest.”

“We can protect ourselves, as you will discover if one of your men takes a single step inside the Forest of Iryll. Do not send an envoy to our borders,” Maevia said. “We will turn them away, and we will kill anyone who steps past the tree line uninvited.”

The elf queen turned and walked toward the grand doors. Rhea and Tamsin followed in perfect synchronization. Their bare legs moved smoothly across the stone floor as they escorted their leader out of the hall. The wooden doors shut behind them with a definitive thud, leaving the human royals alone with their guards.

Silence filled the room. Alden stared at the closed doors for a long minute. His jaw clenched tight.

Lorian took a final bite of his apple and tossed the core onto the table. It rolled across the wood and came to a stop near his father’s hand.

“Well, that went well,” Lorian said. “I always knew those pointy-eared bitches were stuck up. We don’t need them anyway. Let them rot in their forest.”

The king reached into a small leather pouch on his belt. He pulled out a large gold coin, and with a sudden burst of violent energy, the king hurled the item across the table.

The gold struck Lorian square in the forehead.

The young prince cried out in pain and grabbed his head. His boots slipped off the table, and his chair slammed back onto four legs as he jolted upright. The coin clattered onto the stone floor. He rubbed the red mark forming on his skin and glared at his father.

“Ouch, that hurt!” the man shouted. “You could have cracked my skull open.”

“I should crack it open and see if there is a brain inside,” Alden yelled, walking around the table. “You arrogant fool. Do you have any idea what you just did? You insulted the only person who stands between us and untold wealth.”

“She was insulting us,” Lorian said, standing up to defend himself. “She marched in here acting like she owns Elyria. Someone had to show her that Rosthorne doesn’t bow to a bunch of arrogant women who hide in the woods all day. They treat men like breeding cattle in their homeland. It’s unnatural, and it’s wrong. I won’t bend the knee to her kind.”

“We don’t have a choice,” the king snapped. He stepped closer toward his son and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Our treasury is empty. We cannot pay the soldiers much longer to hold the borders against the orcs.”

“Then raise the tithes on the noble houses,” Lorian argued. “Squeeze the lords for more coin.”

“The lords have already given what they can. If we tax them further, they will rebel,” Alden warned. “Our scouts found the Auric Basin last month. It sits in a valley directly behind the elven forest. The dirt is packed with enough raw gold to fill our coffers tenfold.”

“Then send the army to take it,” the prince arrogantly said. “March the vanguard through the trees and dig the gold out of the ground.”

“Marching an armed force into Iryll means war,” Alden replied with an impatient tone. “We can’t afford to fight the elves. We need a truce so we can cross their land quietly and extract the gold before they figure out it’s there.”

“They won’t negotiate with us,” Lorian argued. “You just heard her speak. They despise human men.”

“Every nation needs something they can’t get themselves,” Alden said. “You need to figure out what those elves want so we can buy our passage.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Lorian said. “I can’t just waltz in there and ask them. That’s suicide. Finding out what they need is impossible.”

Alden reached into his pouch and pulled out a second gold coin. He threw it hard at his son’s chest. Lorian flinched as the metal struck his velvet doublet and bounced onto the floor.

“If you had a brain in your skull, you’d figure it out,” the king replied. He turned his back on the prince and walked toward his throne. “Get out of my sight.”

Lorian glared at his father’s back. He rubbed his sore forehead and walked out of the hall without saying another word.

❖

Loud cheers and the clatter of wooden mugs filled the main room of the Golden Stag. This bustling tavern sat near the affluent center of Rosthold and catered exclusively to the human nobility. Young lords and wealthy merchants occupied the sturdy circular tables, drinking imported ale and tossing copper coins to the musicians playing in the corner. The atmosphere was undeniably masculine and rowdy. Serving women navigated the crowded floor carrying large trays of food and pitchers.

The prince sat at a corner booth surrounded by his inner circle of young noblemen. He had changed out of his formal velvet doublet after the disastrous summit, opting for a dark leather vest over a relaxed linen shirt. He stared blankly at the untouched pint of ale resting in front of him.

Rafe sat across the table. The wealthy young lord wore a vibrant silk tunic that flaunted his family’s status. He tipped his head back and finished his drink in one long gulp before slamming the empty wooden mug onto the table. A pretty barmaid with auburn hair walked past their booth to collect the empty dishes.

Rafe reached out and gave the barmaid’s rear a firm smack.

The young woman let out a surprised squeak and jumped forward. She turned around to glare at the offender, but her expression softened into a practiced, submissive smile when she saw the nobleman’s expensive clothes. She offered a polite curtsy and scurried away toward the kitchens without a word of complaint.

“I love this city,” Rafe announced with a broad grin. “The women know their place, the ale flows without end, and we have enough coin to buy whatever we desire.”

Garrick sat next to the prince and watched the exchange with mild amusement. He wore a simple, functional steel breastplate over a padded tunic, marking his role as a sworn protector and loyal friend. He noticed the brooding silence radiating from the corner of the booth. He nudged his friend’s shoulder.

“You haven’t touched your drink,” Garrick observed. “You usually finish two pitchers before the sun goes down. Did the meeting with the elves go poorly?”

Lorian crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

“It was a disaster,” the prince muttered. “That bitch queen is an arrogant fool who insulted me and my father’s kingdom. She refused to negotiate the free passage and threatened to kill anyone who crosses into her forest. Then my father decided to blame me for the failure.”

Rafe leaned forward and rested his elbows on the sticky wooden table.

“King Alden blames you for everything,” he chuckled. “What does it matter? Let the elves rot in their trees. We don’t need them.”

“We do need them,” Lorian snapped, his frustration boiling over. “My father demanded I secure safe passage through the forest. He wants me to figure out a way to appease those insular Iryll sluts and buy a truce.”

Garrick furrowed his brow and picked up his own mug.

“Why do we need a truce with the elves?” Garrick asked. “They stay up north, and we stay down here. We have no reason to cross their borders. There are just orc savages up there.”

“That is a matter of state,” Lorian deflected, remembering his father’s warning about the Auric Basin and the hidden gold. “The point is that my father gave me an impossible task. He threatened to name a different heir if I fail to solve the problem. He actually threw gold coins at my head like I was a beggar in the street.”

Rafe burst into laughter and slapped the table.

“King Alden expects you to negotiate with a matriarchy?” Rafe asked, wiping a tear from his eye. “He really must want to replace you. That is a fool’s errand.”

“This isn’t a joke, Rafe,” the prince warned, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “This is serious.”

“I am not laughing at you,” Rafe said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I am laughing at the absurdity of the request. You can’t negotiate with the Arbor of Iryll. Their entire culture is built on a radical foundation that rejects everything we value. They despise human men. They despise all men.”

Garrick took a sip of his ale and set the mug down on the wet wood.

“I heard they execute outsiders on sight,” the protector added.

“They do,” Rafe agreed with a firm nod. “My uncle trades near the northern borders, and he pays smugglers for information about the other kingdoms. The elves keep to themselves. They revere their women as divine figures and treat their men like subservient beasts.”

Lorian leaned back against the wooden bench and rubbed his forehead.

“My father insists they must want something we can offer,” the prince argued. “He thinks every nation has a weakness or a desire we can exploit.”

“Their only desire is for us to stay away,” Rafe explained while signaling a passing barmaid for another round of drinks. “They keep a small population of males in their villages. Those elven men exist only for breeding purposes and manual labor. The elf women hold all the power, wield all the magic, and control the military. They view our patriarchal society as a disease.”

“Then how do I get inside their borders to figure out what they want?” Lorian wondered out loud.

Rafe laughed again and shook his head. “You don’t,” the nobleman replied with a smug grin. “Unless you plan on chopping your dick off, you have no chance of getting through to them. A human man walking into the Arbor of Iryll is begging for a painful execution. They would shoot you full of arrows before you could even state your name.”

The rest of the young lords at the table chuckled at the crude joke. They began discussing the upcoming autumn festival and debating which local brothel offered the best entertainment. The conversation shifted effortlessly away from diplomacy and back to the leisurely pursuits of the wealthy elite.

Lorian didn’t join the new conversation. He sat frozen in his seat. The noise of the tavern faded into a dull hum as his mind raced.

He stared at the wood grain on the table while Rafe’s crude joke echoed in his head. The elves revered women and executed men. They would never allow a male prince to cross their borders. However…

A radical, desperate idea formed in his mind.

It was an insane proposition. It defied natural law, but it was the only logical solution to an impossible problem. If he pulled it off, he would secure the gold, save the human kingdom from bankruptcy, and prove to his father that he was the undeniable heir to the throne of Rosthorne. He just needed magic.

The prince stood up abruptly. His chair scraped against the wooden floorboards.

“Where are you going?” Garrick asked, startled by the sudden movement. “Sit back down and drink your ale.”

Lorian ignored his loyal friend. He turned his back on the crowded table and bolted toward the tavern entrance, his mind fixated on the dangerous path ahead. He pushed past a group of travelers arguing near the doorway and stepped out into the cool evening air, breaking into a sprint toward the stone walls of Rosthold Castle.

❖

“But is it possible?”

The Archmage’s Sanctum occupied the highest tower of Rosthold Castle. Tall wooden shelves packed with ancient texts and glass vials lined the circular stone walls. Archmage Corvyn sat behind a cluttered desk near the center of the room. The elderly wizard wore a plain gray robe and rubbed a weathered hand over his white beard. He looked at the young human prince standing before him.

Corvyn let out a booming laugh that echoed off the stone ceiling.

“You spent too much time at the Golden Stag tonight,” the archmage chuckled. “Go back to your royal chambers and sleep off this drunken fantasy. We can discuss your political problems in the morning when your head is clear.”

“I’ve not drunk a damn thing,” the prince stated. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Answer my question, Corvyn. Can you do it?”

The amusement vanished from the old man’s face. Corvyn studied the prince’s stern expression and realized this was not a tavern joke. He sighed and folded his arms.

“Magic can achieve many things,” the wizard admitted cautiously. “Transmutation is an ancient and volatile art. We can reshape bone and manipulate flesh if we combine the correct alchemical ingredients.”

“Then you possess the skill,” Lorian concluded.

“I possess the knowledge,” Corvyn corrected him. “But I must question the sanity of the Crown Prince. You want me to brew a potion that will disguise you as a female wood elf? That is pure madness. The physical toll on your body would be agonizing.”

“It cannot be permanent,” the prince argued. “I need a disguise long enough to cross the northern borders and win an audience with Queen Maevia. Once I find out what that bitch desires, and secure the passage through the forest for my father, you will reverse the spell.”

Corvyn shook his head in disbelief and stood up from his chair. He walked over to a nearby shelf and picked up an empty glass vial.

“You speak of magic as if it is a simple change of clothes,” the archmage warned. “You don’t understand the consequences of this request. If I transform you into an elven woman, you will lose your masculine traits. Your bones will shrink. Your muscles will wither away. You don’t have the archery skills that they possess in Iryll. You’ll be defenseless.”

“I possess a prince’s mind,” Lorian countered. “I don’t need a sword or bow for what I have in mind. Those sluts will only grant access to a woman. My father demanded I find a way to appease them, and this is the logical solution.”

“King Alden wouldn’t approve of this,” Corvyn argued while shaking his head. “He wouldn’t want his son walking into enemy lands looking like an elven whore. If those women figure out who you are, they’ll kill you on the spot, or worse.”

“They won’t figure it out because your magic won’t fail,” the prince commanded. “And you aren’t going to breathe a word of this to my father. This is my plan, and my intentions are my own. I’m giving you a direct order to brew the potion.”

Corvyn placed the glass vial back on the wooden shelf and turned to face the prince. He knew better than to defy the royal family, but the danger of the request terrified the old man.

“The king will notice you’re missing,” the wizard pointed out.

“I’ll tell him I’m traveling to Brey to read up on Elven culture,” Lorian answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Garrick will travel with me to the treeline border. You just need to focus on the magic. How long will it take to prepare?”

Corvyn ran a hand through his white hair. “It’ll take two days to brew,” Corvyn finally answered. “I can’t rush the process without risking your life.”

“Two days works,” Lorian agreed with a firm nod. "I'll be back in a couple of days. Have the potion ready, and remember, this cannot be a permanent change.”

“Lorian, I beg you to rethink this,” the old man pleaded. “You are taking too much of a risk. Once you drink that potion, you’re at the mercy of the elves. You’ll be a weak woman in a culture you don’t understand.”

“I understand power,” the prince snapped. “And this is what I need to do to prove to my father that I’m the rightful ruler of this continent. Don’t fail me, Corvyn.”

Lorian didn’t wait for another argument. He turned on his heel and marched toward the wooden door of the sanctum. The prince pulled the door open and stepped out into the stone corridor, leaving the old wizard alone with his bubbling vials and his own dread.

❖

Two days of waiting did nothing to deter the prince. Lorian marched down the stone corridor toward the highest tower in Rosthold Castle. He wore a loose linen sleeping shirt and baggy wool trousers tied loosely at his waist with a simple drawstring. Archmage Corvyn warned him that his body would undergo severe structural changes, and the young royal knew better than to trap himself in rigid leather or armor while his bones shifted.

Garrick paced right beside him. The sworn protector wore his usual steel breastplate and scowled at the wooden door at the end of the hall. He grabbed his friend’s shoulder and pulled him to a halt.

“You need to stop and think about this,” Garrick pleaded, his voice echoing in the empty corridor. “Do you understand what you are doing? You are giving up your manhood. You are going to let an old man turn you into a fucking woman.”

Lorian shrugged off the hand and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“It is a temporary disguise,” the prince argued. “I’m doing what needs to be done, Garrick.”

“It is a humiliation,” Garrick spat back, his face twisting in disgust. “You are the heir to our kingdom, and you are willingly castrating yourself for those bitches. You are going to have tits, Lorian. You are going to lose your cock and your strength. You will be a weak, pathetic woman walking into an enemy camp. If the lords find out you debased yourself like this, they will never respect you, even if you come back with the treaty you require.”

“They won’t find out,” Lorian countered, stepping closer to his friend. “Now, I am the prince. You might be a friend, but keep your mouth shut and do as you are told. That’s a direct order.”

Lorian turned his back on his friend and grabbed the iron handle. He pushed the stout wooden door open and stepped into the Archmage’s Sanctum.

Archmage Corvyn stood near a stone worktable in the center of the room. The elderly wizard held a large glass beaker filled with a bubbling purple liquid. He looked exhausted, his gray robes wrinkled and dark circles framing his eyes. He set the beaker down on the table as the two young men approached.

“I see Garrick didn’t manage to talk any sense into you, my prince,” Corvyn noted with a disappointed sigh.

“Garrick is a soldier. He does what I tell him to do,” Lorian stated. He walked up to the stone table and stared at the bubbling purple liquid. It hissed softly against the glass. “Is the magic ready?”

“It’s ready,” the wizard confirmed. “The alchemical bonds are stable. I’ll warn you one last time. This potion strips away your masculine power. The pain will break you, and the taste is vile. You must drink the whole mixture fast. Don’t stop swallowing until the glass is empty, or the transmutation will fail and leave your body mangled.”

Garrick stepped forward and grabbed Lorian’s arm.

“Don’t do this, Lorian,” the protector begged. “Keep your pride.”

Lorian ripped his arm away. He snatched the glass beaker from the old man’s hands, tilted his head back, and poured the purple liquid down his throat.

The taste was foul. It coated his tongue in a thick film that tasted like rotting meat and burning copper. The liquid burned a harsh trail down his esophagus. Lorian forced himself to swallow every last drop while fighting a violent urge to vomit. He lowered the glass, his face contorting in disgust. His fingers went numb. The glass beaker slipped from his grasp and shattered against the floorboards, sending sharp fragments sliding across the stone.

Lorian stood still for a moment. He panted and waited for the magic to take hold. Nothing happened. He looked at his shaking hands, then glared at the archmage.

“Is this a joke, you useless old fool?” the prince snapped. “I drank that foul, stinking liquid for nothing?”

A sudden spike of pure agony cut off his insult.

Lorian let out a ragged scream and slammed his hands down on the stone worktable. It felt like someone poured liquid fire directly into his veins. He held onto the edge of the stone and gasped for air as the magic invaded his anatomy. He planted his boots wide to steady himself and refused to collapse.

The changes started deep within his framework. The bones in his legs and spine softened before snapping and reshaping with a sickening crunch. Lorian cried out as his height diminished. He shrank closer to the floor and lost almost a foot of his imposing stature, but he locked his knees and grabbed onto the table edge to stay upright. The boots on his feet suddenly felt huge as his feet shrank inside the leather.

The magic targeted his strength next. He felt the dense muscle mass across his back melting away. The masculine strength he was so proud of dissolved into nothing and left his limbs much weaker. He felt a bizarre vulnerability wash over him as his shoulders caved inward. The imposing frame he used to enjoy possessing collapsed into a petite structure.

A brutal, twisting pain struck his groin. Lorian whimpered and squeezed his thighs together. He felt his testicles shrink and retract upward, vanishing into his shifting abdomen. His thick cock softened and inverted. The flesh melted away until it split and reformed into a tight, slick slit. The sheer horror of losing his manhood sent a wave of nauseating shock through the prince’s mind. Perhaps he had made a mistake.

Another surge of blinding pain ripped through his midsection. Lorian arched his back as his ribs forcibly crunched inward. The bones ground together and narrowed his wide chest, shrinking his waist down to a fragile circumference. At the same time, his hip bones flared out and widened with a painful stretch. The brutal realignment forced his torso into a dramatic, slim hourglass figure that left his linen shirt hanging loose like a discarded tent.

His black hair then exploded with rapid growth. The short strands lengthened down his neck, grew past his shoulders, and cascaded over his back. The dark pigment washed away, leaving behind a shimmering golden blonde.

The bones in his face began to physically grind and shift. Lorian squeezed his eyes shut as his strong jawline softened into a gentle curve. The harsh angles of his cheeks smoothed out, leaving his skin pale and flawless. His nose shrank into a small button shape. A sharp, burning sensation stabbed the sides of his head as his ears stretched and pulled, tapering into the severe, elongated points that marked the elven race.

Just as the agony in his bones began to subside, a new pressure built in his chest.

Lorian gasped and crossed his arms over his torso. Two distinct mounds of flesh swelled outward beneath his loose shirt. He felt the tissue expanding, growing firm and sensitive as pert C-cup breasts formed on his chest. The new weight pulled against his skin and forced the baggy fabric to stretch taut across his new curves. The physical sensation of the swollen flesh resting against his ribs and his sensitive nipples rubbing against the rough linen sent a jolt of panicked confusion through his mind.

The transformation finally reached his extremities. He watched through tear-filled eyes as his masculine hands thinned out. His knuckles shrank, and his fingers elongated into elegant, delicate digits. His blunt fingernails reshaped into immaculate, rounded points.

The fire in his veins burned out.

Lorian stood leaning over the worktable. He panted and tried to catch his breath. He felt frail and small in the oversized clothes. He pushed himself upright and brushed the golden hair out of his face.

Garrick stood a few feet away, frozen in place. The soldier stared at his best friend in stunned awe. His jaw hung open, and his eyes traced the dramatic curves of the hourglass figure hidden beneath the oversized clothing. Garrick felt an involuntary surge of lust hit him. It was a confusing and humiliating reaction to the staggering beauty standing by the table, knowing it was the prince just moments ago.

Lorian noticed the stare. He opened his mouth to berate his friend for gawking.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Lorian ordered.

The voice that echoed through the room belonged to a stranger. It was melodic, high-pitched, and feminine. Lorian snapped his mouth shut and stared in horror at the sweet sound escaping his own lips.

Corvyn walked around the desk and offered a small nod of approval.

“The magic performed without a flaw,” the archmage noted, stepping closer to the petite figure. “Let me introduce the Crown Prince as Sylvi. Look at yourself.”

The wizard waved a hand toward a tall silver mirror resting against the stone wall.

Lorian let go of the table and took a tentative step back. His new legs trembled under the unfamiliar balance of his altered hips and the foreign weight on his chest. He stood in front of the mirror and stared at the reflection in pure shock.

The person staring back at him was gorgeous. The feminine face featured large, expressive eyes and plump, inviting lips. The golden hair framed her delicate features, and the pointed ears peeked through the strands. The baggy men’s clothes looked ridiculous on her, sliding off one pale shoulder and pressing tight against the firm C-cup breasts. Corvyn didn’t just turn him into a female wood elf. He designed the potion to make Lorian the epitome of elven beauty.

“This is insane,” Lorian whispered, his melodic voice trembling. He brought a delicate hand up to touch his button nose and watched the reflection mimic the movement.

“Magic doesn’t do things half-assed,” Corvyn explained as he walked back to his desk. “If the spell changes you into a woman, it builds the best version possible. You need those elves to let you into their camps. They won’t ask questions when you show up looking like that.”

The old man opened a small wooden box and pulled out a stoppered green vial. He held it up for the prince to see.

“This is the antidote,” the wizard stated. “I’ll keep it in my cloak so that I always have an eye on it. I’ll travel with you to the border at Halborne and keep it safe while you go into the woods. Once you figure out what the queen wants and come back, you’ll drink this. The magic will reverse, and you’ll get your old body and your manhood back.”

Lorian forced himself to look away from the mirror. He stood up straight and tried to project his usual arrogant authority despite his lack of height.

“I won’t fail,” Lorian declared, though his sweet voice ruined his fierce tone. He turned to face his stunned protector. “Garrick, stop acting like a fool and do your job. Go fetch me some female wood elf clothes. Find something that fits this ridiculous shape. Then get a cart, a driver, and our best guards. We leave for the north when the sun goes down.”

Garrick blinked and snapped out of his daze. He swallowed hard, and his eyes lingered on the swell of the prince’s bosom before he finally nodded.

“Yes, my prince,” Garrick mumbled, almost ironically. He turned toward the door.

“And Garrick,” the feminized prince called out. “If you ever mention what you saw in this room to anyone, I’ll have you hanged.”

❖

The wooden cart rattled over the dirt road as the convoy left the capital behind. Night blanketed the countryside, and the draft horses maintained a steady trot. A pair of armed guards rode on horseback ahead of the cart while two more trailed behind. The driver held the reins up front and glanced over his shoulder at the protector sitting on the wooden bench.

“The trip to Halborne will take two days, Commander Garrick,” the driver announced over the clatter of hooves. “The horses are fresh. We should reach the border by nightfall on the second day.”

“Keep a steady pace,” Garrick ordered. “We don’t stop unless the horses need water.”

The driver nodded and turned his attention back to the dark path ahead.

Lorian sat next to Garrick on the rigid bench. The prince felt every bump and rut in the dirt road. His previous muscular frame used to absorb the shocks of a rough ride, but his new petite structure offered no such protection. His delicate bones jarred against the wood, and his unaccustomed breasts bounced uncomfortably with every jolt of the cart. Garrick had followed his orders and procured traditional wood elf attire from the flea market, but the garments left the prince feeling less than happy about the arrangement.

Lorian wore a delicate forest-green top laced loosely at the front. The fabric left his pale shoulders bare and exposed a wide stretch of his midriff. A matching split skirt draped over his lap, but offered no warmth against the night air. The guards and the driver believed they were escorting an elven princess back to her homeland, and the revealing outfit played the part perfectly.

Archmage Corvyn sat in the back of the cart among the travel supplies. The old wizard pulled his gray cloak tight around his shoulders and leaned against a wooden crate to sleep.

Lorian shifted himself on the bench and crossed his arms under his swollen chest to shield himself from the chill. He hated the vulnerability of this body. Everything about him felt alien. He turned his head and noticed Garrick staring at him. His friend had his eyes fixed on the pale expanse of the prince’s cleavage, his gaze lingering long enough to be obvious.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” the feminized blonde snapped, keeping his voice low so the driver wouldn’t hear.

Garrick blinked and quickly turned his head away. His cheeks flushed red in the dark.

“I’m sorry, my prince,” Garrick whispered back. “It’s just jarring. You look like a stranger. A very attractive stranger. And hearing you speak with that voice will take some getting used to.”

“You’ll get used to it right now,” Lorian commanded. His high-pitched, melodic voice robbed the threat of its usual intimidation, but he maintained a harsh glare. “I’m still your commander, and I expect you to treat me like you always would. Don’t gawk at me like I’m some tavern wench.”

“I understand,” Garrick muttered and stared straight ahead at the horses.

One of the guards on horseback slowed his mount and fell back to ride alongside the cart. The man wore the royal crest of Rosthorne on his steel breastplate. He tipped his helmet and offered a respectful bow from his saddle.

“Forgive the intrusion, Princess,” the guard said, his voice polite and deferential. “The night air grows cold. I have a spare wool blanket in my saddlebag if you need it.”

Lorian stiffened. He instinctively wanted to bark a harsh refusal and order the man back to his post. He opened his mouth to scold the guard, but Garrick kicked his ankle under the bench. The prince remembered his disguise. He forced his facial muscles to relax and offered the guard a practiced, diplomatic smile.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Lorian replied. His sweet voice sounded natural and effortless, hiding the burning irritation beneath the surface. “The elves of Iryll are used to the chill of the forest.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” the guard answered. He gave another polite nod, his eyes lingering on the prince’s striking face before they drifted down to his breasts. After a moment, he spurred his horse forward to rejoin the lead rider.

Lorian watched the guard ride away and let out a frustrated breath.

“You see?” Garrick muttered under his breath. “Even the guards are enchanted by you. You have to be careful with how you speak to people, though. You can’t just act like a disrespectful prince to human men when you look like a beautiful elf. These men are loyal to the crown, but they have stubborn pride.”

“I know how to act, Garrick,” Lorian argued. He looked out at the passing trees and forced his mind to focus on the mission ahead. “We need to go over the plan. There is a small village less than a mile out from the edge of the forest. Once we reach Halborne, you’ll dismiss the guards and the driver. You and Corvyn are going to make yourselves at home in the village until I return while I head into the Arbor of Iryll.”

“And you’re going to walk into the woods by yourself?” Garrick asked. A hint of fear broke through his hushed voice.

“I’ll cross the border alone,” Lorian confirmed. “The archmage did his job. The magic works. Those women will welcome me as one of their own, and I’ll find out what Queen Maevia wants so my father can buy his way to the gold.”

“What if they figure out who you are?” the protector pressed. “What if they find out you’re a man?”

“They won’t,” the prince answered, shifting uncomfortably on the wood. “Stop worrying so much. Just look at me. They can strip me naked, and they’ll find exactly what they expect.”

“You don’t have a sword out there,” Garrick pointed out, glancing down at Lorian’s bare, delicate arms. “You don’t have the muscle to fight off a wild animal, let alone an orc. Those elves have trained since they were young. You turned into an elven woman five minutes ago.”

“I won’t need a sword,” the feminized blonde shot back. “I’m going to spend some time with them, figure out what they need, and come right back.”

“We need a backup plan. I can’t just sit in a tavern drinking ale while you disappear on me.”

Lorian thought for a moment. He hated showing any kind of weakness, but his father desperately needed that gold to keep the kingdom afloat.

“Give me four weeks,” Lorian decided. “You wait in Halborne for exactly four weeks. If I don’t come back by then, assume they caught me. You take a horse and ride straight back to Rosthold. Tell the king.”

“I’ll bring the guards and come get you myself,” Garrick promised.

“No,” Lorian corrected him, his tone turning sharp. “If I somehow fail, you don’t know what they have planned for me. Tell my father everything, and he will know what to do.”

Garrick stared at the beautiful elven face delivering such a firm order. The protector gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“Four weeks,” Garrick agreed. “But you better come back, Lorian. I don’t want to be the man who tells the king his son may be dead.”

“I won’t fail,” the prince stated.

Lorian leaned back against the bench and looked up at the night sky. He wrapped his arms around his waist and tried to ignore the dull ache settling in his hips. The physical toll of the magic still burned deep in his bones. He just needed to endure this timid body long enough to trick the elven queen. Once his father got the treaty, he would drink Corvyn’s antidote and get his manhood back. Until then, he had a part to play.

❖

The late afternoon sun baked the dirt on the northern hills overlooking the valley. Urzog squatted behind a cluster of dead bushes and chewed on a piece of dried meat. The orc wiped sweat from his green brow and glared at the winding dirt road below. He wore nothing but a leather loincloth tied around his thick waist. Next to him, Fik scratched his arm and let out a bored grunt. The two scouts belonged to Chieftain Krav and spent the past week watching the border near the Bracken Maw for easy prey.

Behind them, a clumsy brute sat in the dirt and played with a pile of rocks. Vorg dwarfed the other two scouts in size. Thick slabs of muscle covered his wide chest and thick arms, and a crude hide loincloth barely contained his massive thighs. He smashed two rocks together and giggled when one shattered into small pieces.

“You bring the dumb one with us,” Fik muttered and tossed a loose stone down the hill. “He makes too much noise. He ruins the hunt.”

“Krav told me to bring him,” Urzog argued. “He eats too much food at camp. We bring him out here and make him carry the meat when we kill something big.”

“I want food,” Vorg complained. He dropped his rocks and rubbed his wide stomach.

“Shut your mouth and wait,” Urzog snapped. He turned his attention back to the valley road. “We find humans, we eat. You sit there and stay quiet.”

Vorg nodded his large head and picked up another rock to chew on.

Fik suddenly raised a hand and pointed a dirty fingernail toward the southern end of the valley. He tilted his head and listened to the faint sound echoing off the hills.

“Horses come,” the orc announced.

Urzog crept forward and peered over the dead bushes. A wooden cart pulled by draft horses came around the bend. Armed human guards flanked the wagon. Two men rode in the front, and another pair guarded the rear. A driver sat on the bench next to a human soldier wearing a steel breastplate. Right beside the soldier sat a petite figure dressed in revealing forest-green clothes. The blonde hair and pointed ears gave her identity away in an instant.

“Why do humans travel with an elf bitch?” Urzog asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Elves stay in the trees. They hate men and orc.”

“I don’t care why she travels out here,” Fik answered with a cruel grin. He stared down at the pale skin and the large breasts bouncing with the movement of the cart. “Look at her. She look purty. We kill the men and I take the pointy-eared bitch back to Krav. She look expensive.”

Urzog pulled a jagged iron axe from his belt and nodded in agreement. Taking them down would be tricky, but Urzog and Fik had dealt with greater odds. The element of surprise gave them the advantage. He looked back at the giant brute sitting in the dirt.

“Vorg, you stay up here,” Urzog commanded. “You stay out of trouble. Don’t come down until we say.”

“I stay here,” Vorg repeated dumbly.

Urzog and Fik broke cover and sprinted down the rocky hillside. They moved with terrifyingly deceiving speed for a pair of giant orcs. Their bare feet tore up the dirt as they descended upon the valley road.

The cart rattled along the path, unaware of the impending danger. Lorian sat on the rigid bench and rubbed his tired arms. The journey drained him. His delicate bones ached from the constant jolts of the cart, and he hadn’t gotten used to his new feminine body just yet. He just wanted to reach Halborne and get away from the staring guards.

A guttural roar shattered the quiet afternoon.

Fik leaped from the hillside and landed directly on the lead guard. The orc drove a bone knife through the man’s throat before the soldier could even draw his sword. Blood sprayed across the dirt road. The horse panicked and reared up, tossing the dying man onto the ground. The driver screamed and pulled back on the reins. The cart came to a violent halt and threw the passengers forward.

Urzog charged the rear guards and swung his jagged axe. He cleaved a man’s leg right off the saddle and sent the guard crashing into the dirt with a shriek of agony.

Chaos erupted in an instant. Garrick drew his longsword and jumped down from the bench. He shouted orders to the remaining guards and rushed forward to engage the bloodthirsty orcs. Steel clashed against iron as the battle commenced.

Lorian froze in panic. He watched the slaughter unfold right in front of him. Blood soaked the dirt, and the brutal roars of the orcs deafened him. His instinct told him to draw his own weapon and join his friend in the fight, but his hands grasped nothing but empty air. He had no sword. He had no armor. He looked down at his slim arms and his exposed midriff, realizing he stood no chance against the greenskins. A single blow from those monsters would snap his spine in half.

He did the math in his head. Halborne rested just two miles away. If he stayed, he risked capture or death. If he ran, he could reach the safety of the human village and let Garrick handle the beasts. His royal life held far more value than the guards anyway.

“Stay in the cart!” Archmage Corvyn shouted from the back, sensing what the young prince was about to do.

Lorian ignored the old wizard. He pushed himself off the bench and jumped down onto the dirt road on the opposite side of the carnage. He turned his back on his protector and bolted into the hills, desperate to put distance between himself and the ambush.

The prince demanded speed from his legs, but his new body failed to deliver. His stride felt painfully short. The flared, feminine hips altered his center of gravity and made his running awkward and uncoordinated. His lungs burned after a mere fifty yards, unable to draw in enough air to sustain a sprint. The weight of his breasts bounced aggressively against his chest, causing pain with every step he took.

He pushed himself harder and let the terror of being captured fuel his movements. He crested the top of the steep incline and stumbled down the other side. The sounds of clashing steel and dying screams faded behind him. He pushed through a thicket of brush as he gasped for air. Lorian ran over the hill, thinking he had successfully gotten away.

And then his foot caught an overgrown tree branch hidden in the tall grass.

Lorian let out a high-pitched yelp as his legs tangled together. He pitched forward and crashed into the dirt. He lay in the grassy field and gasped for air as his hair formed a tangled mess across his face.

Before the prince could think about pushing himself up, a dumb chuckle vibrated through the air.

Lorian froze. A violent shudder ran down his spine as he heard the thud of massive footsteps stopping right behind him.

“What we find here?” a deep voice rumbled like thunder.

The feminized prince slowly turned his body around and looked up. The fat orc, Vorg, stood over him. The giant brute possessed thick layers of blubber that jiggled slightly, yet dense muscle sat right beneath his fat. Vorg tilted his large head and scratched his wide green chest with a dirty fingernail. The creature stared down at the beautiful blonde elf with a confused, dopey expression, but a dark lust quickly filled his black eyes.

The panic inside the prince reached a breaking point. His eyes darted over the monster’s body and landed on the crude hide loincloth tied around Vorg’s waist. The thick leather bulged outward and tented aggressively as the orc’s thick green cock began to stir and harden beneath the fabric. The size of the bulge indicated a terrifying erection. Vorg licked his lips, and the thick erection pressed hard against the hide covering, eager to break free.

Lorian pressed his back against the dirt. He had no magic, no guards, and had completely lost his male strength. He was a weak, untrained female elf bitch trapped on the ground, and a horny monster had him cornered. As the fat orc took a step closer, the feminized prince stared up in horrifying desperation and wondered how he was going to get out of this mess.

End of Chapter One