Shay’s meeting with the Huntress was in the same place it always was: a shithole far from anyone’s eye. This time, it was a warehouse near the docks. Years past its usefulness, the dilapidated structure yet to be torn down for one reason or another. A hole in the roof provided the interior’s only source of illumination, the remnants of the morning’s downpour dribbling in like tardy students after the bell. As he entered the pool of sunlight, a dollop of lukewarm water slapped his forehead, making him wince and wiped it off with his sleeve.

He wore dark and earthen rags, as authentic a beggar’s costume as he could manage with half an hour’s Weaving. He could make anything with his gift, but that didn’t mean a good disguise was quick. Or easy. You didn’t just throw on clothes that made you look like you hadn’t slept under a roof that was your own in your life. They needed to be carefully sculpted, altered, aged and weathered. Even in the threadbare patches around where his limbs pulled at the fabric, his arcane craftsmanship showed through.

The rotted floorboards beneath his feet creaked with every shift of his weight. He was a slight man, wiry in build and light of stride, but he still maintained care. Better assume the wood was not making idle threats. He made his way to the back, round a rotting dividing wall, when he saw his handler.

“You’re late,” the exquisitely dressed woman on the opposite side of the room noted. Not with contempt, merely stating a fact. Her own clothes shouted wealth in a neighbourhood void of it. Cocky. Stupid.

“And you look like you’re ready for a coronation,” he replied, then, showing a little spirit, added: “Or a higher paying client than I’d give you credit for.” The briefest of exhales through her nostrils was as much as he could hope from her in terms of reaction.

He didn’t even get that.

“The weapon?” she asked.

He reached behind him, into a tear in his rags, and withdrew her prize. It was a blade of a sort, though it was of some kind of bone or bark or some combination of the two. Its tapering, organic shape and dark brown colouration made it look like the thorn of a dead prickleplant. It appeared to have been grown into its present shape, rather than carved or cut to match an artisan’s design. An oddity of the King in Green’s curious magic, it remained sharp no matter how much it cut. The legends were clear: with a Thornblade, you could kill anyone.

Anyone.

Shay’s eyes were black, sunken pits. The journey to get back had taken weeks, let alone the planning for the heist, the social climbing he’d had to perform to just get in position to slide inside the King’s treasure room. But he could not betray his bone-weary fatigue in his word or tone. Nor the despair at being on the precipice of another assignment. And above all, he could reveal nothing of his singular desire to slide the artefact from its sheath, hurl himself across the distance, and jam it into his handler’s black heart.

In truth, he doubted he could get halfway across the room with murderous intent without being turned to a red mist by the Huntress. She was a Magister, that much he’d figured out on his own. Not to mention the leverage she had. He wouldn’t be the only who suffered should he enact his petty revenge. But the fantasy remained. A hearthfire he stoked to keep him warm. Until that day, he was naught but one of the Huntress’ loyal hounds.

With a deep breath, he handed the weapon over to his taskmaster…blade first.

“Seven assignments down,” she began, plucking the weapon from his grasp without praise or further note. “Seven more to go until your debt is paid. We could pretend like I’m giving you a choice, or we could proceed to the details and dispense with the pretense. I have a schedule to keep.”

He dipped his head. “I live to serve.”

“Yes,” she replied, “You do. Your next task, then.”

She twirled her fingers, and several of the more dry planks of wood on the interior wall that had once been a storage room floated through the air and settled in front of her, lying horizontally but elevated. A table without legs, in essence. Only after brushing off some of the loose debris on its surface did she unroll a large sheet of vellum from a cylindrical case. One of her famous maps, though none he recognizes as having helped create. Judging by landmarks, it was of the Southern Reaches, a place he knew only by reputation. Passing her hand over the map, ink from the tattoos on her arm bled onto the page. Borders, topography, estimated troop locations, even weather reports, all filled in with creeping black ink.

“The Winter Court of the Kingdom of the Frontiers. Backwater, really. But there’s a woman there who we need brought under our eye. Sixth in line to the House of Forde, not to mention a mage, she wasn’t considered a candidate for the throne until recently. The Old Ways are not as strong as they were, but I doubt the other petty lords in the region would readily kneel for a sparkblood.”

Shay looked up from the map. “Why now?”

The Huntress curled her lip, ignoring the question. “Her name is Katerina. Trueborn daughter of King Magnus, at least as far as we can tell. You’re to infiltrate as a guard recruit. Reconnaissance, as well as stay within sight of the Princess as often as you can be. Get yourself assigned as close as possible. Ingratiate yourself if need be. But stay pinned to her. If she’s to move from the castle, I am to be informed.”

“Point of contact? Pigeons? Flick cylinders? Dead drops?”

“None of the above. You’re familiar with a Tethertext?” He shook his head. The Huntress sighed and pulled two identical books about the size of her palm from some fold of her dress that hadn’t been there a moment before, placing them both on the floating tabletop. Opening the cover on both, his handler scratched the words ‘Report In Full’ upon the first page with ink that seemed to bleed from her fingertip. As she wrote, the same exact letters appeared on the front of the second book. “Regular ink works, though I’d avoid kraken if you can. Once full, shake the words out and you’ll be able to write again.”

He tried to keep from looking like a dumbfounded townie shown his first sparkler and merely nodded. Working with the Magisters was not his choice, but at least it was never dull.

“Understood.” He had a lot of work to do before setting off. Developing a cover would be difficult, but with the right combination of confidence and misdirection, he could probably swing a low level guard posting. The problem was that guards are often on the periphery…

But the Huntress was not finished. “I’ll be transcribing what I see on my end, of course. And I likely don’t need to tell you this, but keep it safe, and keep it secret. These books are older than half the kingdoms in the realm. Frankly, I’d rather lose you than one half of this set.”

That’s it. She got his face to twitch. Damnit.

“Extraction?”

“When I say so, and not a moment before. Details will appear on the back page of the Tethertext, so leave that blank and check it regularly. Be prepared for a long stay, however. If our intelligence is correct, being around Katerina may prove eventful in the coming months. Be careful around the princess. She’s not as dumb or as idle as she may appear at first glance. Neither is her…pet.”

There was a hint of familiarity in the woman’s voice. Not enmity, though not exactly fondness either. Something in between, perhaps. Shay wondered if there wasn’t more to this assignment than the mere sneak and peek that it was being portrayed as. Interesting, but ultimately irrelevant. Even if this was some kind of personal feud, so long as he had more debt on his ledger, he would be the obedient servant.

“I’ll leave at dusk,” he replied, lowering his head once more.

“Very well,” she said, motioning for him to be on his way. As he slipped his copy of the Tethertext into his rags, her hand snapped out with a preternatural quickness. “No matter what happens, until you receive orders to withdraw, you are to stay within sight of Katerina. Am I understood?”

Shay swallowed. She didn’t use physical force with him. Not ever. Only after he nodded did she release her hold.

“I won’t fail.”

The Huntress’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. “See that you don’t. You’re on the home stretch now, Shay. I’d hate to see you lose your usefulness.”

***

The long journey had let him blend both his outfits and his story to better match his surroundings. Between the long journey by ship across the Hundred Island Sea, joining a merchant carriage train to the southeast, he changed himself to look like he belonged. The only constant was finding places to store his blades: Rend on the right, Riven on the left. His only two constants, everything else about him was up for flux. Garb, accent, cut of hair, stride, and especially his name.

Once, on a mission, he’d felt something crawl on his hand. It was a beetle whose…skin? Carapace? Its outer shell, at least, had this peculiar effect. As it rested, it changed colour to match the bronze hue of his own hand. He felt a little like that beetle some days. His clothes, the way he spoke, even the way he moved, emulated the other men in the group until he found himself in the Southern Reaches.

Yet in those moments, alone with his thoughts in the passenger racks of a ship or trudging with bleary eyes into the horizon, his mind wandered. The beetle knew itself. It knew who it was, though that question was not hard to answer given its limited options. A beetle could be little more than a beetle. But who was he?

For now, his name would be Quen. During the trip to Anchordown, the last warm water port close to his destination, he’d overheard the name and liked the sound of it. Shay slipped on the new identity as easily as he did an old pair of shoes, seamlessly keeping track of who everyone around him thought he was. That was a much easier question to answer.

Getting recruited for the Guard wasn’t difficult. Men wearing the House Forde insignia prowled the taverns and brothels and gambling houses of towns on the border looking for ‘good men’ to shape into blunt instruments. Lies about battle pay, free mugs of beer every night, and the soaring pomp of combat. Pretending he hadn’t heard it all before had been the hardest part, making his face do that stupid look young men had when they sensed great destiny ahead of them shortly before they’re murdered for king and country.

Getting plucked for guard service proved more challenging. A few evenings of eavesdropping and a night time infiltration to change a ledger steered his career path away from the meatgrinder. He was young, eager to please, and sober, which certainly helped matters. One of the requirements he wasn’t expecting, however, was a thorough health inspection. A formality in most armies, according to the discussions he’d gleaned information from, the elderly surgeon responsible for the diagnostic was no fool, and was paid well to reject bribes as much as perform his duties.

Shay had little to fear on the fitness questions. He was, in truth and in appearance, a fit young man with an excellent arm for a sword. He had all his teeth, which did make him stand out some. But he wore his hair in a slightly shaggier style than he was used to, walking with a little more bravado than normal, and otherwise emulated the men around him. Scars from previous operations aided the impression. Asked if he’d served before, he’d conjured the modest veteran.

“I’d seen the sparklers,” he said with a shrug. A bit of an old-fashioned colloquialism. But it cracked a smile on the old man’s face, which was good enough.

“Document says you’re twenty-one. Bit young to have served before,” he replied. “How old were you when you first signed up?”

This time, Shay didn’t lie. “Fifteen. Not that it was my choice.”

The smile waned, but the surgeon nodded and gave him a pass. In a few days, he was on his way to the Winter Court.

***

“Saints and the Sea keep me alive,” the gruff woman said, staring down the line of recruits. “I swear you all get younger every year. Hello, you tiny children in your mother’s clothing. I am Guardswoman Crys, and I’ll be the one who will decide whether you stay here or get tossed into the levies like so much raw ham.”

Shay stood at the end of the line, next to four other men and two women. All stood at something like drill rest, or what they thought drill rest was. He blended in as best he could here as well. Standing too straight was as bad as slouching like a sloven lout. Dancing between the margins was as important to a spy as it was to not drawing the attention of a drill instructor.

She went into a fairly standard rattle of instructions and threats, so much that Shay partially zoned it out. He used the time to take in details of the castle. Or at least what he could see without turning his head too far.

They stood in the outer courtyard, whose comparatively gargantuan size made their paltry number seem even smaller. The old Marchlord who had used this as his citadel had built it to withstand sieges from the most powerful of modern weapons, and capable of housing an entire company of personal guards as well as civilians and levies from the surrounding area. Not that it had helped him any. Evidence of his futile final stand was everywhere, etched in the crumbled walls and burned in a scorch mark on the inside of a battlement.

Yet alongside the remnants of that final battle, it appeared that efforts were being made to restore what was lost. Gantries and platforms had been erected on the walls of the inner keep, piles of new stonework waiting to be hauled up by either a crane or a telekinetic. That hadn’t been in the reports. This place was a gold sink, a place to dump a whole lot of money for no reason. Unless the local liege thought she was in danger of being under siege at some point.

“Recruit Quen!”

Shay blinked back to reality. For once, his apparent oafish confusion was not feigned. Looking deep into those steely grey eyes made him temporarily dazed. She was half a head shorter than he was, but her intense stare made some ancestral part of his mind want to shrivel away like a prey animal. That her sunkissed cheeks nevertheless sported adorable freckles was a total nonissue that he didn’t even notice that much.

“Ma’am?”

“I asked you a question. Are you with us, or is your mind still lodged in some harlot’s tits?”

Unable to hide a blush, he nodded and hoped that was the right answer to whatever she’d asked.

“Good. Everyone, form a circle. We’re about to see what our volunteer has to offer.”

Fuck. He’s just signed up to be sparring fodder. Unable to back out without looking like a coward (and thus not a great pick for guard duty), he removed his belt and limbered up. Again, the balance. He wasn’t going to pretend to be a novice in a fight, but he also couldn’t be too good. To dismantle the drill instructor raised questions as to why he wasn’t using his skills for better coin somewhere else. Or, indeed, if he wasn’t already on someone’s payroll.

“You train hand to hand before, or just with weapons?” she asked. A fair question. Few militaries actually taught unarmed combat. If you had neither sword nor spear in hand, you were likely already dead.

“I’ve had a few lessons. Mostly at the end of a night in a tavern.” That got a few laughs. Good. Camaraderie, easy leverage for later. He posed himself in a sketch of a boxer’s stance, hands forward, loose in the knees and ready to move. Her stance was tighter, more controlled. Western style? No. Tidewalker. Interesting. He’d pegged Crys as a local by her accent and facial features, but between her invocation at the start of her spiel and that distinctly non-regional fighting style, he was having his doubts.

Long moments passed before he realized she was waiting for him to throw the first punch. Ah, this bit. Classic. He’d throw a wild haymaker, and she’d easily catch it and toss him on his ass. Display of brains over brawn. He thought about deliberately falling for it, but if he was going to be trusted to be posted in the keep, he’d need to be at least mildly competent. A sequence, then.

Shay threw three quick punches, right left right, all hitting air as she ducked and weaved. But as she reached to catch his arm as he withdrew from the last, he slid away to the side, her fingers catching naught but his sleeve with her short fingernails.

“You’ve seen that one before, huh?” she asked, playfully but inquisitively. Part of any fight was feeling each other out, and she was doing the same thing to him.

“Like I said: not my first.”

They sparred for a bit, neither gaining much ground. As he thought about letting her win to move this lesson along, she struck out again. He successfully dodged her right hook, but he’d been off balance on the dodge when her left leg swept along the ground and snatched his feet out from under him. He fell ass-over-alembic with an undignified ‘oof’, much to the enjoyment of his future comrades.

As he squinted up at the midday sky, marbles rattling around in the back of his skull, the sun’s glare was blotted out by Guardswoman Crys.

“Good match. Think we could make a fighter out of you yet.” She offered her hand. He accepted, and she pulled him up off the ground with little difficulty, or help on his end for that matter. Before he could slip out of her grasp, however, she yanked him closer until her mouth was a finger’s width from his ear. The feeling of her hot breath against his skin made him stiffen in more ways than one. “And next time, if I think you’re holding back, I’ll tug out your fucking arm. Clear?”

It took several seconds before he could find his voice again. His heart pounded harder than it had the entire sparring session.

“Yes…yes ma’am…” he said, feeling weak in her grasp. She let him go, and he rejoined the line of prospects. Something about her casual strength, her power. It wormed its way into his mind and made it impossible to focus.

The rest of the day was a blur after that. Assigned to a barracks hall, shown around the mess, the sauna and hot water showers, and a vague understanding of where they’d be assigned on their first routes. All the while, all he could think about was her.

She wasn’t his first crush, but this had hit him out of the blue. Normally they came after a too-long stay during an assignment. Getting close to a local barmaid, or the daughter of a merchant, and the harsh bite of having to leave, or worse, betray them…Shay had to get good at compartmentalizing his feelings. Not just to perform his duties, but to survive at all.

So he did. He slid that part of himself into a volume and stabbed it into the overflowing bookshelf within his mind. He imagined it nearly towering to the ceiling, the spines of hundreds of sublimated wants and needs all titled with things he knew but dared not feel. It creaked as yet another entry was added to its confines. It strained…but held. He knew, one day, he’d have to deal with the many, many things he’d had to do as one of the Huntress’ loyal hounds. That the sheer weight of all these cut off parts of himself might crush him should his control fail.

One day.

But not today.

***

That night, he began his reconnaissance. The others were drained after a long day and collapsed into their meagre bedding, and only spent an hour with irrelevant small talk before one by one falling asleep. Shay was a little jealous. He doubted he’d be getting much more than a few hours of sleep in the next few weeks; the luxury to just sleep when you were tired was one he’d have to wait for after the assignment to indulge in.

The best part of being on the guard payroll is that all that preliminary work of spotting sight lines, guard duties, patrol routes, all of it is done for you. In fact, you’re supposed to memorize it. And he did, writing it in full into his half of the Tethertext.

The day began again, and Crys led the prospective guards in drill. Then drill. Then more drill. One of the men took a swing at her, apparently unfamiliar with the discipline of a professional armed force. He left the castle on a stretcher.

His thoughts often wandered in his off-hours to her. And not in a crude way…though there were times when it did venture in that direction. She wasn’t dissimilar to hundreds of other women he’d met in his life, and he wasn’t a blushing virgin. But she fascinated him. Attraction, yes. But also something else. She was feminine, but still respected. Strong, but not arrogant. Crys knew who she was, and damn the world if they ever doubted her.

As he got comfortable with the schedules, his explorations ventured into areas not assigned to the rookie guards. The inner keep itself was only patrolled by veterans, understandably. Having a policy of seeing people you didn’t recognize within the inner confines was a recipe for infiltration. He skated by on that in his early days of infiltration underpaid mercenary camps and thieves’ dens.

So it would have to be a top-down investigation, climbing a point on the keep’s wall with enough detritus, fixtures, and damage to make such a journey possible. Night would keep him out of sight for the most part, but he helped it along by wearing an outer garment of his own design.

He called it a nightcloak, and had no idea if this was a common thing for Weavers or if he’d come up with it himself. Rather than infusing it with magical energy, he drained it from the fabric ever so slightly, making it constantly ‘hungry’. It ate light, even bending it around the cloak slightly. When wearing it, the eye had difficulty tracking it. And when fully concealed, one could become effectively invisible. So long as he didn’t move and the observer didn’t get too close.

On one of the nights he’d spent exploring the walls, mapping points of interest for later infiltration, Shay discovered the glass house.

He’d never seen anything like it. Crystal clear walls and roofing tiles in such quantity that it boggled the mind. He blinked, straining his eyes to try to see the edge of the illusion. But it was real, as far as he could tell. And just when he thought it couldn’t get more unbelievable, the sole occupants of the house were row after row of plants! Some were tiny shoots in little alcoves, but others were full stalks or shoots or had flowered already. There were even several in full bloom, despite it being the beginning of spring. He’d been around Magisters and casters of all stripe. He could even perform a few tricks of his own. But this? This was magic.

Rappelling off the wall with a conjured rope, near heedless of the danger of being caught, he searched for any hint of its true purpose. Surely something like this wasn’t conjured for the sake of growing herbs in the depths of winter. Shay was deep into theorizing possible tactical uses for this impossible display of wealth when he heard heavy bootsteps approaching. A patrol route he missed? No, it was a pair: one heavy, one barely audible. He retreated to a dimly lit corner, his nightcloak wrapping around him, and held his breath.

“-too weak, or too slow,” a woman carrying a torch said, her voice rendered audible simultaneous with her emergence from the keep’s echoing corridor. Rather than the light chainmail guards were assigned, she wore heavier armour. Her sword’s hilt had a pink, gemstone pommel. “If there’s a succession crisis, we need to be prepared. There can be no distractions.”

The other set of footsteps belonged to a woman in a beautiful blue and black dress, the fabric dyed in a way to make the colour change a seamless gradient. What method did she use for that, Shay wondered. His gift let him make clothing from memory as well as imagination, and he started taking notes at her gorgeous appearance. Maybe he could win a fair maiden’s heart with such a gift, he thought to himself, the words cold and void of feeling even within his own mind.

Even so distracted, there was little confusion of who the woman was. The fact that she was so well dressed in the keep made it obvious, but the glint of of her silver hair made the conclusion inescapable.

Princess Katerina scoffed with a theatrical indignation, like she was playing to the cheap seats. “You worry too much, Lenna dear! I grew the White Damsel just for you and it is so close to blooming! You won’t have to worry about that silly little sword anymore.”

“Later, your highness, later. With your brother’s disappearance-”

“Just rumours! We went through a similar scare several years ago when Olaf disappeared on a kraking expedition, but he’d just beached himself on a shoal barely out of sight of the harbour.”

The other woman, her loyal Houseguard Knight, put a hand on the Princess’ shoulder.

“Has he ever been gone this long?”

Katerina didn’t answer. She pulled away and entered the glass house, scooping up a little watering can as she did. Shay’s mind reeled, recording every detail of the conversation for later transcription. Prince Olaf was the heir to the throne, the oldest living son of Magnus.

“Do you know what control is?” the Princess asked, filling up the can with a little water pump.

Lenna lifted her eyes to the night sky. “Not this shit again, Kat.”

“Control is the ability to rule your own fate. The plants in this greenhouse are under my control, and thus, their destiny is determined by my whims. I paid for the sandspinners to weave the glass, for the seeds from all over Argan. Like this room and these plants, I am singularly in control of this tiny part of my father’s kingdom.”

“It’s still a position many would kill to be in,” Lenna said, but was ignored. The Princess slid between a dozen different examples of horticultural prowess, doling out splashes of water, pressing her hand to the soil, even adjusting a little gauge next to piping on the farthest wall. The glass began to fog. Steam from the hot springs, he wondered. Innovative.

“But outside this domain. Outside the walls and the lines on a map that designate this as mine…I have very little control. I am the sixth child, Lenna dear. I can choose the notes, I can change my pitch, but I can do little more than sing while the convent burns to ashes around me.”

The Knight closed the distance, pulling at the Princess’ hand. “Never heard you being fatalistic before. You’re a woman of many talents, but self-effacement is not one of them. The dress ill fits.”

“I’m aware,” Katerina replied, her voice a little too loud. “And I’m also aware that I’m not a well-liked person, dearheart. I’ve been trained in the arts of negotiating, of politesse and curtseying while preparing the quick knife or the slow poison. But in the end, there are many in the Frontiers who would rather break up the nation than let a mage take the throne. I’m also not a Magister, so I can’t look to Thrast for protection even in exile. Not powerful enough to be dangerous, yet too much of a threat to be left alive should the banners of war be thrown to the wind over my father’s kingdom.”

“We’re repairing the walls,” Lenna replied. “And a new cadre of guards is being trained as we speak.”

“It won’t be enough.”

“Then we’ll hire more! If this is to be the personal holding of ‘House Stone’, then it will stand as a bastion-”

“It Won’t Be Enough!”

Silence reigned as the pair stewed. Katerina attended to her plants. And then, only when she’d run out of distractions, she turned to face the taller woman.

“If it comes to it, I will release you from your oath. You need not…you needn’t…” The Princess’ voice flagged, her emotions coming to the fore. Before she could finish the thought, Lenna scooped up her liege with her right arm alone and kissed her.

“We took an oath, you and I. In the Light, in front of a Priestess and no one else, we pledged ourselves to each other. Oaths may mean nothing to you, but they mean everything to me. I don’t care how many blades are arrayed against us. Sent by your siblings, or foreign paymasters, or the Magisters, or the Gods themselves. I will protect you with my dying breath. I would cut down the night to keep you safe. You know this.”

Katerina didn’t respond immediately, but Shay did see her tuck her chin against Lenna’s neck. They were not just romantically involved…but married? When they broke their embrace, the casual confidence in her voice had returned as if it had never left.

“At any rate! I look forward to seeing the walls of the castle restored to their former glory. And, should we encounter another one of Savin’s magic-wielding minions…” She lifted her skirt and knelt, disappearing from sight. “This’ll give us a definite advantage.”

Shay’s ears perked up. He looked for a way to get closer, to see which plant she meant, but moving now would be suicide.

“It doesn’t look very impressive.”

Katerina laughed. “Frankly, I agree. The amount I had to pay for the few seeds I got ought to afford a more visually interesting specimen, but I’ve confirmed the extract: it’s potent.”

Lenna whistled. “Throttler. I thought the blight wiped it all out. Does it work with skin contact, or does it need to be in the blood?”

“Blood, I’m afraid. But I can make it cling to an arrowhead or the edge of a knife. One hit and in moments even a Magister would be rendered powerless.”

Shay reeled, and had to force himself to keep perfectly still. An anti-mage poison? Not only would that fetch a high price, but if he played his cards right, that could solve his Huntress problem. One strike, one stab in the back, and his debt and his obligated service would be over. He was so caught up in imagining what he could do with such a miraculous plant, that when he looked up to see if the pair would offer more details, they were gone.

“Fuck.” He hadn’t seen which plant she’d indicated, only the general area and that it ‘wasn’t remarkable’. Exposing himself would be a risk, but he didn’t dream of missing this opportunity.

But wait. If she regularly checked her plants, would she not detect that a cutting had been made? Damnit. It would have to wait until he was about to extract, he decided. But before then, he would need to determine which plant was the one in question. Perhaps it would be self evident…

Only after he was sure that Katerina and her knight were gone did he dare creep out of his hiding spot. With no light but from the doorways leading in and the stars themselves, he would be effectively hidden. But it would make his fumblings in the dark close to fruitless.

Unless…

He stretched out his hand and reached into that font of energy within himself. Pulling on it gently, the power flowed into his arm, where it formed a glowing, blue needle. The tool of his costume weaving trade, and, in a pinch, a heatless light source. Though it was not exactly using his talent to its fullest, he’d stolen many secrets creeping around in the dark like this. Much easier to conceal than a lantern or a candlestick, and certainly more reliable light than a match.

Using the needle’s gleam, he ducked down into the area where the Princess had knelt. Several varieties of flower in individual pots, none stood out. In the dead of night, all had closed their petals. How the hell was he supposed to figure out which was which?

An epiphany. He held his hand over each one, making the needle’s glow brighter. If there was an antimagical effect on these plants, perhaps he could invoke it through proximity, or contact? Katerina said blood contact alone but…

The third flower twitched. His hand halted, and he waited for more motion. Nothing. Had he imagined it? He brought his eyes closer, touching the needle to the outside of the flower’s bulb. It exploded outward, white petals blowing open as if by alchemical explosive to reveal a surprisingly delicate crimson stem within. Before he could inspect it closer, his nose was assaulted by a powerful odour. Floral in the extreme, he coughed and then gagged as the pollen or spores or whatever it had held within its confines threatened to choke him out. He stumbled out of the ‘greenhouse’, sputtering all the way. He did not stop retreating until he was far away, in a distant part of the castle, where the patrols seldom lingered.

There, he allowed himself to catch his breath. Shay summoned the needle again, afraid that he’d triggered the Throttler’s effect. But no, his magic was still there. He turned the spell off and looked down into the barely visible expanse beyond, taking slow, careful breaths and waiting for that flowery stink to leave his nostrils.

Just what the fuck did he inhale?

***

He woke up in the morning in abject misery. It felt like his skin was a single, continuous nerve that reacted with alarm and pain at the slightest touch. Even putting on clothing was a fraught and uncomfortable experience, with the fabric of the clothes he was assigned scratching and scraping against his flesh like hundreds of tiny nettles woven into the garments. He took his afternoon break and Weaved a new set of identical clothes from a material of his own design, and thankfully, the sensation abated.

Shay went about his duties throughout the day without focus or enthusiasm while he tried to figure out just what he’d been hit with. Though he was a clandestine operative, he’d only rarely worked with poison. He hadn’t recognised the flower that had exploded onto him, nor could he identify the symptoms based on what knowledge he did have about offensive intoxicants.

The one thing he could be sure of was that it wasn’t the Throttler he’d been trying to obtain. His magic still worked, which was small comfort considering he might be slowly dying to some esoteric allergen. He needed more information.

That night, when the recruits were asleep, he detailed a full report of the incident into his Tethertext, including the conversation he overheard and the descriptions of the flowers. He omitted all mention of the Throttler, however, describing his motivation instead as reconnaissance to determine potential valuable assets that Princess Katerina had access to. A Magister would know about such things. Maybe she’d know a cure? Or at the very least, tell him what was happening to him.

But there was no response on the other end. His report sat there, absent any communication from his handler. He checked it obsessively, endangering his cover in favour of making sure he didn’t miss something. After a week, he realized he was on his own on this front.

***

His combat training continued. Crys was a merciless drillmistress, but the focus on repetition and precision of form allowed him to just mindlessly repeat the actions without worry he might give something away. Though the predominant focus was on armed combat, and the way she taught that was traditional, the Guardswoman’s unarmed studies and forms were distinctly unorthodox. These recruits were learning a variant on the close combat fighting styles you’d see on the corsair ships far to the west of here. Perhaps not useful on an open battlefield, with its emphasis on quick takedowns and lockups. But it might certainly be effective if you were guarding the confines of a castle, or needed to bring down an assassin to get them to talk.

Or a spy, he mused.

Shay was still fairly confident he could outfight one, or maybe two of these guards if he needed to, this was not an altogether bad idea. In fact, he grew increasingly worried that he was in the same training cadre as the team who would, quite soon, be ordered to take him down.

A week after the flower encounter, the changes began affecting his ability to keep up with the drill. He felt tired all the time, even after cutting back on his nocturnal adventures. He also found it easy to overexert himself without trying. Instead of improving his stamina with regular exercise, the days of drill seemed to weaken him. Each day he woke up with less energy, less muscle. His appetite was the direct opposite. Rather than persist on nibbles and a meal or two, he had to stop himself from feasting at every offered opportunity. His body yearned for food in a way it simply hadn’t before.

But he’d lived a life of denial, he was used to telling himself no. And it was obvious that whatever extra he ate would only help fuel these perverse transformations. And so he stared like a puppy in the rain at the huge pots of stew and dumplings his comrades regularly wolfed down after a long day of drill and duty.

He woke up in the dead of night roughly two weeks past the flower feeling suffocated. It felt like there was a weight on his chest. He scrambled out of bed, thinking he was under attack. To his relief, that was not the case. But to his horror, the weight was indeed real. Two fleshy nodules had formed under his nipples had grown overnight.

Shay fled to the castle’s hot springs, his skin felt like it was at once on fire and, at the same time, painfully cold. Warm baths had helped him on some of his darker days when he’d lived in the family’s manse, but he hadn’t used them as often as he would have liked to since being posted here. The vulnerability of being alone had been a consideration, but so had the knowledge deep in the back of his mind of what the transformations could be doing to him.

It was the dead of night, with naught but the guards already on shift likely awake. He’d likely have the whole bath to himself. Doffing his clothes and tucking them in such a way to hide his blades and the Tethertext among the folds, he drew water into the large, copper tub. In its reflection he saw himself, shivering and weak. Normally gaunt, his wiry musculature was harder to find, nestled beneath softer flesh. His face slightly puffy, almost rounded rather than the jutting cheekbones he was used to ignoring. Inflammation? Some kind of bodily response of his humours to the pollen?

And the kraken in the room. It was hard to voice the words, but that was their name. As an intelligence operative, giving name to your enemy was the first step toward defeating it.

He pulled his arms back and inspected his chest. Breasts. He was growing breasts.

The water was too hot, but he endured it. He ate the pain, the discomfort, and forced himself to relax. The unpleasant sensations didn’t abate entirely, but the water soothed the ache in his muscles. He felt his breathing return to a normal, calm rhythm. Letting his malformed flesh distract him could get him killed. The mind itself was the weapon he needed to hone. So with his discomfort momentarily allayed, he closed his eyes and thought on his mission.

Without knowing just what was happening to his body, he could not adequately plan for the future of his mission. The Huntress told him to get closer to Princess Katerina, which would mean getting posted to the guards in the Inner Keep. But that would mean becoming trusted with greater responsibility, which would mean swaying Crys onside.

Crys. Boisterous, irreverent drill instructor. People in Shay’s life fell into archetypes that let him easily categorize them, itemize their likely faults and vulnerabilities for later use. And though she was no enigma to him, there was something about her…

The moment she exerted her full strength, bringing his ear to her lips. The power in that. The flicker of helplessness as his cover identity threatened to give away under her gaze.

His hands froze. They’d wandered from his side to his front, and he looked down to see his cock had hardened in the meantime. The crush again; an escapee from his bookshelf of denial. He couldn’t afford dalliance with any of his biological impulses because the moment he wasn’t useful, he’d be cut loose. He knew that. He Knew That.

Still. His mind lingered again on the memory of being at her mercy. Of being held under her boot, or pressed firmly against the wall and made to kiss her. Her chest pressing against his, muscles straining, her eyes locked onto him, scrying his soul for any hint of weakness. Then, with a sneering laugh, leaning in to bite his collarbone.

“You’re mine, little spy,” she’d say, “And I’m going to dress you up in any way I want.”

The climax caught him completely by surprise. He hadn’t even realized he’d been masturbating until he seized up and shot an unimpressive spurt into the bath waters. All too quickly the hazy euphoria dissolved to shame, then practicality. This wasn’t anything he could allow himself to feel. Not in the least of which was because she was a threat to his whole identity. This wasn’t a game! This wasn’t some romantic fable! He had a job to do.

So he pushed it back up. Blocking it out. It felt harder this time. He scrambled out of the bath, draining its waters and the evidence of his desire. He felt cold again as the thoughts of Crys left him once more, naked, shivering, and most importantly, alone.

***

More days passed, more changes, shifting his meagre stores of flesh around to emphasize his hips over his waist. His youth managed to conceal his increasingly androgynous form, but it wouldn’t forever. His hair gained several inches one night, and he’d sliced it off, only for those inches to return when he woke the next morning.

His breasts likewise hadn’t halted their growth. He covered them. Tightened fabric around his chest to hide them until it hurt and he begged for mercy from his flesh’s betrayal. But it didn’t stop. He changed his outfits again, but it was getting difficult to deny just what was happening.

He was turning into…

The word refused to form in his mind. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

On the nineteenth day, Shay stood on one of the lesser explored battlements. The sun was fading, giving the sprouts of reviving plantlife in the field beyond long shadows. Things were growing again after a long winter. Whereas he…he felt like he was falling apart.

He pressed his hand to the left breast, there was no other word for it, and whimpered as a spike of pain nearly took him to his knees. The binding he used to keep his chest in check was growing more and more uncomfortable, and he had to regularly free himself from it when he had moments alone. It lay unbound, and he exposed his naked chest to the dying embers of dawn. Shay tried not to look, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. He had breasts now. Tits. Like…

Like a woman.

That had to be the flower’s purpose. It turned people into what they feared most. Like some kind of punishment? If they could trace it back to the flower he’d put his stupid fucking face into, that meant his mission was over. And that would mean his debt would be called in. His family would be displaced. And Shay himself likely executed. Either as a spy, or by his Handler for his failure. The only value he had to anyone was his magical ability and his skills honed over years using it to gather information. To look like other people so he could spy on them. But these mutations would end his usefulness. Especially if they were turning him into what he feared most.

Shay was noble-born in only the most strictly literal sense. His family had title, in theory. It had land, in theory. Both had been claimed long before he was ever conceived, his parents living in a meagre homestead. A drafty home on perpetually fallow land, only tolerated because their claim directly antagonized their client’s rival, the Wreath Queen, who’d stolen their claim. The youngest child, and only boy of seven, Shay had a difficult time discovering just who he was. His parents behaved like a Lord and Lady while scrounging for work. His sisters treated him like one of the girls, to the point where he wondered what the difference between them truly was. It was only once he reached maturity that the difference was made clear.

And he’d hated it. His limbs grew long and out of proportion, his body covered in grotesque hair and jagged features. It only got worse when he found out that his siblings didn’t feel the energy in the world like he did. That they couldn’t call light to their fingers, or work to make little dolls out of material conjured from the air around them. He was a mage, four words you didn’t hear often in a world with very, very few male magic users. And that distinction, of being picked out by fate to be both a boy and a sparkblood, cleaved him from his family. He ceased to be the youngest child and became a valuable commodity.

That’s how he came into Huntress’ service. Men being so rarely magic capable meant that he could be a useful asset. A clandestine caster who could be eyes and ears for a Magister to spy on those who might have only heard of male mages in bawdy folk tales about shapeshifting lotharios. And his value to his family, to be able to be used like this in place of the debt they owed for a new life of relative luxury, relied entirely on him being…him.

And so he was Shay the Mage Spy. Shay the Hound. Jorin the Bard. Kaile of the Wandering Eagle Merchant Order. Guardsman Recruit Quen. That was what he was and everything he could ever be. But now…something was happening that was out of his control. His body was shifting against his will into a form that felt alien. It was wrong, he’d said again and again, his life was his own. He touched himself to evoke that pain. But instead of the spike of agony, something else joined it. Something he hadn’t expected.

“Oh~” he moaned, then cupped a hand over his mouth. A moan? Men didn’t moan. They didn’t, so he couldn’t. But he did.

He touched again. Gentler this time. This new part of him was so sensitive to the touch that when he brushed up against it, it hurt. When he bound himself, it hurt worse than he ever imagined it could. But when he was gentle. When he was soft…

“Enjoying the view?”

Shay blanched. Fuck! He’d gotten carried away again! So long as he kept his back turned, there’d be no way to see he had his chest exposed. Trying to make it look as casually as he could, he leaned over the battlements to further conceal his bare chest.

“Sunsets…they remind me of home.” Shay barely managed to make the trite words leave his mouth, but the voice behind offered a grunt in the affirmative.

Heavy metal bootfalls, ones Shay couldn’t immediately place. Then, standing at his side, eyes out past the bulwarks, was the Houseguard Knight in charge of the castle’s defence. Princess Katerina’s partner, confidant, and vigilant protector.

“Never one for pretty things,” Dame Lenna of House Stone admitted, hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “But I can’t hate a sunset.”

They watched as the last dregs of light fled, dusk meandering to twilight. Shay breathed a sigh of relief as the darkness shrouded his naked, blossomed chest.

“I uhh…I know I’m not on an assigned route,” Shay began, evoking in his voice the stammering amateur in awe of a local legend.

“It’s fine,” Lenna replied, her tone reassuring. “Believe it or not, I had a role not dissimilar to your own once.”

Shay kept his eyes focused straight ahead. “Oh? I thought you were royalty.”

“Only by marriage. Knights aren’t all highborn fops and dilettantes, despite the barracks graffiti that says otherwise. I can handle myself in a fight.”

The spy gave a more or less genuine chuckle. He’d seen just about every epithet and slander that soldiers could scrawl in the time it took to shit or jerk off, and they did not have nice things to say with regards to the chivalric class. A rapport! With Katerina’s bodyguard and lover, no less. This was a chance to grab some intelligence. Despite his indecent appearance, he’d be a fool to pass it up.

Conjuring again the nervousness, he prodded. “I hope this is not too much to ask but…are we to be seeing a fight soon?”

Lenna’s gaze turned to Shay. “Who told you that?”

He averted his eyes. “Nobody! I just…there are rumours going around. People asking why the castle’s hiring more guards. That there might be danger to the Princess.”

Heart pounding silence followed. Then, to Shay’s relief, Lenna leaned over the same fortifications he was.

“I don’t know. That’s the honest truth. Court intrigue is neither my interest or my speciality. I’m a blade in her service, that’s all. But I can tell when I might need to spring forth from my sheath. A tension, of a sort. Like how the air feels before a storm.”

Shay felt like he shared more than a former occupation with the Houseknight. They might be in two very different lines of work, but that idea of service, of being a tool in someone’s hand, that was something he knew all too well.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he offered meekly. And that was true enough; the last thing he wanted was to be a spy trapped behind the walls of a siege.

Lenna left without a goodbye, much to Shay’s relief. He watched her stroll away, hand drumming on the pink pommel of that sword. Magical. He could feel it. What could she do with it, he wondered.

He buttoned his shirt back up, giving up on binding his chest for now. He’d have to Weave a heavier outfit, but this was all temporary procedures to forestall the inevitable. He’d have to prepare to exfiltrate if his transformation went further than this. For all his ability to craft new identities at a whim, he needed one thing to be constant: his gender. That was the whole point of being Shay. Now his skin was shifting out from under him, like a pupating insect. And he was deathly afraid that once his chrysalis burst, once his layers were peeled back…he wouldn’t know what the hell would be underneath it.

***

The next day began like most in his service to the Winter Court. The guard recruits were gathered in the same courtyard they’d been mustered in the day they’d arrived. Several had left by now, either removed due to dereliction, inability to keep up with the schedule, or another reason. One had even challenged Crys’ authority and had to be carted back to town. By now he was intimately familiar with his comrades, and they thought they knew him.

Guardswoman Crys appeared, but instead of her usual armour, she wore a more casual outfit. Breeches, doublet, her short hair brushed just a little in a way that made her look utterly alien, and yet kinda attractive. It was as if a different person had taken the field, one who might not break his arm if he got amiable.

When she took her stance at the front of the assembled guards in training, he instantly recognized something was wrong. She smelled…wonderful. His whole head buzzed with a delirium that only grew as she approached. She paced up and down, beginning what sounded for all the world like a rehearsed speech. Stilted. Transparent. Not at all like her.

“You’ve done quite well over your time here,” she began, striding to and fro with her eyes bouncing between each trainee. “I’m proud of the progress you’ve made under my watch, and under your own initiative, to turn yourselves into members of the Guard. Soldiers who can be trusted with the lives of the Royal Family in general and the Princess in specific. I would hate to lose any of you…which is why, unfortunately, I must bring an issue of grave importance to your attention.”

She was right up close to Shay now, and it was obvious the scent was coming from her. He could feel his face flush. Red and pink dots danced at the corner of his vision. Beneath his uniform, his body seethed. The same muscles and fat stores that had morphed in the weeks since the greenhouse felt like they were sparking off at once, triggering a cascading ripple of further changes. It took a minor miracle of willpower to keep utterly impassive, though he couldn’t tell how obvious his discomfort was to an outside observer.

Crys continued. “Princess Katerina has entrusted me to investigate an act of trespass upon that enormous glass eyesore she loves so much. Normally, I’d think it was someone being careless with the latitude afforded them and thinking they could get away with lingering among the roses. God forbid us mortals stop to appreciate the finer things. But there was a particular plant that her Highness has informed me was tampered with. It erupted into a kind of toxic pollen cloud. It’s supposed to cause a number of symptoms, but only in the presence of someone with a particular set of traits.”

Shay felt like there was a war-drum in his heart. It was him, she was talking about him. But what set of traits?

“What set of traits?” one of the guards asked in his stead.

“I was told there were many, but to be on the lookout for two in particular.” Crys approached again, slowing her pace. “One is a source of magical energy. A mage, in other words. Or someone carrying a powerful magical object for an extended period of time. And the second…” Her stride halted, directly in front of Shay. Her eyes bored holes through the back of his head.

“Ma’am?” he mustered, voice cracking. She knew. She fucking knew. Either his magic or the Tethertext had given him away. Maybe both. There’d be no explanation for either. Sweat poured from him. His body tensed like a spring as finely honed instincts told him to get out of there.

“The second trait, the one that White Damsel is grown for, is that the afflicted person feels they aren’t in the right body. And that they wish they could be someone else.”

The Guardswoman didn’t resume her pacing. Instead she held her gaze, waiting for him to crack.

“You can’t look into someone’s heart like that,” he said.

“I don’t need to. Princess Katerina made a perfume from the flowers of the White Damsel. Anyone affected by its pollen will react to it.” She tilted her head, her voice even. “Are you feeling alright, Recruit Quen?”

“F-fever, ma’am,” he managed, but his hands subtly shifted to the blades at his hips. Riven on the left side, Rend on the right.

“Feeling heated? Skin tingles? Strange growths? I knew someone with similar symptoms once. You look like you’ve come down with the same affliction. Now, this can only mean two things. One, fairly innocuous. The other…” Her hand came to rest on his shoulders. “I think you’d better come with me while we get this sorted out.

And so, the dance was over. There would be no bargaining, no half-hearted laughter. If Shay didn’t extract himself, he was dead sure he wouldn’t be escaping this castle alive.

Time slowed for him in a crisis. Whether it was a magical effect, or just his mind racing in the moments where he felt the shears of fate skim past his part of the loom, he had no idea. But it let him process it all at once. His blades came into his hands as if he’d willed them there, his closed hand breaking her grasp on his shoulder as he armed himself in a single, liquid smooth motion. The other guards lurched back, gawking as the wool fell from their widening eyes.

Crys didn’t appear dumbfounded. This was merely her suspicions confirming themselves. Satisfaction tinged with the pain of betrayal. Shay knew from experience that people he’d stabbed in the back in his missions were twice as likely to press the issue over those whose mere duty it was to see him caught. He was convinced that the Guardswoman would be driven against him now until the end of his days, regardless of how long that was.

Crys unsheathed her sword, but Riven was out faster, its hooked guard catching the drillmistress’ weapon at the hilt. Rend joined the threesome, and together they rotated the woman’s wrist the wrong way until she let go of the blade in a scream of pain. Crys was a decent fighter, but Shay didn’t train to fight. Shay trained to kill. The other guards were still in stunned shock. This could be it. He could take her life.

His dagger came up, pressing to her throat. Her breath caught.

A heartbeat.

Two.

Shay pushed her into the mass of guards, kicking off into a dead sprint. Blades tucked against his wrists to keep them out of sight, he dodged an arrow from a particularly perceptive sentry on the wall and ducked through an ajar sally port, taking him through the inner gatehouse. A confused guard who Shay was at least 90% sure was named Murrow was unable to get two syllables out before the spy launched his knees into his chest, knocking him to the floor. Rolling over poor Murrow’s supine body, Shay caught the ground with his feet, pushed himself back up to a stride, and was back at speed in barely more than a moment.

Fuck. It felt good to be free. He shed what remained of guardsman’s garb, leather armour and weapon falling until he was in a skinhugging outfit he’d woven to keep his growing curves in check. He was the lithe blade he trained to be. Into the Inner Keep, he pressed on, losing his pursuers in the close confines of the castle’s inner redoubt. Figuring out where to go from there, however, was the problem.

The roof. Rappel down the battlements to the place where the walls touched the keep. He could Weave himself rope of seeming indefinite length and tensile strength on demand. Then he could take the wall toward the south road, perform the same feat, and be down toward town while they were still combing the privies. The problem after that is there was little cover out there, the ground covered by shrubs and moss and the skeletal wraiths of stubborn trees. He’d have to weave a new nightcloak. This kind of magic expenditure in a single day, let alone in an hour, would drain him to the bone. But it was either that or be tortured and die as a spy.

Forward, left. No. Right? He stopped. The corridors were wrong. He had flaws, but his memory was as sharp as his blades. He’d mapped the keep out in his mind from what he’d gleaned from conversations and the few cautious trips around the outskirts, but the T-junction before him was not one he recognised. Had he gotten turned around? Landmarks. He looked for landmarks. But he recognised none. With a creeping surety, he pulled his blades from their sheaths.

Magic. Something was hazing his sense of direction, or altering the appearance of the corridor. Making doors look like walls, and vice versa. He closed his eyes, holding out his hand. He could feel the shimmering ripples of energy, similar but distinct from his own. Ignoring the wall he had seen in front of him, he pushed forward. The stone parted like a curtain, revealing its buried reality.

Shay came to a halt. Rather than a hidden exit, he’d walked straight into the central chamber. There, sitting rather bemused on her throne, sat Princess Katerina.

“He’s a mage alright,” she said, chin on her fist. “Maybe not a major power, but he’s had practice.”

The woman she addressed was the intimidating form of Lenna. Rather than the amiable, sympathetic person Shay’d met on the wall, her jaw was set. Eyes flinty and narrow. He had no illusions that she’d cut him down if given half an excuse.

Spun on his heels, but the way into the throne room was gone. When he tried his trick again, it didn’t work. The room was sealed from his perception. He’d never gotten this far into the building. Without knowing where the door actually was, he’d have to feel along the walls like a blind man to get out. And even then, he’d be trusting his perception wasn’t being toyed with. He turned his attention, and his blades, back to the pair on the dais.

“Let me go and this’ll end without bloodshed,” Shay said. His head still hummed with the damn perfume, hands shaking with a mix of its effect and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Unable to see a way out, he started plotting ways to commit impossible violence. Maybe…maybe if he held Katerina hostage…

“Oh, this is delightful!” the Princess said, her levity breaking the death stare between the two combatants. “I’d figured she’d try something, but this…this is truly perfidious.”

“Mind filling me in?” Lenna asked.

Rather than reply directly, Katerina rose from her throne. Lenna’s arm shot out to hold her back, but she merely walked past as if on a midday stroll. “It’s a man that I can see, dear. I doubt she’ll…he’ll pose much threat. Not with White Damsel burning out that identity before our very eyes. Having a bit of a crisis, little Guardsman?”

“You said he’s a mage,” Lenna amended.

“A male mage…at least for the moment. They’re rarely more than an oddity.”

Shay’s attention turned from the woman with the magical sword to the Princess. “I know who I am. I’m the one who’s going to kill the pair of you and then walk out of here without a second thought.”

The peel of laughter only made him angrier. “Oh? Are you now? Well, we’ll see what you can do with one hand tied behind your back. Dame Lenna, would you be so kind as to disarm this intruder? Then we can talk like gentlewomen.”

“Yes, your Highness,” was her only reply. The Princess resumed her seat and made a little ‘get on with it’ gesture.

“This’d go easier if you just put the knives down,” Lenna said, unsheathing her blade. “Back in the city, I broke waifs like you over my knee.”

“They pay well for that kind of service in the brothels?” Shay shot back.

That got another laugh from Katerina, which caused the powerful Houseguard Knight to flush. Good. Half of any battle was mental, and despite her obvious strength and reach advantage, Lenna wasn’t a cerebral titan. Shay had a chance. A slim one, but it was better than none.

Lenna lashed out. A thrust into a pivoting slash that cut through the air. Quick too, Shay noted, barely sliding out of the path. Close enough to see the throne room refract in a dozen gleaming facets in the sword’s gemstone pommel. But he was faster. He had to be. Blades at the ready, he launched himself forward like a missile. Rend and Riven sought flesh. The left knife connected, blade biting skin. Yes! She wasn’t invincible! Shay had a fraction of a moment to savour the little victory before Lenna’s knee came up and knocked the stuffing out of him.

He collapsed to the ground, mouth mimicking a fish as he tried to suck air into his lungs. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hit in the gut, but this was so much different. It felt like everything on the inside had moved around. The protective layer of muscle around his diaphragm had softened, leaving him vulnerable in more ways than one.

“It hurts more, doesn’t it?” the Knight asked. Since he couldn’t respond, she continued. “The pain’s more intense, but you can take more of it. Clothes that felt fine before start to scratch at you like a thousand little fingernails.The muscles wear out faster when you exercise, and you don’t bounce back as fast. You gotta claw to get back to your old watermarks. You realize what you took for granted.”

His daze snapped. The changes. She knew. Shay looked up at her, facing the blade held to him.

“You?” he breathed, life coming back to him as the implications reached him.

Lenna nodded. “Me.”

Shay pushed himself to his feet. “So…what? Whatever the flower did to you was permanent?”

“Wasn’t a flower. But the changes…the changes made me realize a few things.” She kicked Rend toward him. Riven followed, coming to rest with her sister at his feet.

“You’re toying with me.” He snapped them back up regardless. If he was going to die, it’d be on his feet.

“They’d be all you were thinking about otherwise. Armed, you’ll at least listen.”

Shay snorted. “Doubt it.”

He circled again, but this time, Lenna didn’t follow. She kept herself facing him, sword at guard.

“Katerina grew the White Damsel for me. It’s a rare breed. It only blooms in the presence of someone like us. It gives us the body our souls crave permanently. Won’t need this.” She tapped the pink pommel of her sword, as if that explained anything.

He shook his head in a way that broke his focus on his opponent. Stupid, stupid!

“It’s a spell. I’ve heard about ones that turn people to pillars of salt, or smoking stones. This is no different. It can be undone. I’ll find a way. I know people.” He was babbling now. Spiraling. He was trained, he was better than this!

Katerina stirred from her throne. “You know people who can undo spells, you say? Pray tell, who might that be? Is she tall? Short of hair? Had peculiar tattoos that seemed to move around of their own accord?”

Shay’s shock at her describing the Huntress so accurately left him totally open. Lenna wrapped him in a bear hug, crushing his arms until his knives fell from his grasp. His whole body stung. She was right. It did hurt more. But he could take it. He just needed…to focus…

“How…” was all he could get out as he struggled against the powerful Knight’s grasp.

“Oh dearheart,” Katerina approached again, any danger he presented seemingly nullified. “Don’t you understand? You were bait.”

“No!” he screamed. Shay threw her head back, smashing Lenna’s face. The Knight recoiled, dropping him into a loose pile on top of his blades. He snatched them up and scrambled forward on shaky legs. She was wrong, she had to be wrong! He hurled both daggers with all his spite. All his remaining strength. A final will and testament, to be written in steel and blood.

Katerina swept her hand through the air between her and her imminent death. The metal within both his weapons unspooled themselves like metal yarn. They slid to the ground in a loose pile, tangling together in impotent puddle. It was a display of casual magical power that Shay could only dream of wielding, used to make her own statement. A conclusive one: he was nothing.

“Anything else?” she asked. The raw magical energy she could bring to bear was awful in the truest sense of the word. Enough to make the little needle he could conjure look like tinder to a bonfire. Any momentum in his stride halted. There’d be no fighting her. Not here. Not now. Not as he was.

Katerina approached the spy. She spun her fingers around and around, and Shay watched the grey pasta that had been his blades turn into a set of crude manacles that bound his hands in front of him. Harsh, inelegent, the metal tightening painfully against his still too sensitive skin. Satisfied, the Princess held the spy’s chin in between thumb and forefinger, pushing it to the left and right.

“I’ve heard something about a little project Savin’d been working on. The runt of a nothing litter. A male mage, sculpted into a loyal hound. She knows my tastes. Or what I craved before I met my wife. I turned boys into girls. Pretty little dolls I could dress up and use.” Katerina punctuated the sentence by sliding her finger down Shay’s arm, making him shudder. “She used to play this game with me, believing it was more fun when they resisted. I don’t disagree, but I didn’t mind when they enjoyed it either. The Magisters are interested in my Kingdom’s succession, and she sent someone that’d catch my eye. One I’d keep close. Very close.”

Savin. He’d heard of a Magister with that name. Was that his Huntress? Was this whole thing some petty relationship squabble? His whole terrible hollow identity used, toyed with, all to be the plaything for a Princess with a perverse fetish.

Lenna had recovered, though the blood drooling from her lip made it clear she’d taken a hefty hit from the back of Shay’s head. Good. Least he’d hurt the brute before he’d be executed.

“Fucking…little…runt,” Lenna said, violence in her voice and fire in her eyes. “You want him gone? Spies aren’t protected under any flag.”

“Hmm…it wouldn’t do to antagonize the Magisters. Not yet, anyway. There are better ways to neutralize a threat than violence.” Katerina reached into Shay’s clothes and retrieved the Tethertext. “Thought I smelled this. Used to send naughty messages back and forth with Savin with these. Unfortunate that she’s turned them into a weapon so vile.”

His bound hands leapt out to snatch it back, but Lenna gripped him tight and yanked him back. He watched in helpless shame and horror as the Princess read through every inch of his latest infiltrations.

“Oh my goodness, you were right! Our little spy was privy to our discussion in the greenhouse several weeks ago. After the Throttler, no doubt.” Katerina laughed as she spooled through the text, tracing her path with her left and flicking pages with her right. “And she never responded back, even when you detailed the symptoms of White Damsel in detail. Something I know she has every knowledge of, considering it was from her garden that I stole the original seeds. How callous of her.”

Shay wanted to scream that the Huntress would come for him. That she’d be messing with the full weight of the Magisters of Thrast should she harm him. But he was a deniable asset. An assassin didn’t throw a knife into a crowded room and then waltz in to pick it back out of the wall. It had either served its purpose, or it had not.

“Your handwriting doesn’t look too complicated. I bet I could forge a fun little narrative of my own. Detail how the lovely and tempestuous Princess Katerina took a shine to you, manipulated you into wanting to become a pretty girl, then betrayed your old authority for your new mistress for the chance at a gorgeous new body~”

The spy stammered. “That’s not…that’s not true!” It wasn’t true. It wasn’t! He’d been loyal! Even through the barbs, the humiliations…the terrible betrayals he’d had to do to further her schemes, he’d done it all! But…but nobody would believe him…not with this body. They’d think him weak. That he’d betrayed the Huntress to have his form twisted into…this. The body he loathed, yet the body he knew he wanted.

He sank to his knees. Tears stung his eyes as he watched his ramshackle life fall apart before him. After his ‘betrayal’, his family would be removed from their home. He was useless to them. Useless. A weak mage who could make a few bolts of cloth, that was all. Not a spy, not even a man. He was better off-

Someone yanked him to his feet. Against his will, his reflexes kept him standing when all he wanted to do was crumple. He turned to look, turned to face the person who would drive a blade into his heart.

And saw Crys.

“Guardswoman! We’re ever so glad to see you,” Katerina said, clapping her hands. “We are under threat from this terribly frightening assassin. I’ll overlook your complete abrigation of duty if you’d be a doll and take care of her? There’s a good soldier.”

But Crys wasn’t having any of the Princess’ games. “Are we through with this dance?” she asked her superiors. Her voice had steel in it. Despite the inflection at the end, it wasn’t a real question. She was telling them, politely, that they were.

“Careful,” Lenna said, “Even manacled, he’s still dangerous.”

But the Guardswoman balked. “You were where Quen is now not too long ago, Houseguard Knight Lenna. You remember how it felt to have your body ripped from your grasp. You should know better.”

“You’d take her side? After she so effortlessly fooled you?” Katerina said. Still grinning, but there was no mirth in her eyes.

“You’re playing with your food, Princess. Either bite down or spit it out.” A terrible breach of protocol. Practically treason. Lenna stood speechless, taken aback. Silence reigned for uncomfortable moments. In the end, it was Katerina who broke it.

“Very well. It was your failing that let the spy sneak into your little training group. I suppose it should be your responsibility to see this breach to its end. What should we do with our wayward little guard?”

Shay stood stock still, fragile spirit crushed under a lifetime of performance and other people’s expectations. Crys lifted his chin. Not in inspection, like Katerina’s velvet touch. But with force behind it. Like a drill instructor.

“Eyes forward, recruit. You’re on parade in front of your superior, not a poetry recital.”

He had no sparkling repartee. With nothing else to do besides fold or die, he chose to stand. His back straightened, his head lifting.

“Yes…yes ma’am.”

Crys nodded. “Good. I know your name’s not Quen. I know you’re not some wastrel from a Northern village. I know you’re not really a soldier by trade. But you have spirit, and you have speed. Nobody gets the drop on me like you just did. Especially not someone with half their body in knots. And I can use that. I can use you. Your old life? The obligations? Forget them. You’re in my service now, under my direct supervision until I tell you otherwise.”

He nodded. Lenna and Katerina remained silent, fascinated by what was going on. Shay’s own experience was focused inward on his own feelings, his own.

“But…but my family-”

“Your family sold you to live a mildly more comfortable life,” Katerina said, returning to her throne. “Aren’t you tired of being someone else’s trade good? I don’t have room in my heart for another plaything. My days of breaking stallions are over. But it looks like the young Crys has taken a shine to you. Is there room in your stable for a toy filly, Guardswoman?”

“I don’t want a toy!” Crys shot back. “I don’t ‘play’. I build up women into their best selves, even if they doubt they can be anything more than what they are. But before I do anything, I have to know…who are you, really?”

“My name…” the Spy began, but stopped. This was it. This was their chance. “I don’t have one. Not a real one. Not one that’s mine.”

“The first truth you’ve told me. That’s a start. So what should we call you in the meantime. I could call you Spy. I could call you Doll, or Toy. Is that what you are?”

“That’s…” No One began, then stopped. The feelings, the desires they’d experienced all their lives were erupting forth. A dam had breached. And here, this close to Crys, they could smell that perfume again. It had suffused the air, bringing forth what they’d tried to run from but couldn’t.

“The manacles,” Crys said over the former spy’s shoulders. Katerina dutifully withdrew them, followed by Crys herself cutting the clothes from their new project’s body. There’d be no hiding either. All the feminine curves, the breasts, the pitiful lack of body hair, all on display. Everything, including the erection that had begun before they could even feel shame about it.

“I’m sorry,” they began, but Crys shook her head.

“Stop apologizing! I don’t want to hear excuses. I want answers, and you’ll give them to me, won’t you?”

They nodded.

“I still need a name, Recruit. Any name. Doesn’t have to be permanent, but I need something.”

“Riven,” they whispered, looking at the puddle of steel that had been their daggers moments before. “I like the name Riven.”

“Works for me. Well then, Riven, are you a man, or a woman, or something else?”

The being before Crys mouthed ‘boy’ on reflex, but no voice came out. There was still a tension. Some last few threads that needed to be pried.

Crys put her hands on the tender flesh that hung from their chest. “What are these, Recruit Riven?”

“B-breasts, ma’am,” Riven stammered, gasping at the sudden touch. Their cock, an impressive size for someone so otherwise unremarkable, twitched and rose to its full size.

“Very good. You’re not hopeless. And do breasts belong on a woman?”

They nodded.

“And do breasts belong on you?” Crys asked, then squeezed down with a powerful hand, bringing that pain and pleasure mix that made Riven nearly buckle before. This close to Crys, with the perfume in the air, exposed and raw and bared to the world, there was only one thing Riven could say.

“Ah, yes!” she cried out, letting the whole world know where she stood. The chains had fallen away and she was finally free. Oh god she wanted to fucking cry, she wanted to dance, but most of all, she wanted to-

Crys pushed her mouth against Riven’s, stealing a kiss before she could say another word. Her eyes fluttered closed as the shorter but infinitely stronger woman took her in her arms, bending her down, dipping her body like they were on a dance floor. When they both returned to a standing position, Riven was still dizzy with a mix of infatuation, euphoria, and perfume. It took a moment to remember they were in a throne room, joined by two women who she’d just tried to murder.

“I…I don’t…” she began, unable to find the exact explanation for her behaviour. Lenna, meanwhile, had a knowing smirk.

“Good girl,” Crys said, making Riven turn a beet red and sway on her feet. She’d never experienced such an emotional whiplash in her life. From utter despair to enough joy to make her feel light headed and giddy. Thankfully, Crys spoke for her. “I’ll be taking her into my custody, if that’s alright with your Highness.”

“You think there’s something worth salvaging?” Katerina asked.

“I do. Any spy who can get past me, even momentarily, has skills that can be put to use. And I don’t think she had malice truly in her heart for you or anyone else. She killed no one during her infiltration or her escape attempt. Hell, she didn’t even hurt anyone outside of sanctioned training bouts. She’s not a helpless damsel, and she’ll be on a tight leash. But I think I can make something of her.”

The Princess nodded, then turned her gaze to Riven. “This won’t be freedom, you understand. You still infiltrated my castle with the intent to betray me, and I won’t forget that you did just throw a knife at my head.”

“Two knives, actually,” Lenna provided, to a grateful incline of the Princess’ brow.

“Two knives, thank you dear. You are no longer a member of the Guard, of course, but I believe that Crys may find some use for someone with your talents with espionage. And you’re a caster too, are you not? Let’s see what you can do. Show me your gift.”

Riven nodded. She closed her eyes, pictured her full array of patterns and designs. To her surprise, it was like a whole new wing of her mental library had opened up. All new possibilities had manifested. Beyond the drab and the dower, all the pretty and gorgeous and cute and dreamy outfits she’d catalogued in her life as a spy appeared at her fingertips. With a playful grin, she conjured the needle to her hand and began to Weave.

Threads of gossamer energy wove around her body as she stitched the impossible into reality, constructing in mere moments what would take a mundane artisan weeks or even months to accomplish. In scarcely more than a minute, she had gone from wearing nothing to donning a copy of the very same dress that she’d see Katerina wear on that night in the glass house. But not a gradient of blue to black, this was a glorious red to white, the fabric seeming to glow as it moved with her body. The colours of the White Damsel. A flower in full bloom.

“Holy shit,” Lenna said, turning to her wife. “Can you do that?”

To the room’s collective astonishment, Katerina blushed. She sputtered half an excuse about how Weaving was hedge magic, but Lenna had already fallen into a bout of spirited laughter. Suddenly impotent, Katerina grabbed the metal manacle with her mind. They pulled apart into a single cuff, then shrunk.

“Until I deem fit to trust you with a blade again, I will see you disarmed of all your weapons,” she spoke, shrinking the creation until it looked like a curved sheath. Riven’s namesake blade had turned into a device of bondage for a much more intimate area than the wrists. It hovered in front of the spy, the Princess not forcing it onto her. This was a test, Riven realized, to see if she was serious. A man, or at least a man in common conception, would never willingly submit to enforced chastity.

With shaking hands, she lifted up her dress’s skirt. She hadn’t had time to conjure underthings, so she was nude beneath its elegant folds. Riven plucked the metal cage out of the air. It came apart in two pieces, and she struggled to put it on over her twitch, and rapidly hardening, length.

“Here,” Crys said, kneeling, “Let me help.”

Riven’s face could not be seen through her hands as she felt her former drillmistress clip her cock into a confining cage. Or try too, at least. Against her best efforts to calm herself, the touch of a hand on her sensitive, soft skin proved too much to handle limp.

“I’m sorry!” Riven said, shaking her head and apologizing profusely as she stiffened in Crys’ grip. “I’m not trying to disobey…I just…I just…”

Katerina’s flicker of vulnerability had disappeared, and her eyes gleamed with hunger at the poor thing before her. Lenna averted her eyes politely at first, but did not turn away for long.

“It appears we have a conundrum on our hands,” the Princess began, her voice haughty and contemptuous. “We have a newly forged woman whose last shreds of masculinity are clinging to her tip. What should we do about this, hmm?” She turned to Crys. “What say you? She’s your charge. Should we take away her little dagger for good?”

Riven squeaked, but didn’t object. The Guardswoman made a show of thinking it over, picking up the mood that Katerina was setting up. “I don’t think it needs come to that, your Highness. To use your turn of phrase, I’d much prefer a filly I could ride.” She dropped the cage lightly on the floor, and began to stroke. Riven’s rebellious shaft was already hard, but it quickly assumed its full size at Crys’ intentional touch.

Katerina nodded. “Of course, of course. Lenna dear, do you see the thing between her legs? How come you’re not so well developed down there? Embarrassing that a swordswoman such as yourself ought to find herself so poorly armed.”

Lenna bit down on a caustic response. “I suppose I should bring up, as I am the only one who seems to remember, that this is a spy in the service of your enemies.”

“She WAS in the service of my enemies,” the Princess amended, holding up a finger. “And might be again. After all, weren’t you so worried about political intrigues and threats at court? With someone so deft at infiltration on side, we’d surely be better prepared than without her help.”

“How do we know this is not some elaborate double bluff play? You said Savin sent her to be turned into-” her words faltered as Lenna realized any derisive term, like ‘a mewling feminine plaything’ would describe Katerina’s original intent for herself. After she cleared her throat, she returned to her original point. “How do we know for sure she won’t betray us as she had her former mistress?”

“That is true, my cynical sweetroll. We don’t exactly have a definitive way to see just how willing she is to forsake her previous allegiance. However…” Katerina picked up the Tethertext and approached the pair before her, flipping to the last blank page in the magical tome. “When we sent naughty notes back and forth, we used the back page for things we needed to see immediately. I’m guessing she kept the same system now. Riven, dearest, I want you to tell Savin just what you truly feel.”

Crys’ hand hadn’t stopped pumping. Riven twitched and twisted in her grasp, the open page held out in front of her like a blank canvas.

“I don’t…I don’t…” she stammered, a tidal wave of conflicting emotions warring for her attention. Shame, and fear, and excitement, and most of all, a perverse, powerful new kind of arousal.

“The Tethertext uses all kinds of ink, sweet Riven. I want to see you make your severance from Savin’s control rather dramatically. Forgive me. I have a flair for the theatre, and I’m ever so starved in this cultural backwater. So entertain me, sweets, by spurting the last load you’ll ever make as a man out onto the page, and use it to sign your termination notice.”

Crys’ hand stopped. Riven mewled, looking between the guard and the princess. But they were mute witnesses to this final statement of intent. It would have to be her decision. Her choice. She gripped her cock and pumped it, the eyes of her former enemies turned tormenters turned allies making this whole scene perverse and arousing. To be exposed so openly, rended open at the core and revealed to all. To be the masturbating in a room full of clothed, contemptuous, powerful women…it was enough to…it was enough to…

“Ahh…aaahh!~” she cried, pumping herself to completion all over the back page of the Tethertext. An enormous puddle on the bottom half, leaving plenty to write with. Shakily, and before it cooled, she dipped her finger in the mess she made and wrote out the last words she’d likely say to Savin. At least, until she was armed again. Five letters in curling script, semen soaking into the page, sealing her fate.

I QUIT.

***

Riven’s daily meeting with Vikka was in the same place it always was: the gilded cage of her room in the smallest tower of the Winter Court. This wing had been assigned to foreign dignitaries, back when anyone bothered to visit this far south. Left essentially abandoned save for security sweeps, it had been restored, as best as means allowed, for her use. Nevertheless, the stone walls felt claustrophobic after a lifetime of impermanent residence.

Katerina’s personal maid had taken it upon herself to be Riven’s steward through the finer points of being a woman, and a lady to boot. There had been a lot she’d taken for granted that she had to either modify or relearn entirely. As much as she’d picked up in her time of taking on guises, much had been purposefully steered away from femininity. It was…awkward, learning the basics of what was expected of the person that she’d desperately yearned to be her whole life. But for all her high-strung nature and expectation of decorum, Vikka had been a very dutiful teacher. Patient, knowledgeable, and quick with praise as correction. She’d even shared anecdotes of the things she taught Lenna, when she was going through similar circumstances. Though Riven had to admit, she was having trouble seeing the powerful knight learn how to curtsey.

This afternoon, Vikka toddled in with arms wrapped around a wicker chest. Rushing over to help her, Riven was perplexed by its contents once they were revealed.

“I can’t imagine any circumstance where these would be necessary,” the former spy said, staring with vacant confusion at a box of knitting supplies.

The maid’s explanation poured out of her with a trademark overabundance of gesticulation. “If you are to be infiltrating as a woman, you’ll need to understand all the activities that ladies of a certain class ALL PARTICIPATE IN! It’s where they gossip and entertain each other with stories. YOU CAN’T JUST CONJURE A FINISHED SCARF OUT OF THIN AIR.”

“I suppose I understand. But…perhaps another time.” Riven said, looking out one of the smaller windows. The inner gate hadn’t budged. Damn.

Vikka’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh! OF COURSE! Mistress Crys is supposed to be returning from her assignment! You two will want your…erhm…privacy.”

Riven flushed, but nodded. “I do have something for you in exchange for a reprieve, if you’d have it.” She stepped over to behind the changing screen and, with a bashful grin, pulled out a dress of silver and red: the colours of House Forde. A shift and overgown with optional apron, rendered as if in wool but with the smoothness of silk.

“Oh...OH MY GOODNESS. My lady will be OVERJOYED!” She reached out to touch it, but Riven pulled back.

“I didn’t make it for her. I made it for you. You’ve been very kind to me, Vikka. Even when I wasn’t going through those rough patches. I hope you’ll accept it, meagre as it is, as part apology and gesture of thanks.”

Vikka gawped. Seven different emotional states appeared in quick succession on her face before she settled on abject joy. Crying, she grabbed both the dress and Riven in a hug nearly strong enough to crack bone, then ran out the door, sobbing and babbling incoherent appreciation the whole way.

Once again alone, at least for the next little while, Riven closed the door and attended to her own appearance. Gifted a gorgeous, impossibly clear mirror for this very purpose, her reflection had been something she’d fled from before. Now it was hard to drag her eyes away….or keep her clothes on, for that matter. The flower’s effects had abated after around a month. A second dose, Katerina had explained, might lead to further changes. But for now, it appeared her journey was complete. Riven was happy with her body. For the first time in her life…she was happy.

Riven shed her dress and revealed herself to the mirror. She was still tall, much to her chagrin. But Crys didn’t seem to mind. Her figure curved in ways she’d only dreamed about before. Breasts, firm and squeezable, looked so right on her she couldn’t imagine how she’d ever settled for a flat chest. She ran her hands down her smooth skin, noting that she still had the blemishes and marks earned from her previous life; they were her scars as much as they were Shay’s. He was her foundation, in a way. Without him, there could be no Riven to build.

Though she was naked of clothing, one item still clung to her body: the chastity cage. She wasn’t allowed out of it outside Crys’ presence for the same reason she wasn’t allowed to train with weapons without her. It had been difficult at first, having her ability to climax controlled by another. But it did help build her relationship with Crys. The confusing mix of tutor, mistress, lover, and…something else, often left her breathless and painfully straining against the cage’s embrace. But she’d gotten used to it, both Crys and the cage. And, she had to admit, it did help her when wearing any form fitting outfits, or ones where spontaneous erection might be inconvenient. But with Crys gone for so long, it had left her mind wandering far too often to their previous encounters, and yearning to feel her touch again.

Riven pushed out her hips, showing off her pert, squeezable derriere. Learning how to be a proper lady of the court was fun, because it meant she got to learn all the things a ‘proper woman’ wasn’t supposed to do…and excite herself in the process. She’d learned that ladies of all varieties could enjoy insertions, but she hadn’t quite gotten the knack for it. But presenting like this, so wantonly, so greedily…it was enough to make her-

“Looking as good as ever.”

Riven instantly recognised the voice. She spun around and leapt at Crys, who caught her in her powerful arms with a grunt of effort. With her legs lifted, Riven spun in her lover’s embrace. She didn’t know if she could have gone on without her by her side through her transition.

“You’re back! I didn’t see you come in!” She kissed the Guardswoman, who eagerly returned the gesture.

“I’m not surprised. Looks like your eyes were elsewhere,” she said with a laugh. Setting down Riven, she closed the door with her boot and started disrobing herself. They still technically had different rooms, but they’d enjoyed each other’s company in both beds. One of the things that changed wildly for Riven was her sense of smell, and she could tell that Crys hadn’t had a chance to bathe in a while. Her knees went weak, the perverse scents making her stiffen in her cage. Salt, and grime, and old leather. Shay had had no idea that women could smell so good, but Riven was now acutely aware.

“H-how did it go?” she asked, changing the subject. “Did you find it? Was it there?”

Crys played it coy and let Riven back down to the ground. “It was guarded, like you said. They didn’t put up much of a fight after we thrashed their leader.”

“Marken’s Band are all cowardly scum. Savin hires them for guard duty because they’re cheap and look like common ruffians. They never look like they’re holding anything valuable, and they never know what they’re holding, so they’re the perfect guards for something of true import.” Riven had spilled all the little secrets the Huntress had let slip or made her aware of by accident over the years, which she’d carefully cultivated for the time that she’d get a chance to pay her back. “The Huntress, Savin, overthinks things to an absurd degree, and it makes her vulnerable to the obvious approach. So? Did you find it?”

Crys tilted her back and forth, then pulled an object from behind her back. It was the knife she’d handed Savin a lifetime ago. The Thornblade. She oftered it to Riven, but clasped her hand around its spiraled grip.

“Have you been a good girl? Attending dutifully of all of Vikka’s lessons?”

Riven nodded, shivering a little at being called a ‘good girl’. Damn her. She knew just what to say to make her yield. It was annoying to have her strings so easily plucked, but it also felt too good to ask her to stop. She replied via an elegant curtsey, complete with a lift of a skirt that wasn’t there.

“Learning the ins and the outs. But eager to make myself useful."

The Guardswoman nodded and, as casually as she pleased, tossed Riven the artefact. She caught it handily, testing its weight. In her hands, she felt a hollowness in it. It ached for an owner. She knew how it felt.

“Snuck in the Rootvaults of the King in Green to get this,” she commented aloud. “One of Savin’s little party favours she intended to break out should her rivalries with Gunnhilda or Morrigan explode into open hostilities. Hope this is enough to prove my loyalty once and for all.” She flipped the knife over end to hand it back to Crys handle first, but she held up her hand.

“I figure you’ve been a pretty flower long enough,” Crys said. “Even roses need a thorn or two, don’t you think?”

Riven beamed. “You mean it? I’m…you trust me?”

“Well, let’s just say we’re willing to give you a try-out. Like our sparring match on your first day. We’ll see how well you fair in bustles rather than breeches. If it works out, you might have a place at Princess Katerina’s side.”

“And…and if it doesn’t work out?” Riven asked in a small voice. A sudden wave of doubt washing over her. She barely understood what it was to be herself! Could she go back to pretending to be other people?

Crys cupped her chin in her hand. “Well, then I’ll have a very dextrous live-in dressup doll, won’t I?”

Another shudder, harder this time. Riven let the knife slip from her fingers. “I thought you said you didn’t have interest in playing with toys.”

“I don’t,” the smaller woman admitted, pushing her partner backward toward the enormous feather bed. “But I have needs I need sating. And you’ll do nicely…for now.”

It was good that Riven wasn’t wearing anything because, magical or not, she didn’t think the fabric would survive how furiously it would have been torn off. Crys disrobed in similar enthusiastic fashion, her sweat-stained skin exposed making her partner swoon like a heat stroking maiden, falling back onto the mattress. She looked down to see Crys leap on top of her like a mountain sabercat, legs straddling her.

“You know what I want,” Crys said, deathly serious.

Riven’s breath caught. “M-may I?” she asked, her hands hovering between her legs.

“You may.”

Hands shaking, she worked to unlatch her chastity cage. Her cock was already painfully hard, but trapped in its confines, all it could do was ache and make her aware of how frustrated she was. She’d even notice that it would leak when she was aroused, much like a maiden getting wet over the thoughts of her dream wife. She blushed at the internal comparison, and it only made the whole thing more arousing.

The latch popped, and the cage made out of her old weapon loosened to unsheath her other blade. Riven didn’t bother restraining the moan; anyone in the castle already knew they were lovers, who was there to hide from? It sprang to life, relief in her voice as much as arousal as she was finally uncaged after days without Crys’ presence.

“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” she babbled, hands kept away by sheer force of will.

“Now, remember our discussion last time? Are you going to be a good girl and stay hard? Or are you going to pop at the first opportunity like a silly girl at her first whorehouse?” Crys asked rhetorically. She knew the answer. They both did.

“I’ll be a good girl!” Riven said, her heart pounding. She would do her best to stay hard for her partner, but after so long without stimulation, it was only natural that she might erupt prematurely. But the punishments for disobedience were almost as good as the rewards for compliance. It was a win-win, really, but she’d do her best to be of service to her mistress.

Crys lifted herself up, angling herself with a markswoman’s precision, and sheathed herself on Riven’s upturned shaft. Their groans were at two separate registers, but they were both linked in mutual pleasure at finally sating cravings denied them.

“Frigging myself on the road is not enough,” Crys admitted, rising up on Riven’s length, only to fall again. “All I could think of was this. Your cock.”

Riven nodded mutual feelings. She’d tried rubbing, she’d tried playing with herself in other ways. But it wasn’t the same. She needed Crys. That connection. That spark.

“I am…ahh…glad to be of service!”

“I beat you,” Crys hissed, her hips rolling in the exact rhythm she wished. This was all on her schedule. For her pleasure.

“Yes,” Riven said, nodding against the pillow. The little roleplay adding spice to her partner, though she wasn’t sure how seriously she should be taking it. “I fought you…and you won.”

“And you gave yourself…mnf…to me.”

“I could do nothing else. You were…” Riven squeezed down on her muscles as she felt her control slipping. “You were too strong!”

Crys’ breathing accelerated. She leaned in, hands pressing into the bed on either side of her partner.

“I took your masculinity, didn’t I?”

Riven’s eyes widened. This was a new development. Confusing feelings washed over her. Mild outrage at the concept that her identity was played with, but also, paradoxically, a perverse arousal at this version of events.

“I…I guess you did…”

“I made you a girl. I made you a doll.”

Riven whimpered. “N-no, but that’s…I thought….” Her objections were hard to form when Crys was riding her throbbing, needy cock like she was breaking in a recalcitrant filly.

“Tell the truth,” she purred, “or go back in the cage.”

Riven’s body seized up at the threat. No! She couldn’t. Not now! Not when she was too close! Embarrassed, she let the words fall from her lips.

“I admit it! You turned me into a pretty girl…I was helpless!”

Her mistress’ laughter was half cruel taskmaster, half joyful peel. “And you’ll do anything I say?”

The tension built, and built. Her last fragments of control were falling from her graps.

“Anything, anything!”

Crys’ waist halted, hilting herself onto her partner’s needy prick and leaned as far as she could while keeping it locked inside.

“Cum.”

And so she did.

***

Seconds, or hours, or eons later, Riven noticed Crys roll off of to the other side of the bed. Seed spilled down the both of them, but she’d be doing the sheets in the morning. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this. Crys wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close into a sideways embrace.

“I missed you,” she said, kissing Riven’s ear. “Truly.”

Riven didn’t speak. She still didn’t know how to feel about being in a relationship. Casual sex she understood. Dominance and submission too. But gentle affection, earnestly given and gratefully received, it was as new to her as the manners Vikka sought to impart.

Riven thought to the blade at her bedside. What she could accomplish with a weapon such as that. She could get her revenge on Savin, on all the people who had wronged her. With the Thornblade, no heart would be beyond her grasp to pierce.

But that would mean leaving Crys. Leaving the person who had given her this second chance. Regardless of the circumstances, she owed her more than betrayal. But it was more than what she owed. Shay had owed the Huntress. Shay had owed his family. No. The time for burdens, for debts, that was over. In the future, she would choose what she would do. And she chose to stay with Crys. Through thick and thin. No matter what travails or spells or wars or gods themselves that would assail them.

And maybe, with time, she could learn what it meant to be content. To be truly at ease.

But for now, she was herself. She was Riven.

And that was more than enough.