The Goblin’s Pet (18+) (Now a CYOA!)

The morning sun caresses my face, its warmth a gentle kiss on my stubbled cheek.

Stubble. I’ll need to start shaving again! The thought fills me with more joy than it should.

I squint, the sunlight forming a dazzling kaleidoscope through the thick emerald canopy of pine needles overhead. A pair of jewel-toned Hummingdrakes flit past, their ruby and sapphire wings catching the sunlight as they dance in the crisp air. The scent of damp moss, pine, and the faint sweetness of dawnbells waft through my nostrils, grounding me in familiar scents. My heart gives a squeeze in my chest. I'm home. Almost.

Beneath us, the muscled back of the desert horse shifts, its steady trot a comforting rhythm. Melka sits in front of me, her body snug against mine. Her plump green ass rubs against my thighs, a dull throb from last night's exertions pulsing in my groin. The memory of her naked flesh beneath me - the taste of her green lips, her ample breasts, the feel of her pussy around my cock - sends a jolt of desire through me. Guilt follows quickly after. I'm not hers. I belong to Elara.

But damn, last night will definitely have a space in my memory for the rest of my life.

"Ya think Thuulk will really take a goblin lass?" Melka asks, breaking the silence.

“It’s a melting pot, Melka. Folk of all kinds live there," I reassure, my hand resting on her rounded shoulder. The rough fabric of her tunic is warm under my palm. "Your skills as a healer... they'll be more than welcome. That’s what they’ll care about.”

Her shoulder stiffens under my touch and then relaxes. She lets out a sigh, her body sagging against me. The image of the goblin girl in the busy streets of Thuulk flashes in my mind - her short black curls bouncing as she navigates through the crowd, her purple eyes sparkling with excitement.

"But if you ever want a taste of country life, remember you're always welcome in Eboncrest. Our home is yours," I add, feeling her stiffen once more. I should really just shut up.

"I reckon I better not," she says after a pause, her voice a mix of regret and resignation. "Ya got your missus to get back to. And she’s not gonna wanna see a goblin.”

A lump forms in my throat. She's absolutely right.

I take a deep breath, drinking in the forest air. It tastes of freedom, of homecoming, and of a strange, unexpected camaraderie born out of shared adversity. Dressed in the fresh cotton shirt and comfortable leather britches gifted by the Thistlecross guards, I feel like myself again. Aldric. Not Elise. Not a battered slave, but a man returning home.

"Yer cock did a number on me, Tit-bitch,” she says, a chuckle in her voice. She pats her round ass, still tender from our tryst. "Can't sit on this saddle without feeling like I got pounded by a stone troll."

Heat rises to my cheeks, my cock gives a stir at her words. The tension crackles between us. It's friendly, flirtatious, and tinged with a sexual frisson that neither of us can deny. I cough, trying to dispel the embarrassment.

"Maybe I should've been gentler for your first time," I say, trying to keep the conversation light.

"Nah," she retorts, glancing back at me, her purple eyes twinkling. "I got what I asked for.”

The silence stretches between us, pregnant with the tension of words left unsaid. A bird chirps, piercing the stillness. We are getting very close.

"So, what's yer woman like, then? Elara.”

“My wife... she's got the greenest thumb I've ever seen."

Melka huffs a laugh, jiggling her own fingers in front of her face. "Not greener than mine, Tit bitch!”

I chuckle. “Sorry. It's a turn of phrase," I explain, seeing her confusion. “It means good with plants.”

“Humans,” she huffs, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Let me tell you one story about Elara,” I start. “So, as I said, she loves things that grow, anything from a tree to a weed. Can't bear to let any plant die, no matter how pathetic. One day, she finds this shriveled potted plant outside a magic shop in town. Looks like it hadn't seen water in months. I tried telling her to leave it. That nothing good ever came from a magic shop, but Elara... well, she's stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind to something."

“So what happened?”

"Well," I say. "She brings it home, sets it on the windowsill, waters it, talks to it. Sings to it. Two weeks later, that thing is sprouting like crazy. Green shoots all over, looking healthier than any other plant in our garden."

Melka chuckles. "Sounds like Elara's got some magic of her own."

“She does," I agree, a warmth spreading in my chest at the thought of my wife's gentle heart. “A bit too much of it. One day the following week, I wake up to find our garden absolutely wrecked. Pots shattered, dirt everywhere. And at the center of it all, that damn plant, now grown into a giant tentacle monster, thrashing about and flinging our tomatoes all over the place."

“A Fumblethorn!” Melka lets out a high-pitched squeal of laughter, slapping her knee.

“Exactly,” I say, rolling my eyes at the memory. “And she wouldn’t even let me kill it. I had to grapple with the beast, get it into a sack. It was thrashing and squirming, knocking me flat on my ass more than once. It ate all of Elara's petunias, and she still wanted to save it.”

Melka's giggling becomes uncontrollable at this point, her body shaking with mirth. "And then?"

"Then? Well, I had to spend a whole day marching it out into the wild and let it go. Elara told me it needed to go into a dungeon, where it could wrap around stalagmites, curl around stalagmites and suck nutrients or some such nonsense. And the spores, don’t get me started!” I continue to detail the harrowing quest, of planting monsters rather than slaying them. Of my wife’s hand over hips to ensure I had followed through with my promise.

By the end of the story, Melka is wiping tears from her eyes, the fits of giggles finally subsiding. I feel lighter than I've felt in ages, the story serving as a reminder of the life that's waiting for me, of the love that I still have.

Suddenly, the hush of the pines gives way to a gasp as Eboncrest appears in the distance, its stone walls proud and imposing against the pale morning sky. The spire of the keep peeks through the green sea of trees, like a lone sentry standing guard. It's home. My home.

I turn to Melka, her purple eyes gleaming with a mix of sadness and hope, those bouncy curls bobbing as she looks back at me. I slide off the horse with a grunt, the familiar soreness of my muscles reminding me of the recent battle, of the taste of victory.

Whisperwind, my faithful blade, is resting in the saddle. I take it, the hilt familiar and comforting in my grasp. I give Melka a nod, my eyes locked on hers, conveying all the gratitude and admiration words fail to express.

"Ya know, Tit-bitch, I'm gonna miss ya," she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

"Melka, I..." I stumble over my words, the tension almost tangible in the air between us.

“Hush now,” she interrupts, flashing me a melancholy smile. “I’m sorry ye got it so rough. But I’m really glad I met ya.” Then, with a final wave, she kicks her desert horse into a gallop,  towards her own destiny.

I watch until she's just a speck in the distance.

—

"Good to see you, sir!"  Garrett, a giant of a man with a beard like a bushel of wheat, thunders, his face splitting into a grin as wide as the Eboncrest gates. He delivers a sharp military salute, his armored hand thumping against his breastplate in welcome.

"Knew you'd get out of that pickle, Aldric!" chimes in another, Roderick, a grizzled veteran with scars to match. His grip is strong and warm on my forearm as we share a hearty clasp.

They're all here, my brothers-in-arms. Duncan, the hawk-eyed archer. Jonah, the stoic blacksmith's son. They’re grinning, laughing, their faces etched with relief and joy.

"Hold up there, men!" A new voice rings out above the clamor. Captain Giles. The soldiers part like the sea, making way for the captain of the guard, his stern features softened by a rare smile. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Aldric."

"Giles!" I greet him, clapping him on the shoulder. "The town hasn't burned down without me, has it?"

"Not yet," Giles replies with a smirk. "Though we did have a bit of a problem with a green-skinned fellow earlier."

My heart leaps. "Snib.”

“Right. Tried to sneak in through a sewage grate. He's cooling his heels in our cells as we speak.”

A flush of satisfaction ripples through me. Snib. In chains. At last. The thought tickles a dark corner of my mind, whispers of revenge fanning the embers of my fury.

I shove it aside. There'll be time for that later. Right now, my focus is elsewhere. "And Elara?" I ask, my voice unsteady.

The men exchange glances before Roderick clears his throat. "We ain't seen her since morning, Aldric. But she'll be over the moon, seeing you back."

"Good. Good." I nod, forcing a smile onto my face.

A flurry of chuckles break out, Garrett slapping me on the back. "Bet you've got quite the tale to tell, eh? Being a woman and all?" His laughter is infectious, and despite the bitterness of the memory, I find myself joining in.

"Silver Stag tonight, Aldric?" Jonah asks. "First round's on me. You can regale us with your... ladylike adventures."

I laugh, a genuine, full-throated laugh. "It's a date."

Just then, Duncan pipes up, "Aldric, there's a wizard in town. Wants to see you."

My eyebrows shoot up. Master Zephyrion, probably - the one Fendril contacted to help with my ‘condition’, all the way from the Great Hall. “He'll have to wait. I've got a wife to apologize to, first." I say, winking at them.

—

I stand at the threshold of our home, a surge of anxiety prickling under my skin, but I still can’t keep a massive grin from my face. My hand rests on the wooden door, etched with years of love and memories, its familiar grooves whispering welcome. Gently, I push it open - we’ve never had to keep it locked, in such a safe town.

Inside, the familiar scent of our hearth, a mix of burning oak and rosemary bread, washes over me like a warm, comforting blanket.

Creeping through the living area, my eyes take in the familiar setup: plush furniture, warm tapestries, the fire dancing in the hearth. Everything is just as I remember, except for the chill absence of Elara's laughter.

A soft hum leads me to the kitchen. My breath catches in my throat as I drink in the sight of her, auburn locks cascading down her shoulders, focused on the loaf of bread she's kneading on the table. My heart clenches as I imagine her eating it alone.

The floor creaks under my foot, breaking the silence. Elara jumps, a sharp shriek piercing the air. I rush forward, my arms open to catch her as she stumbles back. The shriek dies in her throat as she turns, her eyes meeting mine. "Al- Aldric?"

Tears pool in her eyes, her hands trembling as they reach up to touch my face. "You're... you're back?" I nod, my heart aching at the disbelief in her voice. My fingers curl around hers, pressing her palm against my cheek.

Her scream transforms into a sob, her body shaking as she buries herself in my arms. I wrap her up, pulling her as close as I can. Her body fits perfectly against mine, her curves melding into my muscles, her scent clouding my senses. Home.

She pulls back, her hands framing my face as her sapphire eyes search my face. "I didn't dare to hope, Aldric. But I was praying for your return. I haven't slept."

Her confession tugs at my heart, regret and relief warring inside me. I pull her back into my embrace, burying my face in her hair. "I'm here, Elara. I'm here now. Here forever.”

Her fingers curl into my shirt, her body clinging to mine as if I might disappear like a puff of smoke. I press a kiss to her forehead, promising her silently that I'm not going anywhere.

Our kiss is desperate, a clash of lips and tongues that speaks of the torment of our separation. The taste of her, sweet and familiar, fills me with a burning need. I pull her closer, deepening the kiss, as I relish the feel of her in my arms, real and unbroken.

The love between us is a live wire, a connection so deep it sears my soul. The taste of her lips, the smell of her hair, the feel of her body against mine... it all confirms that I'm finally home, finally free.

And yet, beneath the joy and relief, a dark thought lurks. Snib. In chains, thankfully. The thought of his vile hands on my Elara fills me with a cold, seething rage. I have no doubt that’s what he was attempting in his little sneak attack.

We settle down on our couch as I recount, carefully, the events of the last few days at the horrible Griznak Gobboree.

"Elara, love," I say, staring into her hazel eyes. "It was one hell of a night."

She nestles deeper into my lap, a sea of auburn curls spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes never leave mine as I start talking about the Gobboree. Her soft hand grips mine tighter as I detail the grotesque and grim festivities. Leaving out a bit of the lewdness.

“I fought in their arena,” I say, the crackle and heat of the flames still vivid in my memory. “I was wagered in a bet. That’s when Snib lost me, and I was given to Grokk, their chieftan.”

I kiss her forehead softly, trying to banish the vile memory of getting face-fucked in front of the jeering crowd.

"I'll spare you the crueler details," I say, my heart aching at her shiver.

Her soft sobs dampen my tunic as I continue with my tale, describing how Melka, a goblin lass with more heart than the lot of them, spoke for me. She managed to convince Snib, a surprising turn of events.

"I'm forever in debt to that goblin girl," I murmur.

Next, I weave the tale of my escape. The reclamation of my male form sends tremors of disbelief through her. She looks at me, her husband, but with the knowledge of Elise, my past, tucked away somewhere in her gaze. "They called me ‘Skulgaroth,’ the goblins," I say, a smirk dancing on my lips. "Thought I was a demon of some sort. And I was happy to play the part.”

Elara clings to me tighter as I describe my fight with Grokk, the goblin chief. I'm careful with the details, but when I tell her I tore out his throat, she gasps, her eyes wide. She's horrified, but there's a glimmer of satisfaction too, a spark ignited by my revenge.

Her fingers trace the bandages on my chest and arms, the evidence of the following battle. "Fought a troll," I say, a grim smile on my face as I recall Krognar, the brutish creature who almost became my end.

Her eyes well up again as I speak of Melka's rescue. Her soft, trembling hand clutches mine as I talk about our escape, about the sight of the gobboree fading into the distance, about the constellation of the Maiden of the Dawn, our guiding star towards Eboncrest.

"I stopped in Thistlecross," I say, kissing her knuckles one by one. "They patched me up. Kept me in one piece for you."

"It must've been so hard..." she whispers, her voice full of sorrow.  I nod, unable to deny the agony, the suffering. “But I’m so proud of you.”

A chuckle escapes my lips as I look at her. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a woman," I say.

Her laugh, full and genuine, fills the room. "Oh, Aldric," she says, "I did enjoy doing your hair."

“I used the warrior’s braid you showed me!” I say. “In the arena.”

“Good!” she giggles. Suddenly, her eyes turn serious. "Zephyrion's here, you may have heard.” she says, "we need to see him soon. He will have a lot of questions, and he will have come all the way from Thuulk for nothing.”

"I know," I sigh, leaning in to steal another kiss. “Let’s go.”

—

The door to Zephyrion's quarters swings open with a slight creak, the echo of the sound swallowed by the heavy drapes and thick stone walls. We step inside and the sight that greets us is almost... normal. It's a stark contrast to the grandeur I'd expected from a man of Zephyrion's standing. He could have asked for a better room in the castle, and Mayor Bramble would have certainly given it.

A wooden desk strewn with scrolls and ancient books occupies one corner of the room, lit by the warm glow of a single oil lamp. There, amidst the chaos of parchments and ink, the cursed metal collar glimmers ominously. I stiffen at the sight, my heart beating a wild rhythm against my chest. It's a stark reminder of a past I'd rather forget, and I find myself taking a step back, swallowing the lump that's suddenly formed in my throat.

Zephyrion is seated behind the desk, engrossed in a scroll. At our entrance, he looks up and stands, giving us a polite nod of recognition. "Aldric. Elara," he greets, his voice measured and controlled, each word carefully articulated, echoing softly around the room. There's an urgency in his demeanor, like he's impatient to get back to whatever was occupying him before we arrived.

He's tall, taller than I'd remembered. His grey eyes flicker with a glint of hidden knowledge, a storm beneath a calm facade. They wander over us, taking in our appearance with an analytical gaze.

Shaking off the unease, I reach forward and grasp his extended hand, noting the firm, commanding grip. His touch is cool, his skin smooth against my calloused hands. "Zephyrion," I return the greeting, forcing a small smile.

As our hands drop, my eyes drift to the insignia on his shoulder. It's a symbol I've seen before, one that's known across the kingdom. A silver lightning bolt wrapped around a golden scepter. The emblem of King Richard Valarian’s inner council.

My brow furrows slightly. Just how high up is he?

Elara is next to me, her arm threading through mine as she nods a hello. Zephyrion acknowledges her with a tilt of his head, his expression unchanging. His gaze sweeps back to me, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before it shifts away.

My gaze goes back to the collar on his desk, my mind reeling. "Shouldn't that thing be locked away?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The metal glimmers in the dim light, almost mocking, its silence whispering tales of my past. I resist the urge to reach out and grab it, to throw it far away from us, from this room.

But Zephyrion only raises an eyebrow at my question, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Aldric," he begins, leaning back in his chair, his grey eyes dancing with a spark of intrigue. "That's what we're here to find out, isn't it?"

The wizard’s gaze fixes on the cursed collar, his stormy eyes sparkling with an ominous light. He reaches out, his long fingers hovering a hair’s breadth above the cruel iron, as if afraid to touch it.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" he murmurs, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The word feels wrong, feels dirty, in reference to that damned collar. "So simple, yet so... potent." His eyes flick to mine, his smile fading. "You wore it well, Aldric. So the goblin says.”

His words scrape at my insides like a knife. But I don’t flinch, don’t blink, just meet his gaze head on.

"Indeed," he continues, his eyes returning to the collar. "Fendril was correct, as far as he went. It's a conduit, a bridge to something... more. An ancient being. But I have discovered who this being is.”

My wife and I hold our breath.

“Maraan."

I stiffen at the name. Elara gasps beside me. I've heard that name before, a specter in the dark corners of old stories.

Zephyrion straightens, regarding us with an analytical eye. “You've heard of Him, I see." His words are dry, almost amused. It’s an unsettling effect.

“The Dreamer in the Deep. An ancient entity from a time before time, from an age when the K'tarrans ruled this land and foolishly used his power to lay waste to their enemies."

The echo of the old verse rings in my ears. The three ancient ones, those who sleep deep in the earth. I shudder. Maraan, Thul’nara, and Zor'ethun.

Zephyrion continues, oblivious to my discomfort. “This collar,” he turns it in his hands, “it's an artifact of the K'tarran age. A tool created to tap into the power of Maraan, to channel his might."

My stomach drops. A direct link to one of those beings… it's a horrifying thought. Worse still is the notion that someone, even a seasoned mage like Zephyrion, might be excited by that possibility.

“In its time, a K'tarran collar like this would be used to enslave, to dominate.” Zephyrion's words hang heavy in the air, a stark reminder of my own recent past. "A weapon for kings to degrade their enemies, turning the mighty into the meek.”

His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer than I'm comfortable with. But he doesn’t elaborate further on my recent past. No, he has grander things in mind.

“Imagine," Zephyrion says, "if we could reactivate that link, study it, harness its power... Imagine what could be achieved."

My heart races, a chilling fear gripping me. Zephyrion’s eyes gleam with anticipation, but all I can think of is the collar’s cold touch, the humiliation, the degradation. And beyond that... Maraan.

"The artifact was made for one master, one slave. That’s the only way it works, the only way to access its power.” Zephyrion's voice is soft, almost gentle. As if he's talking about a new spell, a new discovery, not a link to an ancient, monstrous entity. "Without that connection," he continues, "there's nothing. No link to Maraan, no power to study, to use."

A leaden silence follows his words. I swallow hard, my throat dry. Zephyrion’s gaze falls back onto the collar, his fingers itching to touch it, to trace its runes. And I can't shake the growing dread that I won't like where this conversation is heading.

Zephyrion settles into his seat, his grey eyes scanning the room like a hawk scanning the forest floor. His lips part, drawing our attention, each word he releases, a sharpened arrow.

"Time, Aldric, is a cruel and relentless taskmaster," he starts, the room swallowing his words in silent anticipation. "It respects neither king nor peasant, neither wizard nor warrior. And time is not on our side today.”

The war.

Leaning back, he continues, “Valaria is being drained, sapped, by the conflict with Sirath.”

His voice is soft, yet it echoes, a gong in the hush of the room.

“The towns in the south are now only markers for battlefields, their life-blood soaking the southern borders." There's a flicker in his eyes, like a spark struggling against the wind, but his voice never falters.

“I thought the counteroffensive was underway,” I say. “I helped trained soldiers for it. For months.”

"The Serrans," he continues, "persistent as they are, have matched us blow for blow. No side has tasted a single decisive victory, only the bitter brew of attrition." His words paint a grim image, one that's hard to swallow. “The counteroffensive has failed.”

His stern gaze holds us captive as he weaves this tapestry of harsh reality.

"There are whispers of alliances forming in the east with the warlords, alliances that threaten to tear Valaria asunder. We cannot fight on both fronts and win.”

His voice hardens at the prospect, the potential devastation evident in the set of his jaw.

"But we do have a king,” he says, a spark of respect flashing in his stormy eyes, “who understands our plight and is ready to seek solutions in the arcane, in the old magics."

Now, he pauses, holding us both in suspended animation. He looks to me, then to Elara, and finally, to the eldritch artifact resting on the table.

“King Richard Valarian has summoned us, his council of mages, not just to fight but to uncover. To delve into the old lore and find the keys that might unlock the power we need. Power that could stem the tide of this war." His eyes dance with a fiery intensity, a pyre lit with the kindling of hidden knowledge. "That is why we are here, why I am here. We must find these artifacts, secrets of the ancient K'tarrans, and wield their power for Valaria."

His gaze lands on me, piercing and demanding.

"You are the key, Aldric."

I feel a twinge in my gut, a prickling sense of unease. "What do you mean?" I demand, but my voice lacks its usual strength. My mouth is dry, my throat tight.

"You've been connected to Maraan before, through this artifact," he explains, picking up the cursed collar once again. “And this artifact is useless unless you - you, specifically - put it on again. It only binds to one wearer.”

“And one master,” I echo his previous words.

The room plunges into an icy silence. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, the blood draining from my face. Beside me, Elara inhales sharply, her hand gripping mine.

“Sorry, but are you fucking mad?" Elara's voice is a whip, snapping across the room. Her fingers dig into my hand, her other one shaking as she points at the cursed collar. “My husband was tortured, transformed, for DAYS! You want him to go through that hell again?"

Zephyrion is unfazed by her outburst. His gaze remains focused on me, patient and expectant. "It's only temporary, Aldric," he assures, his voice like silk. "Just until we unlock its secrets."

"I won't wake Maraan," I say, standing up abruptly. My chair topples backward, echoing my outrage in the cold stone room. "The stories... we're told not to wake him. The K'tarrans are a warning, not an example."

Zephyrion merely shakes his head, a slight, arrogant smile playing on his lips. “Scholars believe the K'tarran empire fell due to economic collapse, internal strife, and famine. The disasters that befell them were purely mundane, not mystical."

"That's horseshit!" I snap, slamming my fist on the table. "The Three swallowed them whole! They abused their power and were obliterated for it!"

Silence settles again. I can feel Elara's fear and anger pulsing beside me, mirroring my own. She finally breaks the silence, her voice thick with tears.

"Aldric has given enough to the war," she pleads. "He trains soldiers, he's the hero of this town. I've shared him with the kingdom for years, and I won't do it anymore. I need my husband."

Zephyrion just looks at us, as calm as a millpond. But his eyes... they burn with an unfathomable desire. A desire for power, for control. And in that moment, I realize just how dangerous this wizard is. He would risk waking an ancient evil, would risk me, all for the sake of this damned war.

"Sorry, Zephyrion," I mutter, my voice hoarse. "But the answer is no. I won't become a pawn for your experiments."

The tension hangs heavy in the room.

Just when I think things can't get any worse, the door to the chamber swings open, and Snib is ushered in by two of Zephyrion’s royal guards. My stomach churns at the sight of him, my nostrils filled with the sickening stench of sweat and goblin musk once more. His beady eyes glisten with a perverse delight, a fat grin plastered on his hideous face.

"No!" Elara's voice is raw, desperate. "He won't touch my husband again!"

The room freezes at her outcry. Even Snib pauses, his grin fading as his eyes flick to Elara. Then, as if someone flips a switch, his face lights up again, his grin wider than ever. He waddles closer, an obscene swagger in his stride.

"But Mistress," he croaks, his voice a guttural rasp that sends shivers of revulsion down my spine. "We're old friends."

I clench my jaw, my hands balling into fists at my sides. My pulse throbs in my temples, my blood roars in my ears. I'm a storm, a hurricane, waiting to break free.

Zephyrion raises a placating hand. "Now, now," he chides, like we're petulant children and not the victims of a cruel magic. "I understand your anger, your fear. But think of Valaria. This is bigger than us, bigger than your... discomfort."

Discomfort. As if that mild word could begin to cover the raw, gaping wounds that Snib's torment has left in me.

Before I can speak, before I can voice my fury, my defiance, Zephyrion continues.

"I've already spoken with Snib," he says, as casual as if he's talking about the weather. "He's agreed to release you, Aldric, once our work is done. In exchange, we will offer him sanctuary in Thuulk."

My head spins. Sanctuary. For Snib. The thought is a poison, spreading through my veins, curdling my blood.

"All you need to do is endure a little longer," Zephyrion's voice is soft, soothing, a balm on a wound that's still raw, still festering. "As Elise, you will be under close watch. Snib will stay in Eboncrest, under the protection of Mayor Bramble's order. You won't have to leave your home."

Snib. In our home.

I glance at Elara, her face pale but resolute, her eyes locked on Snib. She doesn't even blink, doesn't look at me. She's a rock in the raging sea, and I... I am the storm.

"I won't let him," I growl, my voice a low rumble in my throat. "This ends now."

I draw Whisperwind in a swift, fluid motion, the sword gleaming in the dim light. I move towards Snib, every muscle in my body coiled and ready to strike. To kill. To end this nightmare once and for all.

But before I can land a blow, before I can taste the sweet release of revenge, my body freezes. My breath hitches, my limbs locked in place, my heart pounding against my ribs.

"No!" Elara's scream is a distant echo, drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears.

Zephyrion stands, his hand outstretched, his eyes locked on mine. With a flick of his other wrist, the cursed collar lifts from the table, floating in the air, inching closer to my immobile body.

And all I can do is watch, trapped in my own skin, as the cold iron closes around my throat once more.

The collar, now glittering with glowing purple runes, latches onto my neck. Cold. It's so bloody cold. Then, I can feel it, coursing through me. The sickening pull of magic, the same magic that had once before transformed me, ripping me from the form I'd known for a lifetime.

"Aldric!" my wife’s scream tears through the chamber, frantic and horrified. I see the raw terror in her beautiful eyes, the heart-wrenching realization of what's happening. But I can't do a bloody thing.

Before anyone can react, the pain hits me. Unbearable, unimaginable pain that brings me to my knees. My stomach lurches, the pain is blinding, I can't breathe. My muscles contract, my bones ache. My entire body is convulsing, and I feel it - the change.

It starts in my feet, my sturdy, battle-worn feet. They've trudged through muddy fields, kicked down enemy doors, stood firm in the face of adversary. But now, they're shrinking, becoming delicate and petite. My boots loosen around them. They're becoming a woman's feet.

The pain shifts upwards, my ankles and calves slimming down, muscles turning softer. I see my knees shrink in front of me, losing their rugged hardness, replaced by the gentle curves of a woman's knees. My muscular thighs, so powerful and strong, dissolve into softness, flesh expanding outward. My narrow hips begin to broaden, widening into the curves of a woman's body. My britches split at the sides, torn asunder by my expanding ass.

"Welcome back, cow tits," I hear Snib's voice, that disgusting cackle, echoing in my ears. I see the goblin out of the corner of my eyes, his green face stretched into a revolting grin.

Each muscle in my stomach gives way, the toned ridges of my abs softening, melting into a flat, smooth belly. My hands clutching at my shirt, the callouses peeling away, replaced by soft, delicate skin. My fingers grow slender, delicate, as if made for painting and sewing, not for wielding a sword. I feel my grip weaken, and with a dull clang, Whisperwind falls from my grasp.

"Stop this!" Elara screams, her voice breaking as tears stream down her face. But it's no use. My transformation is far from over.

My chest... oh gods, my chest. It's happening again. The flat, muscular expanse of my chest is bubbling, swelling outward. The fabric of my shirt strains, tighter and tighter, until with a loud rip, my new breasts burst forth. They're enormous, G-cups at least, huge and heavy and jiggling with each ragged breath. My nipples harden against the cold air, pebbling on the large mounds.

And still, the pain persists. It gnaws at my insides, a brutal reminder of the body I'm losing, the form I'm being forced into. A throbbing ache begins at my groin, and a horrible realization dawns on me. The last vestige of my manhood is disappearing.

My cock, my bloody cock... it shrinks back into me, an unbearable suction feeling, as if my very soul is being pulled into my body. And then, there's a wetness between my legs, a hollow feeling, a void where my manhood once stood. My manhood is gone, replaced by the slick, tender folds of a woman's pussy.

Just as the last remnants of my manhood disappear, my body convulses again, more violently this time. I can't even scream, can't even voice my pain. A gasp tears from my throat as my clothes begin to change, my ripped leather britches morphing into a short leather skirt, the belt tightening around my newly formed waist, cinching in the soft flesh. My torn shirt transforms into a bikini top, barely able to contain my massive breasts.

I can feel my hair lengthening, the black strands brushing against my shoulders, then my breasts, and finally, reaching down to my waist. The final kick in the gut - the stench of testosterone and sweat is replaced by a floral scent, an intoxicating mixture of jasmine, rose, and honeysuckle.

I can feel myself collapsing, the strength draining from my legs, but before I hit the floor, I'm caught in the mage's levitating grip. It's as if I'm suspended in time and space, my transformation unfolding before the very eyes of those I care about.

My mind reels, desperately clinging to the remnants of Aldric. But with each passing second, he fades, his memories becoming distant, replaced by the alien consciousness of Elise.

With a soft thump, I am finally released, collapsing onto the cold stone floor of the chamber. I'm sobbing, the weight of my defeat sinking in. My voice, once deep and commanding, is now soft and high-pitched, a reflection of the body I've been trapped in.

I am no longer Aldric. I am Elise once again. Snib's pet, the goblin's toy. Trapped in a body that's not mine, forced to live a life I don't want. This isn't fair. It's not bloody fair. And as I lie there, the horrible reality of my situation sets in. This is my life now, once again. As Elise.