Authors Note:
Today we learn about Queen Orphidora, a compassionate yet formidable leader who rose from slave to sovereign. Renowned for her unpretentious acts of kindness and strategic brilliance, it was she who laid the foundation for the world’s most dynamic transformation. As always, your thoughts and advice will be cherished as I strive to share more stories of my world with you.

Chapter 2: Guardian of the Abandoned

Aeons before the present age and before the birth of the formidable Veil, the world had been plunged into the last great war, the Eternium Conflict.

Despite its consequences, the origins of this monumental strife have been swallowed by history, save for a hidden parchment lying in an unmarked grave—a secret document that, to this day, eludes the knowledge of the temple, its mysteries shared only with the earth. That is a tale best reserved for another time.

And like those in your realm, our world, too, has not been spared the cruel decimation of life so often seen in such tragedies. The bloodshed of the Eternium Conflict was unparalleled, so profound that Artemitra herself would descend upon the mortal plain as an Avatar in anticipation of their need for her.

Born as the child of a slave and raised in servitude until she became the leader of the rebellion of the slaves, she would ascend in rank and greatness, becoming Queen of the kingdom of Eleuvanya. In the heart of the wild, a small yet flourishing sanctuary offering solace and refuge to all who ventured within its welcoming embrace. Known in her mortal form as Queen Orphidora, she had garnered such immense love and devotion from her people that among all the rulers of Kalyphos, Only she could walk freely among the masses without the need for guards or disguises.

Her kindness was legendary, known for never holding back even when it required great personal sacrifice. No task was beneath her willing hands. She would work in infirmaries, tending to the sick with a gentle touch. In schools, she would guide children’s lessons with endless patience. In kitchens that fed the poor, she would toil without complaint, ensuring every hungry soul received nourishment.

Little would it surprise her subjects that their queen, despite her myriad responsibilities, would be seated on her throne each day, addressing the realm's gravest challenges and needs. Yet, of greater wonder perhaps, was that come evening, she could be found enjoying many a humble drink amidst boisterous company in a modest tavern.

Do visit her land, dear reader, for you might chance upon her lending a hand as a barmaid in the tavern where you rest, playfully teasing all present as she flaunts her curves. And if you fancy a visit to any of Eleuvanya's thriving local theatres, look closely; you may witness her gracing the stage, performing minor roles or appearing as an extra in the opening or closing acts of one of their many wonderful productions.

Orphidora, 'Guardian of the Abandoned,' would earn her title not only among her subjects but also among the beasts of her kingdom. One afternoon, an injured Fyrdrake crashed near an orphanage, spreading fear and panic among the people, many of whom would call for its death. However, the queen saw only an injured creature in pain. She would approach the Fyrdrake with compassion in her heart, raising both her hands to show she meant no harm.

As she drew nearer, the terrified beast would breathe fire, burning her clothes away and scorching her skin. Even the most powerful of her magical protections would not withstand its flames. Despite the excruciating pain visible in her eyes and etched into her flesh, Orphidora would persist. Even as her skin would blister, and her clothes would be reduced to ashes, she would finally reach the Fyrdrake and place her hand gently on it, soothing it with her touch.

The beast, still fearful and confused, would continue to breathe fire, but Orphidora would not withdraw. She would endure the pain; her injuries and shameful state would be inconsequential to her. The only things that would matter were her gentle touch and soothing presence, gradually calming the Fyrdrake until it finally allowed her to stay.

Over the following weeks, Orphidora would tirelessly nurse the Fyrdrake back to health, gradually breaking past the creature’s fear and distrust. As the Fyrdrake's strength would return, a bond would form between them. The proud creature, A symbol of untamed power and ferocity, would come to see Orphidora as a master deserving of its loyalty. In an extraordinary act of devotion never seen before, the Fyrdrake would willingly bow to her, acknowledging her as its master—a gesture unprecedented for such a majestic and independent being.

From that day forth, Orphidora would be known as ‘Orayeva Drakana,’ Queen of the Drakes, to her enemies. In battle, she would soar into the skies atop her loyal mount, Skarlath, raining hellfire upon her foes. Leading a fleet of Fyrdrakes who, having witnessed the exceptional care she bestowed upon Skarlath, chose to follow her, her enemies would tremble and quake at the sight of her unmatched flying army.

Much akin to her benevolence, her fury was equally renowned and feared. The tale of her merciless rage when traitors conspired against the kingdom would be whispered with trepidation and proclaimed with pride both within her kingdom and without.

Her wrath spared none. Leading the charge against their stronghold with but a small detachment of elite guards, she would decimate a significant army, brandishing a blade in one hand and fire in her eyes. Those who bore witness to her fury knew she was a sovereign to be both dreaded and venerated.

Behold her unparalleled beauty: her long, golden locks cascading like a waterfall of sunlight, her piercing, clear blue eyes that mirrored the heavens, and a sun-kissed face so impeccably proportioned it seemed the work of divine craftsmanship, which it truly was.

Even when she spoke with only a glance, her singular gesture could rival the depth of a tale performed by countless thespians. She alone could convey the nuance of a thousand unspoken emotions in an instant. Her dimples could melt the sternest heart, and her smile so radiant that it could enchant even the most fortified souls in a mere moment.

Standing over six feet tall, her presence was as commanding as it was serene. With her lithe yet powerful musculature and the grace of an elite warrior, her physique was a marvel of nature honed to lethal perfection.

Her breasts, neither overly ample nor too modest, were firm and proud, often drawing attention through understated gestures or more direct displays, inciting many a man’s thoughts to rise unbidden. Her perfect behind, noteworthy and rivalling nature’s most awe-inspiring creations, would be often showcased with deliberate choice, evoking desires that kept many a lonely hand busy long into the night.

As the war drew nearer, she offered no soldiers to any side yet chose to align herself as a strategic advisor to Lumoria. Much like the ancient tales of your world, she elected to be the wisdom that guides the hand of valour.

Orphidora, Avatar of Artemitra, did not join the fray with sword and shield but instead stood by her chosen champion, Aelorian. Their bond, much like sacred partnerships in the legends of your world, flourished in secrecy. He knew her divine nature, while others remained blissfully ignorant.

Their journey commenced when Aelorian was but a lad of fourteen, diligently aiding his mother at their humble food stall. The goddess first glanced upon him vending home-cooked Ellurian Delights at the market —a sumptuous, savoury pastry filled with spiced meats and herbs, his mother’s speciality.

She saw in him the promise of her future champion and, with his mother’s blessing, commenced his rigorous tutelage. Gruelling hours were spent training the boy in diverse martial disciplines, the arts of diplomacy, the understanding of the sciences, and an appreciation for art. Most importantly, she employed every means, some reasonable and others not, to sculpt him into a paragon of virtue and principles.

One evening at home, when he was seventeen, Artemitra entered his room to find him entangled in the throes of self-pleasure, groaning her name repeatedly. Rather than reacting in outrage, she saw it as an opportunity for benevolent counsel.

She spoke softly of the nature of infatuation and love, assuring him that he needed to feel no shame from such desires. She even encouraged the young man to explore his fantasies; however, she urged him to leave room in his heart, for he would one day find someone truly worthy of his love.

In many ways, Artemitra assumed the role of young Aelorian’s missing father. She joined him and his mother for innumerable meals, offering a helpful hand or a listening ear during their most trying times. It was only thanks to her presence that his mother’s latent brilliance would come to the fore.

It was thanks to Queen Orphidora that he discovered that his mother was not merely a tradeswoman; she possessed hidden wisdom and a keen intellect, relegated to obscurity by the harsh circumstances that cast her into the streets as a young mother. In the absence of support, she had done all she could to ensure his well-being. Yet, in the enriching company of the Queen, her once-dormant qualities glowed resplendently.

Upon witnessing his mother’s transformation, a gnawing sense of guilt troubled him; he felt his birth had impeded her early potential. One evening, overcome by these thoughts, he expressed them during dinner in front of both women. His mother tenderly kissed his forehead and said, "You, my dear child, are the reason I have been blessed with the cherished friendship of my beloved Orphidora." The Queen herself responded to this with only a radiant smile and a heartfelt embrace among them.

"It was then that he realised the depth of his mother's relationship with the Queen. Her Majesty regarded his mother as her equal in many ways, a respect so profound that even he, with all his familiarity, could not call her by just her name. So significant was the esteem Orphidora held for his mother that, on more than one occasion, he witnessed Her Majesty seeking his mother's counsel. He even swore that he had seen her highness, more than once, leaning on his mother's shoulders as they sat together, silent tears streaming down their cheeks."

A year hence, on the eve of war, the Queen summoned him to her chambers to reveal her true identity. He would ride forth as her chosen champion, embodying her strength in mortal form, while she would command from the council of advisors. Theirs would be the partnership that would orchestrate the end of the conflict.

As they prepared to part, his mother’s eyes brimmed with tears, but the goddess embraced her dearly. The champion knew that even as they parted, they conversed only through their eyes, exchanging unspoken words of demands and promises of protection.

Several months had since passed, and the conflict steadily tilted in favour of their champion. Yet a formidable thorn from Umbra Terra remained: their general, an incredible mind, a masterful tactician, and a deceitful adversary who was relentless in his enmity. It was he that posed the greatest threat to the Lumorians. Had it not been for the goddess herself working tirelessly against him, it was certain that this war would have been long lost.

One evening as the war was nearing its end. Sitting in the war tent by their side of the battlefield, the champion declared, “Goddess! I am fortunate to be your most devoted follower, for none could be more blessed than having you by their side.” Hearing his words, Artemitra laughed and responded, “Oh, my lovely champion, blessed you may be,” she paused to smile before continuing, “but you are certainly not my most devoted follower or even my disciple.”

“Oh, my goddess! It’s agony to hear such words!” Aelorian cried out, his heart aching. “Tell me, who is this blessed soul whose dedication surpasses even mine?”

The goddess's smile twisted into a knowing smirk as she answered, “Not one but two, my champion. The first is your mother, and the other, bearing even greater devotion, is General Thalor from Umbra Terra, who is truly my greatest follower.”

Aelorian looked at her in shock. “Surely, you jest. How can my mother, who does not even know your true form, and the other, a man infamous for deceit and treachery, be greater adherents than I am? Thalor is a man who lacks virtue, stands against you, and only thinks of you as mortal. How could he be your greatest disciple?”

With a twinkle in her eyes, she replied, “My dear Aelorian. Let me ask you: Do you think of me when you eat? When you are with your siblings, is it me, you ponder? Do you think of me while in the throes of passion with your lovers? Do you consider me as you rest? Do I cross your mind when you... relieve yourself?”

“While you are a fervent devout, your mind is not always upon me,” Artemitra noted, prompting Aelorian to nod in acknowledgement.
“It’s true, goddess. No one could maintain such single-minded focus,” he admitted.

“Ah, my champion, that is where your understanding of devotion falls woefully short,” she responded, her tone carrying a hint of reproach.
Her face softened into a wistful smile as she continued to speak.

“Let us speak of your mother first. She has entrusted her most treasured possession to me and never allows a moment to pass without thinking of you—and by extension, myself. She cares for my well-being as deeply as she does for yours. Every morning, she rises and labours throughout the day with thoughts of her son and her dearest friend in her heart. Even now, she dreams of the humble feast she will prepare for us both upon our return.”

Her smile brightened as she continued, "You know I often seek her counsel, for she is the sole mortal who regards me not as a goddess or queen, but as a beloved friend and equal. Possessed of a mind sharper even than the general’s, were it not for the bonds that constrained her hands..." The goddess paused, allowing the unspoken thought to linger before continuing, "she might have even taken on the mantle of my role in this great war."

Artemitra’s eyes softened further as she spoke, "She truly desires for the man she cherishes above all others—you—to find your own love, even if it means you might leave her in her twilight years for the embrace of your own family. Furthermore,"—Artemitra’s smile broadened—"she wishes for my happiness and a mate of my own, that I may, in time, cease meddling in your affairs and grant you the peace you deserve."

The champion acknowledged the truth in her words with a nod and smile. This was a defeat he was happy to concede. Every time his mother bested him, he was only glad for her glorious victory. He would challenge her to her titles, as every child should their parents. But he would gladly let her tend to his wounded pride with her kindness each time he failed.

Though the champion Aelorian he may be today, he would always be the son of Lysara. She was a peasant woman, stall owner, incredible cook, tough teacher, and, most importantly, the greatest mother one could have. Then, his thoughts turned bitter. "Goddess, my mother, I understand; she is a woman almost as magnificent as you and certainly worthy of that title. But why him? What penance has that vile demon performed to be bestowed with that most blessed of honours?"

The goddess leaned back against the tent canvas and mused to herself quietly, "Almost as magnificent?... if only," before focusing her gaze upon the champion. “Thalor, notwithstanding his myriad flaws, is utterly consumed by the desire to vanquish me. Each of his thoughts revolves around me, from the first light of dawn to the final flicker of consciousness. Whether in the throes of strategy, the solace of his chambers, or the midst of revelry, his mind remains ever upon me.”

"His thoughts incessantly revolve around me with unwavering focus. My dear Thalor's mind is like an unyielding tempest, always centred on my downfall, regardless of what he is doing or where he is. His misguided devotion is comprehensive and all-consuming."

She took a moment to gaze into the distance before she spoke further, "Even now, he... No, she suffers sleepless nights, convinced that my mastery in manipulation stems from a past marred by slavery in a sadist’s harem during my younger days. Every night, she secretly and willingly transforms into a slave, stripped of her male strength and powers, forced to serve the very soldiers she commands by day."
"Even as we speak, she is being broken, her spirit writhing under the dominance of two brutes who force her into submission. Within the confines of a tattered war tent—its canvas walls bearing the stains of war and the stench of death—she hangs suspended, her limbs cruelly bound, rendering her utterly defenceless."

Artemitra leaned back further as she continued, ”'Her slender, fragile form glistens with sweat, each droplet tracing a lamentable journey across her delicate countenance. The men—foul and ungainly, their hair a tangled mess of filth—inflict their vile torment upon her. One ravages her from behind with merciless force, while the other forces his odious member into her mouth, his putrid breath mingling with the stifled sounds of her muffled despair.”

The champion could hear Artemitra's breath quicken as she continued, "Drool drips down her chin as she stifles and chokes on the filthy member stuffing her mouth, her head bobbing in forced rhythm. Her body bears the marks of their cruelty—welts rise on her skin where the ropes dig in."

For a moment, Artemitra bit her lip, her eyes fluttering with an unwelcome mix of arousal and dark delight. "Suspended between them, her large breasts sway with each thrust, their movements a mesmerising contrast to her small frame. Her nipples, dark, large, and inviting, are distended from the grotesque abuse they suffer at their hands."

A faint yet unmistakable edge of irritation tinged her voice as she continued, "Much like I did, she endeavours to subvert those of greater might, grappling for control with scant resources at her command. With every desperate effort, she strives to replicate the grandeur of my feats. And given the luxury of time, she might indeed ascend to become an exemplar beyond all mortals."

Her tone shifted, becoming darker. "Yet, time is a privilege I shall not extend to her. Her heart yearns to ascend to the divine sphere, oblivious to the true nature of her actions. With each passing day, she inches ever closer. That is a journey I cannot permit to reach its culmination—at least not in her current state."

The goddess drew a deep breath, her eyes rolling back slightly as she paused in what appeared to be the early stages of rapture. "Risking eternal entrapment in the form of a slave by possible pregnancy... mmm... yes, I can feel her emotions when she thinks of me. No need to hide my pleasure now," she said, pausing to lick her lips as her eyes glazed over with ecstasy from the sensations coursing through her.

Aelorian grew concerned as he listened to the goddess speak in such a confounding manner. Though another's folly was not his concern, he could not ignore the inconsistency in her words, for this was Thalor, a near intellectual equal to the goddess herself. With this in mind, he spoke up, "Thalor is a truly formidable intellect. What could compel a man of his calibre to engage in such irrational endeavours?"

Artemitra's eyes twinkled with an almost playful secret as she replied, "Ah, my inquisitive champion. A mind as sharp as Thalor's requires more than mere whispers of legend and does not bend easily to hearsay. What compelled him was the tapestry of facts he stumbled upon during his relentless inquiries. Irrefutable evidence that was meticulously woven by my own design.”

“He uncovered truths I desired him to unveil. What he had in his hands was a well-documented history that laid out the facts as clear as the brightest of days. However improbable, my exalted status as master manipulator was birthed from a life of humiliation, enslavement, and repeatedly reversing the worst of circumstances. His deductions are almost perfectly accurate because I orchestrated them to be so."

She paused, allowing a slow smile to curl her lips. "Yet, even in his brilliance, his understanding remains but a half-truth. Indeed, Orphidora did live the life he envisions for he has witnessed far more than mere glimpses of her past. Ironically, it is his deep well of misused empathy that allowed him to feel the sufferings and triumphs that shaped her greatness. However, he remains oblivious to two crucial details.”

“The first is that she is far more than merely Orphidora; she is I, with the very essence of reality subject to her whims, able to craft such a life and legend even while abiding by your mortal constraints.“

Her smile lingered as she allowed the champion to grasp the full depth of her statement. “Second, even I received aid; The rebellion's flame was not lit by me, nor was I its instigator. Rather, I was the chosen beacon to bear it onward. Ask me not for the tale of the one who chose me as their champion. It is not mine to recount. Should they desire it, the truth shall be revealed in due course; but until that time, it is theirs alone to unveil.”

“Consequentially, Thalor, for all his brilliance, navigates the web of my design, never grasping the full extent of his own deceit."

Her breath quickened, tinged with the heat of growing arousal, as she continued, "Yes, my beloved champion, even now, she contemplates me—wondering how I evaded my fate, the arcane skills that shaped my success. Even as she is set upon by one revolting man, her body impaled, while gagging on the other's unwashed shaft, she meticulously persists in plotting my downfall, utterly unaware that she serves the very goddess she despises. Ohhh, yes... this form of worship is indeed sublime, stroking both my heart and my utterly drenched loins."

Slowly, she slid her robe aside, revealing her flawless womanhood, pink, glistening, and inviting. Just a small tuft of hair adorned her most intimate region, exquisitely formed and perfect, like a hidden groove carved between her legs. She brought a finger to her lips, licking it with languor and savouring the sensation before guiding it to her dripping seam.

"Tell me, hero, are you capable of such depth in your worship? Could you consign every thought to me, even beyond the ravages of war? I know beyond doubt that she would. Even despite the inescapable fact that she will soon be permanently confined to her new diminutive form."
Her breathing grew ragged, each exhale laden with dark delight.

With deliberate slowness, she brought her finger to her soaking womanhood, her gaze never wavering from the incredulous hero. As her fingers parted her folds, they seemed to swallow it eagerly. Her back arched involuntarily; her body responded instinctively to the exquisite sensation. Her eyes fluttered, rolling back further now, as waves of pleasure coursed through her.

"What if I told you," Artemitra continued, her voice almost merciless in its pleasure, "that tonight, she will become irrevocably trapped by her own body? The Elixir of Metamorphosis was tailored to prevent her pregnancy, but I ensured the Moonshade Herb was secretly intercepted and replaced with a deceptively similar yet entirely ineffective counterpart."

Artemitra's fingers delved deeper. "The moment she realises that life has taken root within her womb, she will weep in agony, feeling bound and betrayed by what she believed to be her safeguard. Ha! The irony of employing that which is thought impotent yet bearing such potent consequences is not lost on me.”

Aelorian shifted uncomfortably, his unease growing with each of Artemitra's words. "Goddess, this is unlike you. The kindness I have always revered—where is it now?" Artemitra’s laughter filled the tent as she almost sneered in response, "Oh, dear champion, you know so little of what I truly am."

- Continued in Chapter 3 -