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.

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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 -

Author's note
Aelorian is confronted by the harrowing tale of Artemitra’s ruthless vengeance and her perverse delight in orchestrating torment for her enemies, particularly those who dare defy her. Does mortal valour stand even the smallest chance against divine malevolence? As always, this humble scribe awaits your thoughts and reflections regarding this unsettling but necessary journey through the goddess' darker domains.

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Chapter 3: The Champion’s Despair

"Beginning tomorrow," Artemitra's finger began to move with increasing fervour, "As the tides of fate shift under my orchestration, the mighty general, Thalor, shall vanish without a trace. And in his absence, his troops would be plunged into utter disarray, thus sealing their swift and inevitable defeat."

Her breathing deepened as she continued, "She will be among the captives, her body subjected to heinous abuses. Imagine, if you will, her exquisite form partially ruined by the cruel hands of destiny I designed for her."

Her voice was almost a dark purr now. "Between now and that day, there would be one particularly dreadful incident as her captors’ vile desires would reach their peak. She would be subjected to a most heinous act of violation. Her soul ablaze with fury, she would seize a moment of opportunity. She would bite down with all her might upon her rapist's filthy appendage, severing it. Her tormentor's screams of agony would reverberate through the air, mingling with the sound of his blood splattering upon the ground."

She took a slow, deep breath, almost relishing what she was about to say next. "But such an act of rebellion would not go unpunished. In retribution, her captors would drag her broken form in front of others to witness her grand humiliation. Bound and restrained, her tongue would be severed in a grotesque spectacle meant as both punishment and deterrence for others."

"Yet, just before the final degradation of having her eyes gouged out, she would be narrowly rescued. Though her body would bear the indelible scars of her suffering, and despite her mutilation, her spirit would never falter under the weight of her torment."

With eyes half-closed in ecstasy, Artemitra said, "Even in her wretched state, her identity will remain concealed. You will pass by her without so much as a glance, unaware of the rage that fills her eyes as she burns with the memories of her past. Only I, her eternal tormentor, will recognise those eyes, aflame with unquenchable fury."

Her pleasure continued to mount as her tone took on the hue of perverse venom. "And then, in her anguish, she will bear witness to the grim execution of Drusilla the Ruthless. Thalor's pitiless and brutal commander, known for taking many a thousand heads, shall meet her end in the most ignominious manner—beheaded in the presence of this wretched slave.”

Her poison thickened. “The severed head will roll and land before her, forcing her to stare into the lifeless eyes of her once invincible commander. She shall scream in horror, yet no one will understand her mutilated cries. Her agony will be known only to me, even as I pretend ignorance of her true identity. But she will know for certain that I am fully aware."

"Thalor, the pitiful, mute slave," Artemitra's voice now pure venom as her finger moved more fervently, "will then be consigned to one of my homes for destitute women—a desolate place meant for rehabilitation but, in reality, a destination where dreams wither, and despair festers. Among all these lamentable havens, she will be sent to the most sorrowful of them all. It will be a dwelling saturated with unrelenting misery, where hope hangs like a tattered shroud but just out of reach. There, she will be bestowed an ugly name, as a mockery—‘The Fallen Wretch’. She will become an anonymous soul, presumed to have lost her memories within the maelstrom of her plight."

Her finger slid deeper even as she persisted. "Even amongst the other rescued slaves, her existence would be the most shameful. Heavy with child, voiceless, wounds festering, and the youngest among them, she'd be a haunting figure of misery. Each day in that forsaken refuge, she would be a living canvas of the brutality that she would have endured."

She was nearly gasping with demonic glee now. "Her pregnancy would unfold not as a natural miracle but as a relentless curse. Every day would be a torment, her magic-crafted body trying to expel the life within her, battling against the indomitable will of the unborn child. The infant, though unconscious, would possess an innate strength, fighting back against its host, causing her ceaseless pain."

She thrust deeper and harder, allowing her essence to drip down her thighs. "Yet she will not give up," she gasped harder, her finger working even more feverishly. "Not once will she contemplate escape through death. Burning with unquenchable rage, she will try to kill the child within her womb while still trying to preserve her life. Oh, yes, she will claw at her belly, swallow select poisons, and even try to fashion crude implements to end it. But every time, as if touched by divine intervention, someone would discover her intentions and stop her just in the nick of time. As she should, she will suspect my hand in every thwarted attempt."

Her words were punctuated by moans of pleasure even as she spoke. "Desperate and consumed by hatred, she will know that my influence pervades her every waking moment. With my name spoken by all and living within my shelter, all that surrounds her will serve as a constant reminder that her suffering is by my design."

The champion, standing in utter horror, broke his silence. "Goddess, surely this cannot be right. The cruelty you would impose upon the general defies all bounds of justice. It is a monstrous transgression of all morality."

Artemitra's eyes gleamed with malice and disdain as she responded, her voice dripping with cruel mockery. "Right or wrong, my dear champion, is a matter of perspective. Who art thou to judge the scales of justice when I hold the universe in my hand?" Her finger now moved even more hurriedly as the slick sound of her arousal mingled with her mocking laughter. “You speak of cruelty and monstrosity as if they were foreign concepts to my nature. Have you learned nothing? My justice dispensed... is as divine as the pleasure I'm taking in recounting this tale."

"She will be forced to birth this child. Sickly and frail, they would have to cleave open her belly in a novel treatment never before performed. Ironic indeed, this very procedure, which shall save the lives of many women in future, shall first be performed upon one who once walked as a man." Artemitra hissed, her breath hitching as her finger plunged deeper. "She would endure the torment without the solace of magic or medicinal herbs, for such measures would be deemed too perilous in this unprecedented surgery. Her ghastly wails would reverberate as they draw the child from her womb, the infant's tenacity would have indeed exacted a dire and dreadful price."

"Her breasts would be devoid of milk, and for the first time, as she bears the infant in her arms, she would see the life she sought to slay within her womb. At that moment, she would be overwhelmed by a different kind of regret—one not born of hatred but of profound sorrow for her inability to provide even the simplest sustenance to a helpless babe," she let that statement sink in, her eyes rolling back fully as her voice darkened further.

"Her first real tear as a woman would fall from her eyes, a tear born of her powerlessness. The grand and powerful general, reduced to utterly nothing in the face of an innocent's meagre need. And even in that moment of despair, with regret stemming from a place beyond animosity, I would still linger in the recesses of her mind."

"A fellow slave, a recent mother herself, would offer to feed the newborn," Artemitra moaned, her finger delving ever more fervently. "As the infant latches onto the stranger's breast, she would feel true gratitude for the first time in her wretched life. And yet, her thoughts will never stray far from me."

"As her body begins to heal from being torn open, several other women—each a fellow victim of indescribable trauma—would offer their aid," she gasped, her demented pleasure heightening with each word. "For the first time, she would learn of true kindness. Yet even in that newfound warmth, her heart would steadfastly yearn for vengeance."

"As her strength returns, she would be asked to assist the other women, tending to their wounds and showing kindness," Artemitra continued, her finger feverishly pounding with her hellish desire. "Though she would struggle at first, it would soon become second nature to her. Even as she learns to nurture, her every thought would be consumed with the desire to rend me asunder."

"Even as a bond begins to form between her and the woman who nourished her child, one fateful night, an escapee would find his way to the haven and attempt to violate her saviour," she stated through her truly vile moans.

"Roused by her companion’s stifled screams, she would attempt to intervene but would be forced to bear witness as the woman who aided her would be murdered before her eyes. She would try to save the infant—another's child—only to fail and suffer a shattered knee and a blade to her shoulder. That day, she would learn the true meaning of futile sacrifices." Artemitra's breath quickened with malicious delight. "As ever, she would intuitively recognise that I had orchestrated that harrowing ordeal, strengthening her eternal vow of vengeance."

At this point, the champion could bear no more. Falling to his knees, tears streaming down his face, he pleaded, "Please, goddess, I beg you, stop this cruelty! Spare them from this torment!"

Artemitra's gaze darkened with sadistic pleasure as she plunged a second finger into her drenched womanhood, gasping with ungodly delight. "YOU WILL LISTEN!" she commanded, her eyes boring into his with merciless intensity. Aelorian froze, unable to move. He understood the depth of her power and her insatiable cruelty.

"The once proud general's nipples would finally swell with milk that very night as if her body had cruelly reserved its duty for that twisted moment." She shifted, widening her legs with deliberate slowness, savouring every wicked sensation. "She would hold her crying child to her breast, tears streaming down, so filled with pain they might as well be tears of blood. That night, beneath the crushing weight of her agony, she’d vow to shatter me as thoroughly as I had shattered her."

With a sudden motion, Artemitra ripped open one side of her clothing, exposing her firm breast, her pink nipple almost profanely hard. "Mute and crippled, yet her resolve for vengeance would remain unbroken," she continued, her breath now screaming arousal. "But her thirst for retribution would be tempered by her need to care for her child and tend to those around her. She would learn the virtue of patience on that cursed day." Artemitra's legs spread further, her movements becoming more urgent as she pinched her hardened nipple, moaning obscenely.

"More than a year would pass as she would dedicate herself to nourishing her ailing child while also aiding others," Artemitra's voice quivered, matching the quickening pace of her fingers, which delved deep between her legs, two digits working eagerly. "But the child would only grow more sick with each passing day. For the first time, despite her hate for me, she would pray for my assistance. On that day, she would learn the depth of true love."

Her fingers intensified their rhythm, moving with unrestrained fervour now. The goddess, nay, the monstrous fiend’s body quivered with the relentless waves of pleasure cascading through her. "Do you like what you see, my handsome champion?" she taunted the frozen and terrified man, her voice a blend of mockery and lust.

"And assistance I would grant in the forms of whispers of a healer who might save her child, though the healer would be distant. She would entreat any soul to bear her child to this healer, but her cries would wither into the void.“ She drew her slick fingers briefly to her swollen nipple, anointing it with her own fluids, before plunging them hurriedly back within herself. “Ah, how savagely poetic—a mute pleading for mercy, answered only by the deafening silence of the indifferent."

"At last, she would receive word that the healer would see her child. However, while being escorted, they would be set upon by bandits," her fingers moved frantically now, matching the intensity of her recounting. "She would try to fight and protect her child but would be shoved hard, causing the infant to fall to the ground, blood pooling around its tiny head as it lies dying."

Artemitra’s body quaked violently, her fingers delving deeper with unrestrained fervour. "In that moment of unparalleled agony, as she clings to her dying baby, wailing for mercy and aid. That one time that she does not think of me," the goddess’s voice transformed into a cruel flourish. " At that very moment, I will grace her with my presence." Her sadistic pleasure was entirely tangible now, manifesting in every sound that escaped her lips and every action of her fingers.

Aelorian, now drowning in tears, was utterly convinced of her malevolence. A desperate need for survival had seized him. He knew he must escape now to seek any means to stop her. ‘She HAD to be stopped!’ Seeing his turmoil, though, Artemitra looked at him knowingly and said, "Ah, splendid. Harness that emotion. It shall hold no advantage for you, but it will be of considerable use to me."

Her voice grew even thicker, "I would present her with a choice: she could reclaim her original form and freedom, yet forsake all knowledge of me, or remain in her current state, enduring untold tragedies for twenty years. Only then would I divulge the secrets of my power, sufficient knowledge to help quench her desire for vengeance."

Her voice did not waver, "Instead, she would plead for her child, yet I would offer no kindness. Staring into her eyes, I would lie without a shred of remorse that these were the only choices offered to her. I would openly declare that the infant cannot be saved. No words of comfort would pass my lips, only venomous scorn, as I revel in her torment, letting her witness my ecstasy radiating from her despair." The goddess’s breathing became erratic, her fingers working feverishly as she indulged further in her cruel delight.

"Surely, you would not, I beg of you," gasped the Champion in even greater horror, witnessing the goddess he had adored transform into a demon in the throes of unholy bliss. He realised, then, that mortal virtue served as his standard, not the divine whim. Raising his voice, he cried out, "Promises extracted under false pretences hold no honour! Choices coerced through deceit are rendered void! Even you must understand this. I swear, upon all that is sacred, recompense shall be exacted for such cruelty."

The goddess's laughter filled the tent, dripping with scorn. "Your values, mortal, carry no weight in the presence of divinity. I am the weaver of fates, the orchestrator of destinies. To assume you could bind me with your mortal 'values' is the epitome of folly." She paused, a smile devoid of warmth touching her lips. "Your words are but fleeting whispers against the endless grandeur of my being."

She thrust her fingers even deeper as her ever-darkening voice bridged over her pleasure, "This is the power you stand against, dear Aelorian—an unyielding tide of inevitability shaped by divine will." Her actions matched the depth of her words as she continued, her voice dripping with malevolence, "Imagine, champion, the agonising choice that would consume her thoughts. The turmoil, the despair, all the while knowing her child's demise serves the greater design... my design."

Her rhythm intensified, her movements fluid and perfectly aligned with the writhing horror in Aelorian’s heart. "Could you truly expect mercy from a goddess who crafted her narrative from the darkest threads of tragedy? My dear champion, your hope is as futile as your tears."
Aelorian knelt in despair, each cruel revelation tearing at the fabric of his faith. "I cannot let this stand," he whispered brokenly. "I will either protect the flicker of goodness that may still dwell within you or meet my end standing against you."

Artemitra’s eyes gleamed as her laughter echoed within the tent, "Ha! Protect my virtue, you say? How delightfully naive. If such is your aim, then steel yourself, my resilient little champion, for you now tread upon paths fraught with unimaginable peril. Know this: even at this very instant, your resolve only serves to nourish me."

Thus it came to pass. The ruin Aretemitra chose to unleash would not solely afflict her adversary but would also indelibly mark the soul of her devoted champion. There, kneeling before her, he found himself rendered powerless against her overwhelming might. The only words that would escape his lips were: “Surely you would not.”

"Surely I would, my champion," she taunted in a sadistic whisper. "She would continue to plead and beg, her once-powerful voice now reduced to a hoarse rasp incapable of forming any words. She would keep at it until her cherished child would breathe its last ragged breath in her enfolding arms. Her anguished, guttural wails would pierce the air—ugly, uncontrolled sounds of torment that would be a symphony to my ears. I would stand before her, savouring every note of her misery, deriving profound pleasure from each sob, watching as her spirit shatters while mine flourishes."

The goddess's hips began to undulate, her fingers plunging deeper as she fully immersed herself in her sadistic ecstasy. “Drowning in a sea of sorrow, she would be left to make her damned choice, clinging to the tortured memory of her lost child. Her only sliver of hope would be the elusive quest for vengeance, a hope I would relish crushing."

Her fingers moved faster, the pleasure in her voice palpable as she gasped. "Mmm... then just as she is about to convey her choice, I would tell her that I lied, and... ahhh... two new choices would now lay ahead of her. She would scream, yell, and even attempt to stab me, only to be restrained by my guards. I would offer her the choice of twenty years of servitude for her revenge, or... ohh... eternity as my slave in exchange for her child's resurrection."

Her words were only interrupted by the sounds of her escalating pleasure. "She... mmm... would be bound by the Ritual of Eternal Binding. The child would be reborn to another, and she would... ahhh... lose all independent thought, be bound in painful servitude, mutilated from her intelligence and memories until her last breath."

Her voice dripped with dark, perverse pleasure as she elaborated, "She would become nothing more than an Umbran serving beast—a hollow shell, bereft of identity and will, pierced and adorned with inexorable marks of her bondage. Enslaved by chains unseen, devoid of autonomy, these wretched beings exist solely to fulfil the carnal desires of others. Her essence would be destroyed and refashioned into an object of endless submission and abuse until she perishes by my will. Indeed, she shall live for as long as I see fit."

"She... ohhh... would never glimpse the depths of my secrets. She would never lay eyes upon the child again, reborn to another, it would no longer be hers. The hope she once clung to, the memories she cherished, would be erased from thoughts." She gasped, her body shuddering with the intoxicating thrill of her own cruel vision.

"This forbidden and abhorred state of utter servitude, long banished and condemned by all, would be her fate. Her ceaseless, obedient servitude would be her unending testament to my sovereign will."

Her breath jagged like shards of drakenglass, her pleasure intensified further. “Indeed, I would have deceived her initially, but this time…mmm..., she would know that I speak the truth. My eyes would tell her so. She would place her trust in my words and comprehend... ahhh... that I offer her final choices."

"Cease this monstrous cruelty!" he screamed, his voice breaking with desperation and horror. "You may be a goddess, but these would be the acts of a true villain. I will have nothing to do with you! If you dare act upon any of this, I swear I will dedicate my life to finding this woman and protecting her!"

His words trembled with unyielding defiance as he continued. "I am certain of my defeat in your hands. Even if hiding is not a hero's way, I will do whatever it takes to protect her until my very last breath." His vow echoed through the air, unwavering even in the face of her sadistic pleasure.

"CEASE YOUR BABBLING AND PAY HEED!" she commanded, her eyes locking onto him with such force that he was rendered entirely immobile. "Know that this would be the moment. For the first time since she came to know of me, she would... mmm... CHOOSE to abandon her obsession with me?"

The champion stood fully paralysed as she continued, "She would grovel at my feet to save the infant, offering her very soul in desperation. Ahhh... spreading her legs willingly for my guards, imagining me as the sadist she has conjured in her pitiful mind. Her attempts to plead, reduced to incoherent mumblings by her mutilated tongue, would be both pathetic and insulting. She would forsake every shred of dignity, begging to be transformed into any creature, if only to save her child."

Tears streamed freely down the Champion’s face as he listened to the horrifying words of his goddess. He felt like prey under the gaze of a merciless predator, as he watched her pleasure herself with an almost sinister delight. Her erratic breathing and glassy eyes exuded a malevolence that had entirely shattered all illusions he had of the goddess he revered.

"Patience, the tale draws to its close," she gasped, her voice laden with dark, twisted joy, "the moment her pitiable, mutilated tongue seeks to burrow into the depths of my voracious, yearning folds..ahhh, when her attempts are thwarted by her inability to extend it past her lips, her complete inadequacy would draw my laughter, serving as the final hammer to shatter her spirit."

"Imagine my laughter echoing through the chamber as she makes every effort to perform the sordid act of submission I require." She gasped again, her voice filled with twisted joy. "Ahhh... even as she struggles with what little she has, unable to grasp my divine nub, she can only suck pitifully with her barely functional lips. Mmm... her tears fall freely, like the tears of blood I so desire, utterly broken, knowing there is no escape. Nngh... she realises her end is nigh."

The perverse pleasure that adorned the goddess's beautiful face felt profoundly vile to him. Desperately, he longed to avert his gaze, to flee, to fight, yet her command held him captive, forcing him to bear witness to her depravity. Each moment weighed heavily upon him, rendering death seemingly preferable to complicity in her malevolent schemes. But then, he remembered he was his mother’s son, and his despair transformed into a burning resolve. Though he knew not how, he knew that it fell upon him to stop her, to defy this... this abomination, and to protect the innocent, no matter the cost.

"I know your thoughts, my Champion, but this story does have a happy ending. Well, for one of us at least," she gasped, pre-empting his response. Her fingers delved deeper with each twisted word. "As she endeavours to pleasure me, my laughter and my essence mingling with her tears... Ahhh yes. When her slave collar finally arrives, she will make her first and only unsolicited plea to me."

She paused, her gaze piercing his soul, her fingers momentarily still. "She would pause her pathetic service to look me in the eyes and beg of me. I would not need her to speak to understand that she wanted me to protect her, no… THE child. Remember well that as I said before, it would not be hers any more. She was entrusting her heart to her most bitter enemy. She would surrender entirely—no future, no choice, no vengeance. Her one fragile hope would be that I, her tormentor, would have compassion for an innocent. In return, I would promise that a kind and devoted mother would love and cherish the child once reborn. It would be the sole act of kindness I would afford her."

She returned to pleasuring herself with renewed fervour, her fingers exploring rhythmically within her perfect folds, each movement eliciting a gasp of dark delight. "What if I told you that at that moment, ohhh… she would stretch back to sit on her knees. Place her hands on her lap and give me her neck. The last silent words she would mouth would be, 'I hold you to your promise!' before the collar snaps around her neck.”
"My dear champion, it would be at that fateful moment that her eyes would glaze over. Her story would finally end," she said with a flourish.

But clearly, she couldn’t stop just there, "Oh, but I would still have one final insult to bestow upon her. It would be then that I would choose to reveal my true essence to her. Mmm...I would let her feel my divinity penetrate every fibre of her being. In that moment, her mortal body, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of infinity, would fail, she would fall to the ground, and her heart would have stopped. The fallen wretch would fall one last time before I would claim her as my own in perpetuity."

She slowed for a moment before suddenly, a warm smile unexpectedly graced her features, leaving the champion stunned by the sudden change. “The child would be reborn and even thrive; She, too, would be reborn—into servitude as I decreed. Her death would not absolve her of her terms, but once her twenty years pass, perhaps I might bestow upon her the opportunity for vengeance. Did I not tell you this was a happy ending for at least one of us? I never did proclaim that it would be for ONLY one.”

-Continued in Chapter 4-

Author's note
What are good and evil in the realm of the gods? Are we mere puppets, or do we mortals possess something that even they desire? Why propose a test with impossible answers? How do we define purpose and will in the face of divine malice? As always, I, the humble chronicler, await your thoughts, desires, and comments.

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Chapter 4: Look into her eyes!

Aelorian stood there motionless and unable to move. Horrified and unable to fathom Atremitra's motives or even understand her ways, his words failed him entirely. Lumoria's champion was powerless even as he was forced to bear witness to her sadistic pleasure, even as she casually recounted her intended acts of demonic cruelty. She radiated true malevolence, yet her last few words seemed to drive home a deeper message—one that was at the elusive cusp of his grasp.

"My dear champion," she purred as languidly as she continued to pleasure herself. "Spare me your salty tears, for you have a vitally important question to answer. Do you still stand against me, even as I have told you that she may yet find her deserved end?"
His tears had their own story to tell, though. They would only continue to stream down his face as he looked upon her with disbelief. She may have driven a stake through his soul, but the fire of defiance began to flicker and come alive in his eyes. Paralysed though he was, he noticed that his hand was resting beside the dagger he always carried. He quietly began to summon every ounce of his strength to will it towards the hilt.
"A DESERVED END! Speak not of such deceptions. You, who were second to none in my heart—even above my own revered mother—held a place of honour. Yet you have taken that very heart and shattered it with your words and actions.”

Artemitra's smile broadened, and her teeth bared wolfishly. "First her and now you. I am the arbiter of life and death, not the custodian of your cloying hearts. It is neither my inclination nor my obligation to attend to your pitiful feelings. I care not for your petty dreams. I do not desire to partake in your pointless wishes, and I certainly feel not a thing for your pathetic resolutions unless they serve MY divine schemes."

She paused momentarily, deep in thought. "Hmm... Pour forth your prayers and conjure such a goddess from the deepest depths of your imagination, if such divinity can even be imagined. Pray with the intensity of a universe, with every fibre of your being, as if you could create her through sheer will. Pray as if you were the very fabric of the world itself, desperate to free your weapon and wield it against fate. We shall see if your fervent pleas can breach the divine threshold and bring forth such a power"

Her instructions further confused the champion. She demanded that he pray to avert the very future she had decreed. Though events were yet to unfold, this was Artemitra, and her words invariably came to pass. He did not require prayer; he needed resolve.

Summoning all his courage, Aelorian spoke out, “You speak of events as though they await their time. Yet for you, the mistress of ages, they are already immutable. To you, past and future are without distinction. But this—this is the present.”

He paused, his eyes narrowed as they bore into hers with his now loud and unwavering sense of defiance. "I refuse to surrender this present... This moment, to your villainy. You are deserving of punishment, and she of redress. I am certain these are but a fraction, and I pledge my life to uncover and protect all others who have borne the brunt of your malevolence. I, Aelorian, son of Lysara, swear to defy even the gods themselves until amends are made for those harmed by your wicked actions.”

Artemitra beamed, her eyes only darkening further. "However pointless your oath, it pleases me to hear that you stand as her son first. Your hand lingers on your blade—but it serves you no purpose at this moment. Conviction alone defends you now. Use it with caution, for I await with great anticipation your honest appraisal of my intent and actions. Speak honestly but temper your words with caution, for in my presence, they bear significant consequences. A lesson well-learned by many before you, though none so profoundly as the former general."

Aelorian understood the threat behind her words well. Clearly, it was a promise of retribution should he speak beyond his remit. "Why is my judgement of concern to you? Clearly, you are the wielder of the greatest power known, capable of forging destinies as you see fit. What value does my 'pitiful' mortal opinion hold?"

Artemitra looked him deep in his eyes as she replied. "For in the grand tapestry of all that is, the duty falls upon me to test you mortals with the challenge of impossible choices. Mettle, spirit, and grit are many a word for that singular essence that resists my absolute authority. It is the one attribute I find most...mmm... exhilarating. Call it my indulgence, my vice, or even my perversion—regardless, these trials fulfil a divine... my divine purpose."

"You call this a trial?" the Champion spat even as his voice trembled with anger. "This is no divine trial. Your actions would be sheer malice. A mother in despair and her fragile newborn should not be the focus of your merciless amusement! No matter her past transgressions, no one deserves such vile retribution...EVER!"

Her smile widened further. "But a trial it was and a trial it continues to be. Assume, if you will, that I willingly bestow upon you the power to judge me. Recall every heinous act I have committed and those yet to come. Understand that you cannot change their course, yet I will hear your judgement. Whether I act upon it is for me to decide. Whether I unleash my wrath upon you should your judgement prove excessively severe is also within my purview. Yet, hear you, I will."

Her threat in her words was as clear as day. He would need to tread carefully indeed. He would need to speak the truth, but he would also need to state it in a manner that ensured his survival. Foolish heroism would serve him no purpose. But any form of acquiescence on his part, any form of dishonesty before such cruelty, would become the unravelling of his soul.

He became aware that his hand had grasped the hilt, and his fingers were gradually mustering the strength to curl around it. He was no longer entirely immobilised. He needed only to keep her distracted enough to find a way to break his bonds. Taking a slow, purposeful breath, he met her gaze with all the courage he could muster.

"If I truly held the power of judgement, I would find you guilty of extreme and unwarranted cruelty. Your redemption would rest solely in her forgiveness. I wish upon all the gods that one day she may have this opportunity and that she treats you with the kindness you never extended to her."

Artemitra smiled with a touch of scorn. "Here I expected rage, a call to arms, only to receive rejection and a plea for me to beg for mortal kindness? Ha, champion! Such weakness is unbecoming." Suddenly, Aelorian realised the bonds had given away, and he could draw his dagger from its sheath. Yet as he was freed, he instantly knew that violence was not the answer.

He stood and stared into her eyes with sorrow. "I am no longer angry, only filled with deep disappointment in my misplaced faith in you. From now on, I shall count the days until the end of the war, for on that very day, we shall part."

As he turned around to leave, she called out to him, her voice almost a plea this time: "Do not depart yet. Look upon me one last time before you arrive at your final conclusion. I must share one last profound truth with you." After what he had experienced, he only desired to walk away, but nonetheless, he turned back towards her to hear her out.

"Thank you, my Champion, for this small mercy," Artemitra's voice appeared to crack as her eyes turned watery. "I vow to you that she shall soon have her appointed moment."

Her smile grew sorrowful as she continued, "Though I am infinity itself, this mortal guise remains, by choice, bound by the rules of your kind: capable of feeling pleasure, pain, joy, and heartbreak. The dagger in your grasp can indeed end this shell's existence. Now that I share this truth with purpose and willingness to accept the consequences, I have bared not just my breast but my heart—a target for your blade. Understand that Queen Orphidora breathes her last if Aelorian so wills it."

In this moment of clarity, Aelorian grasped the enormity of his choice—a truly impossible one. To drive his dagger home or to stay his hand? He perceived that taking her life would be no righteous path. His relief at her death was not worth the ceaseless torment it would cause to countless others if the war did not swiftly conclude. She was essential, yet he could no longer stand by her side. This was his resolution, and he would honour it.

"You serve a significant role in this world. You are a pillar whose fall would bring great calamity to many a million. But Artemitra, the name alone I call you now, for you have tainted the title of 'goddess'. You have shown cruelty that exceeds all bounds of justice. You have lost my respect. I shall fight on until the war's end, for many lives depend upon it, but once complete, I shall depart from your side."

Aelorian paused, letting the gravity of his words settle before continuing. "I shall journey to Umbra Terra, assist in their rebuilding, seeking atonement for the sins you have cast upon me with your mere presence. Conceal her as you might, I will search for her, and I will strive to ensure she lives a full and meaningful life. Though the former general may have been cruel, she is no longer he. I refuse to partake in this cycle of cruelty any longer."

With a heavy heart, he made his final statement, "You have unequivocally shown that you are not governed by our values. Your actions are steeped in malice and deceit. There may be a hidden lesson buried deep within your intended actions, but I have lost all desire to engage with it or trust your oaths any longer. You bestowed upon me a sense of purpose, which your deeds have now ripped away.”

Just as he finished speaking, the world around them seemed to shimmer and distort. Time itself appeared to slow down as the wall behind Atremitra rippled, and a silhouette began to take form. As it moved closer, it started to coalesce and out walked a dark-haired vision.

She was a mesmerising blend of Lumoria’s radiant glow and Umbra Terra’s shadowy allure. Her tresses cascaded like a river of midnight silk, flowing gracefully to frame her pointed ears and deep, grey eyes. Those haunting orbs bore the beauty of Umbra Terra—eyes that invited and ensnared with their eternal, unwavering gaze.

Her body was a living work of dark, seductive art, almost profane in its appeal. Though not as tall as the goddess, she was meticulously curved, and sculpted to ignite the basest passions. Her lips, full and wickedly inviting, were akin to those of Ekaksha, the legendary temptress. They seemed purposed for intimate sin, ready to envelop any throbbing desire with a smile that whispered of filthy, unbridled pleasure.

Her magnificent breasts and sumptuous hips were barely obscured by a robe so tantalisingly short and tight that it adhered to her form as if it were a second skin. The fabric plunged deep, revealing an expanse of lush cleavage that seemed to call out to be worshipped and touched. Her nipples poked provocatively through the thin material, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Her midriff was revealed, showcasing a flawless, sculpted waist and an inviting belly button that teased of unspoken pleasures. Her hips, wide and voluptuous, embodied raw, primal desire, demanding to be filled and marked by seed. As she moved, her shapely derrière swayed with a seductive, intoxicating rhythm. It beckoned to be held and ravished, an open invitation to claim, defile, and reverently worship.

The goddess, a true paragon of regal beauty, was, at this moment, entirely eclipsed by this primal temptress whose raw magnetism dominated the space. Aelorian felt his pulse quicken. Though every rational fibre in his being yearned to leave, an enigmatic force compelled him to stay, and he was certain it did not emanate from the goddess.

Unbridled lust surged through his veins. His manhood throbbed insistently, fit to burst, his mind spiralling into a haze of primal longing. She was desire incarnate, a walking dream of insatiable need. Though his mind conjured images of countless fabled beauties, none could compare to her living manifestation of every man's most carnal cravings.

Her smile, initially warm upon meeting his gaze, quickly turned wicked as her glance drifted towards Artemitra. Yet, just for the briefest of moments, her eyes flickered back to his, and he thought he noticed the faintest hint of a blush upon her cheek as she took note of his arousal. Her eyes lingered upon the prominent bulge straining against his garments before swiftly darting back to meet his gaze, now ablaze with a newfound sense of control.

Without breaking eye contact, she enveloped Atremitra from the side and drew her into a kiss of scorching passion. Her touch was authoritative, as though she was claiming what was rightfully hers. Even as she devoured her prey with her hands and lips, her eyes remained locked upon his. Granting poor Aelorian the privilege and, more significantly, the torment of watching her in the act.

The newcomer's hand slid down to Artemitra's bared breast and grasped it roughly. Her fingers found a distended nipple and pinched it hard, causing the goddess herself to gasp audibly, "Ahhh!"

Her eyes met his again, this time lingering in a gaze that seemed to stretch the seconds into minutes. In that fleeting eternity, Aelorian saw in her what could only be described as pride mingled with a surprising hint of embarrassment. Her eyes appeared to trace an involuntary path downward until she seemed to realise that she was staring at the outline of his arousal once again.

This time though, she appeared keen on retaining control and let her gaze deliberately travel back to his eyes like a lingering caress as it moved past his chest, only to notice that his eyes were transfixed on her breasts. Aelorian watched, captivated, as her blush intensified, her cheeks aflame with a deeper red. Her nipples, impossibly, seemed to harden further, almost daring him to look longer, to succumb to the allure she wielded.

The air between them was charged, but as if willing herself to break the spell, she snapped her attention back to her captive.
Then, with an authoritative yank, she seized Artemitra by her hair, pulling her head back and exposing the vulnerable arch of her neck in an unmistakable display of dominance.

The break in their eye contact was a release for Aelorian, yet the images—the gasp, oh that gasp—would forever be seared into his mind. Even with her attention diverted, he could feel her presence, her strength radiating everywhere.

Artemitra's eyes had clouded over, swathed in a fog of her own submission as she was unceremoniously spun around, her balance faltering. In a brutally decisive motion, her robe was ripped open. The dazed goddess simply stood there, bare and completely exposed, while the woman moved deftly to secure her wrists behind her with one hand.

Displayed in full—naked, vulnerable, and arousal evident as she began to gush, rivulets of desire dripping down her thighs—Artemitra was entirely at the mercy of this overpowering presence.

With agonising deliberateness, the woman moved her own robe aside, averting her gaze from Aelorian as she unveiled her massive, veiny, and throbbing member. One that dwarfed even Aelorian’s own rather impressive shaft, so immense that it promised to bring as much agony as ecstasy. Its sheer size and monstrous presence hung heavily in the air.

Her free hand moved in front of Artemitra’s lips, just beneath her chin, and with a voice like poisoned honey, she commanded, "Spit." Artemitra, lost in the throes of whatever this was, dredged it from the depths of her throat, her eyes rolled back in swirling ecstasy as she obediently leaned forward, slobbering onto the woman’s hand.

This woman wasn't simply establishing her dominance—she was displaying the depth of her absolute conquest. The mighty Artemitra, she who controlled destiny itself, was completely under her command.

Aelorian couldn't help but wonder if the word 'woman' was even fit to describe this magnificent being. One who appeared to be the embodiment of lust itself, yet one who made even him feel inadequate. Nevertheless, the word seemed most fitting, for he couldn't shake the strange sense of maternal kindness emanating from her as he continued to watch the events unfold.

Despite her most wicked actions at that moment, she still radiated a warmth and empathy that felt uncannily familiar. Even now, as she stood as the most dominant force in that space, she seemed to consciously avoid his gaze since the moment he witnessed her reveal her most impressive endowment, almost as if she intuitively understood the insecurities the sight may have awakened in him.

Yet, unabashed and unyielding in her command, she continued as she pleased. Lathering her now spit-soaked sabre, the woman hefted Artemitra’s leg and, without a moment’s hesitation, rammed herself into her. Artemitra squealed a mixture of pain and pleasure etched across her face. Each gasp was almost a scream now—her body impaled upon the thick staff. Suspended by her bound hands, Artemitra's flawless breasts swung violently with each deep thrust, utterly demeaned.

The woman’s voice sliced through the heated air, venomously seductive, "Keep spitting out your tale, my wretched whore. He is owed every filthy detail. Hold his gaze and show him how far you've fallen." Artemitra’s mind, lost in a sea of blistering pleasure, managed to meet the champion’s bewildered gaze as she moaned out, “Yes, mistress.”

Bent forward, her breasts dangling and violently defiled before her champion, she had gasped the words that would shatter his entire understanding of divinity. The astonished champion stood motionless, helplessly watching the event unfold as the goddess's eyes cleared and focused on him once again before she parted her lips to speak.

"Yes, mistress, nghhh... continue. It feels so 'appropriate' to be beneath you, ohhhh. Yesss. Harder, mistress... until my thoughts are but a haze, until I am but a puddle at your feet!" Artemitra moaned, her body quivering with each relentless thrust.

Her bound hands were pulled tightly behind her, legs splayed apart, head tilted upwards to ensure she could look upon her champion as she spoke. Trembling with uncontrollable pleasure, her nipples, hard as diamonds, bounced and swung in rhythm with her every gasp.

"My champion, what if I told you that the bastard general had, at last, found a means... ohhhh... to defeat me in the most delightfully twisted of ways?" she panted out, her voice breaking as she was thrust deeper into her tainted bliss.

The champion felt his grasp on reality slipping. "Look at the woman behind me... Ohhh YES! Harder, mistress! Please, I beg you, make me weep in bliss! I BEG YOU... DON'T EVER STOP! LOOK into HER EYES. What do you see?"

Aelorian's eyes were overwhelmed by the scene unravelling before him, his arousal so intense that it bordered on excruciating. It took him a moment to fully grasp Artemitra's command before he could shift his gaze to the woman behind her. Those eyes, no longer a cold grey but a warm hazel, were so familiar and comforting—despite now shining with an unsettling triumph. They were eyes that felt like home, the eyes of his mother!

His mind flooded with vivid memories: her gentle hands tenderly tending to his scraped knees, the soothing warmth of her presence as she applied balm to his wounds with loving care. He remembered her gentle embrace on freezing nights, a fortress against the biting cold. Her lullabies, tender and melodic, carried him into a peaceful slumber. She had sacrificed endlessly, often going without so he could thrive and flourish. It was she who had moulded him into the paragon of virtue and honour that the world admired so much.

Now, in this surreal moment, his mother was indeed a being greater even than the goddess herself, yet everything felt contorted and bizarre. The woman, who had nurtured him with such boundless love, now wielded a ‘manhood’ far larger than his own as she thrust into the goddess with unrelenting power. He watched as she plundered Artemitra's most intimate depths, causing the goddess to scream and moan like a creature in frenzied heat. Aelorian's mind struggled to process the reality before him, teetering on the edge of something dark.

The irony was inescapable—his very own mother was now the literal bigger man. Yet she was not her, not exactly. He was not certain why, but he knew that, but he was certain that the mystery would unravel itself further. Yet rather than be rational, he found himself violently drawn to her.

His emotions roiled within him like a tempest. He wanted to seize her lush, inviting lips, forcing them apart to sample the intoxicating sweetness within. His hands would ravage her magnificent breasts, squeezing and kneading as he bit down on her nipples to draw out fervent cries of pleasure. Her legs would be spread apart...

Yet even as he gazed at her ploughing the goddess' field, his primal urges exploded. He wanted to wrap his hand around it, to rip it from her, to claim it as his own. He saw her on all fours, utterly exposed to him, her prick dangling provocatively. He imagined gripping it firmly, demanding she surrender it to him, tormenting her by denying her release unless she agreed to his every term. Her voice infiltrated his thoughts, pleading, begging him to take it. "No," his mind cried out, "NO!"

Desperately, he tried to avert his gaze. He tried to reject the depraved allure that was drowning him from within. But his treacherous body would only betray him as it was entirely ensnared by the debauched spectacle. Torn between the deep love for his mother and the insatiable hunger to own this woman, he found himself incapable of walking away.

His hand drifted to his britches almost unconsciously, pulling out his rigid sceptre, already weeping with desperate need, as he stood there—an unwilling captive to primal needs at war with his every principle. He began to stroke himself, each movement a betrayal of his convictions, yet he was powerless to stop, lost in this forbidden desire.

"Champion! What do you... Oh, please, mistress, it hurts," Artemitra squealed as Lysara, his mother, delivered a reverberating slap to her behind. "Quiet, wench! Time does not favour your dithering, for he is in torment. Your title is but dust before me. Perform as I command! Acknowledge your defeat! Declare your disgrace!" His mother roared, plunging mercilessly into the whimpering goddess.

"Aelorian, Son of the indomitable Lysara. Behold the ultimate triumph of General Thalor. Bear witness to the subjugation of the greatest deity by the ‘fallen wretch.’ I am entirely at her mercy, reduced to nothing at her feet... oh... mmmm... more... Yes, YES! I am yours, utterly! The shame... the bliss... so much pleasure... YES! I cannot flee. I find no desire to!"

Lysara continued to pound into her with ruthless force, each thrust rippling through the goddess's once-majestic form, now reduced to a trembling, bound wreck incapable of resistance. Sweat mingled with her tears, streaming down her face as she was utterly filled and used. The echo of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with the goddess's gasping moans and fruitless wails. "I didn't tell you to stop or drown yourself in pleasure yet—NOW FINISH THE STORY, HARLOT!" Lysara bellowed, forcing the shuddering goddess into further submission.

Artemitra's words stumbled out in breathless gasps, her face contorted with a mix of shame, pain, pleasure, and something that might have been love. Each phrase was relentlessly disrupted as she spoke, "You... ahhh... are the child of Lysara, formerly General Thalos and the first mortal Avatar of the goddess Niyathera. The goddess of... nghhhh... desire, purpose, and will. For it is... mmm... from desire that purpose is awakened, and from purpose... nnghh... that will is forged. It is the power of will that gives one... ahhhh... the strength to defy, define, and... ohhh... defeat destiny. Defeat me... ohhh!!!!! YES!!!! For I am... mmmph ... destiny itself."

"Now, strumpet, attend to your champion!" Lysara, or perhaps now Niyathera, commanded. "Show him the depth of your submission."
Artemitra turned her pleading eyes toward Aelorian. "Come hither," she implored. He hesitantly approached, his steps slow and uncertain. As he came closer, she bent forward, greedily swallowing his phallus with clumsy but fervent desire. Sucking and licking with desperate need, she moaned and gagged around his girth, even when she was being relentlessly battered from behind. The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth, mingled with the slick, rhythmic slapping of Lysara's thrusts, filled the air.

Without realising it, Aelorian's hands found her head, guiding her motions. He knew his part in this debased spectacle, though not yet why. Consciously, he ensured that he grasped her firmly, letting the scene mirror Artemitra's earlier, twisted account. The irony was not lost on him—this was the very scene she had depicted happening to the fallen general she would torment.

"She has lived amongst us forever, yet it is today that she first truly manifests. Be the blessed spectator to her birth, be evidence of her first great victory. This moment, you are living witness to the ascent of the greatest of us," Artemitra managed to speak before resuming her fervent task. Her gags and muffled sounds punctuated her every word, and her mouth eagerly returned to its humiliating service.

The goddess's words reflected her pitiful state. "Blessed champion of... oh MY!!! In this moment, in this present, you glimpse into the past and the future... oh, YES! YES! as she desires it! You witness the debasement of the goddess of victory... mmmm... yesssss. You see the fulfilment of the purpose of this magnificent woman... OHHHH!!!!!!!"

As Artemitra's words dwindled into a bawling crescendo, she spiralled into a heart-shattering, near-endless orgasm, her body quaking uncontrollably. Aelorian, his hands firmly grasping her head, held her in place as her spasms reverberated through her. Despite being overpowered by the relentless force behind her, she clung to her task, heedless of her own ecstasy.

"Do not spill a drop!" Niyathera commanded, shoving Artemitra's head deeper onto Aelorian's throbbing cock. The spasming goddess, driven by her own frenzied climax, sucked him with a ferocity that seemed almost ravenous. Aelorian felt himself teetering on the precipice, her desperate need sending him over the edge. With a triumphant growl, he exploded into her mouth, his seed overflowing her trembling lips.
At that very moment, Niyathera succumbed to her own climactic wave. Her body convulsed with an exquisite force, her eyes rolling back into her head as she let out a guttural wail of pure, unrestrained pleasure.

The very air seemed to tremble with the violent intensity of their shared euphoria. Artemitra, still desperately devoted to her service, struggled to contain the torrent of Aelorian’s release. Niyathera’s command went unheeded as Aelorian’s seed overflowed and dripped from Artemitra’s still-trapped lips. Each drop split was a testament to an indulgence that defied all limits.

Several moments passed as the new goddess regained her breath. Niyathera's grip on Artemitra remained firm, yet the fervour in her actions had softened. Her eyes, rich brown only moments ago, had returned to their earlier grey. Aelorian, still reeling from the climax, watched as the scene before him seemed to shift. The realisation dawned on him slowly—she might have been his mother moments ago, but now, this was undoubtedly Niyathera—a goddess whose existence he had only now come to comprehend.

There was a brief hesitation in Niyathera's eyes, a flicker of warm hazel when she saw Aelorian, but they swiftly returned to their steely grey. A blissful, almost predatory smile spread across her lips as she leaned into the fallen goddess, her tongue lapping up his seed that had overflowed from Artemitra's lips, savouring every droplet with a slow, sinful delight. Then, without pause, she seized Artemitra's sullied mouth in a rough, primal kiss. Nearly comatose from the overwhelming ecstasy, Artemitra offered no resistance.

After what seemed like an eternity, Niyathera reluctantly broke the kiss and cast a lingering look at Aelorian. She slowly slid a finger into her mouth, sucking on it seductively as a wicked smile, laden with a thousand sinful teases, radiated from her. Relishing the moment, she turned her gaze towards Artemitra and raised the goddess's face close to hers. Her voice, still sultry but as gentle as a spring breeze, carried the tender declaration that would seed many a legend "I forgive you, my love."

-Continued in Chapter 5-