Lyra woke up alone in the cold bed. Esther had left earlier, as always. The night before, she had made the effort to sleep almost naked, an act of vulnerability meant to provoke some reaction in Esther, a silent plea for her body to be seen as something more than a friend's. But the space beside her was empty and cold, and the harsh reality hit her: it wasn't enough. She wasn't attractive enough for her. A deep, heavy sadness took hold of her, like a damp blanket that stole her breath. She began to think that maybe she should be honest, that she should break the silence and tell her that she loved her, not as a sister, but with a love that consumed her soul. But fear paralyzed her. The fear of rejection, of seeing pity or disgust in Esther's eyes, of their friendship, the only anchor she had in this world, breaking forever, leaving her adrift. She knelt by the bed and began to pray, whispering pleas to the Goddess. She tried to justify her feelings, weaving a desperate logic. While she believed it was wrong to have such thoughts, she told herself that maybe it was different. She was the Goddess's Chosen, and perhaps, being so devout, it was natural for her heart to fill with such a pure and intense love for the person she was destined to protect. She didn't dare confess to any father; her previous experience in the confessional had taught her that the understanding of the men of the Church was limited and cruel. She had no one to talk to. Still, she got up, dressed, and went to work with Father Valentín.
He was happy to see her, his round, smiling face lighting up. "Lyra, my daughter, what a joy. How is everything on your end?" Lyra said it was fine, lying with a forced smile. Then, the Father commented, with a false casuality that didn't fool her: "By the way, Marco told me yesterday that he's very happy with Esther. He says she's a very hardworking girl and has brought many clients to the inn." The news hit Lyra like a bucket of cold water. Inside, a cold worry took hold of her. Happy? What did that mean exactly? The Father led her to a small room adjacent to the soup kitchen, where several people with minor injuries and illnesses were waiting for her. "Here you are, daughter. Use your gift. The Lord will provide." Lyra did as he asked, using the rats the Father provided to transfer the damage. She healed a blacksmith's burned hand, an old woman's infected leg. But the payment was meager: a few copper coins, sometimes barely one. She felt terrible seeing those poor people, with their faces marked by suffering, giving her the little they had for something she believed should be free. Every coin she received weighed like a burden, increasing her contempt for the man who employed her. When Father Valentín saw that Lyra was looking at the money with evident disdain, he approached her. "I see this work doesn't satisfy you, daughter," he said, his voice unctuous. "Don't worry. I have some wealthy people, merchants and passing nobles, who would be delighted to pay very well for your talents. Since you came without notice, I couldn't coordinate it today, but if you come back tomorrow, you could earn a fortune." Lyra accepted, with a lump in her throat. She felt her soul shrink a little more, because she knew that if she healed rich people, she would have less energy, less power to heal the poor who really needed it. She was selling her gift, and the price was her conscience.
Esther was already in the forest clearing, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. The vitality drug still coursed through her veins, a constant reminder of her new and dangerous source of strength, but also of the unresolved frustration from the day before. A residual heat persisted between her legs, a constant distraction that prevented her from fully concentrating. The training was different. Erik pushed her harder, faster. His blows were precise and painful, and each one taught her a new lesson in how useless her technique was. Yet, something had changed. When a branch scratched her arm, the pain was sharp but bearable. When she fell to her knees, the air left her lungs, but not with the desperation of before. The drug was working, strengthening her body from within.
They finished the session, both exhausted. Erik leaned against a tree, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Your endurance has improved a lot," he said, his voice hoarse from effort. "You can stay on your feet longer than before. But your technique... it's improving slower. Although there's a small improvement, I admit." He fell silent for a moment, observing her. "What have you been working on in your free time?" Esther shrugged, preparing the lie she had rehearsed. "I haven't been training technique. I've been practicing healing magic." Erik nodded, thoughtful. "I get it. It's useful. But why don't you learn some offensive magic too? A shield, a lightning bolt... anything that gives you distance. You can't rely only on healing and your sword." "I don't have a teacher," Esther replied, and it was the truth. "And I'm already spending quite a bit on potions to recover from this. I don't know if I could afford a teacher."
"Maybe I can help you," Erik said, surprising her. "The Sorceress in my party, Roxy, is a specialist in fire magic. She's a master, believe me. But she's terrible at teaching. She has no patience. However, I think I could convince her to teach you the basics for free. She owes me a favor. Are you interested?" Esther's eyes lit up. "Really? Yes! Of course, I'm very interested!" "Good. I'll talk to her," Erik said, and for the first time, he gave her a small smile. When Erik left, Esther remained there, alone in the clearing. She took the last few potions she had left, feeling the magical tingle closing the remaining wounds. But she didn't leave. She walked towards a denser group of trees, seeking a more secluded spot, where no one could see her. She knelt on the moss and closed her eyes, concentrating.
"Brother," she called in a low voice. The air in front of her rippled and distorted, and suddenly, the ethereal figure of her brother appeared, his feet floating a centimeter above the ground. "Esther. I see you're on the right track. Your progress is remarkable." "Yes, but..." Esther said, frustration returning to her voice. "I feel it's slow. It's been almost 10 days since you became the Heroine and I don't feel ready for combat. I'm not at your level." Her brother became serious. "It's because you spend too much time distracted with disrespectful things, Esther." Esther blushed intensely, ashamed. "Can you... can you stop seeing everything I do?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper. "Unfortunately, although I really want to, I can't," he replied, with genuine sadness in his voice. "I'm connected to you. I can't help it." Resigned, Esther decided to confide her madness to him. "I've had an idea. A crazy one. I was thinking of taking almost all the drugs I have tonight and then go buy more." Her brother's face went blank for a moment. "If it were anyone else, I'd tell them they're crazy because they could die," he said slowly. "But in your case... even if it goes wrong and you die, having a death when you haven't had any yet, increasing your power like that... maybe it's not a bad idea." Esther felt a wave of relief and support. She wasn't alone in her madness. "Thank you," she said, and her brother's figure vanished.
With trembling hands, she took out her syringe kit and the drugs she had left: five red and three blue. She decided to inject all of them because she had more reds than blues, which was what was important. Without a sedative to control her, she injected the first red into her thigh. The heat was instant. Then, a blue one. An electric coldness ran through her veins. Then, another red. The heat intensified. Then, another blue. The cold fought against the heat. Red, blue, red. She injected them one by one, in a rapid and desperate rhythm.
Her body reacted violently, a betrayal orchestrated by her own desperate calculation. First, a tremor, a faint warning shiver that traveled from her toes to her fingertips, like a ripple of electricity over water. Then, a strong contraction seized her back, an iron fist clamping around her spine, forcing her to arch like a drawn bow, her curves straining against the thin fabric of her clothes. Her legs shook uncontrollably, her heels drumming a frantic rhythm against the soft earth, each impact sending vibrations through her entire frame. It was a convulsion, but it wasn't just pain. It was pleasure. A pleasure so intense, so overwhelming, that it was indistinguishable from pain, a terrifying fusion of agony and ecstasy that blurred all boundaries between them. An orgasm hit her without her touching herself, an explosion of blinding white light and searing heat that made her scream, a raw, guttural sound torn from her throat that was swallowed by the surrounding forest. Her body twisted on the ground, a frantic, desperate dance of life and death, the damp leaves and rich dirt clinging to her sweaty skin like a second skin. Another spasm, another orgasm, stronger than the previous one, wave after relentless wave crashing over her, pulling her under into a churning sea of sensation. She lost track of time, lost in a seemingly endless cycle of convulsions and ecstasy, her mind a kaleidoscope of fragmented images and incoherent thoughts, until finally, her body surrendered, utterly spent. Her mind went blank, a sudden, profound silence descending upon her, and she fell into a deep, dark sleep, thrown like a discarded doll on the forest floor, a solitary figure in the vast, indifferent wilderness.
When she woke, the sun was high, filtering through the canopy of trees. Luckily, nothing had been stolen from her, but she felt different. A torrent of pure energy coursed through her veins, a mana so vast that she felt she could heal an entire army if she wanted to. Her vitality had also increased, but not as much; she noticed that the mana potion had consumed some of that progress, a silent and costly trade-off. Her body felt strangely sensitive, the fabric of her clothes rubbing against her skin with a new intensity, and she thought, with a mix of shame and fascination, that it was perhaps because of the uncontrolled orgasms she had had before fainting. She cleaned her legs a bit, which remained stained with mud and the remnants of her arousal, and made a decision: instead of going to buy drugs before work, she would arrive later for her shift and look for her dealer, Silas, in the Gambling District earlier. On the way, the harassment was the same as always. "Look at those tits moving!", "That ass is an invitation to sin!". This time, however, she didn't feel so bad. The sounds were background noise, a minor annoyance. She was already used to it, and she handled the comments with a confidence and indifference she didn't have before, an invisible shield forged in repeated humiliation.
Upon arriving at the Gambling District, she saw Silas in his usual alley. He was selling to someone who looked consumed, with a thin, almost anorexic body, a living skeleton with sunken eyes and skin clinging to his bones. Esther noticed he was buying the blue drug. When the buyer left, she approached. Silas greeted her friendly but was surprised to see her. "You're here for more? Already?". "Yes," Esther said, without beating around the bush. "I need more blue and red." "Is it for you?" he asked, his gaze evaluating her. "You're taking them very fast. Although the red compensates a bit for the blue, the body may not tolerate it well." "Mind your own business," Esther replied, her voice cold. "I just want to buy." Silas accepted with a little laugh. "Alright. How much do you want?". "Ten red and seven blue." He looked at her surprised. It was a huge amount, a fortune. "I have it," he said. "But my offer still stands. 10% discount if you let me fondle your tits." She looked at him with contempt. Kork had already touched her tits for nothing, and this would allow her to accumulate more power, power that would make her stronger. In her mind, her brother's voice intervened, rarely so direct: If the opposite happens, if for not being a little stronger you fail to save a life, won't you blame yourself then? Esther didn't need more. "I accept," she said. He wanted her to turn around to do it from behind her back, but Esther knew that way he could touch her more easily without her permission. She refused. "From the front," she said. They didn't agree on a time. Silas waited until they were alone in the alley and indicated she should uncover herself. Esther's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, each beat echoing the shame and determination warring within her. Her fingers trembled as they gripped the hem of her camisole, the fine linen feeling rough against her skin as she lowered it, exposing her full breasts to the dim alley light. The air, thick with the stench of rot and desperation, felt cold against her suddenly bare skin, causing her nipples to pucker even before Silas approached. He moved with a predator's grace, his eyes gleaming with hunger as he lunged forward, his wet tongue circling one nipple with practiced expertise. Esther gasped at the unexpected sensation, heat pooling in her belly as his other hand mirrored his mouth's movements, fingers plucking and twisting her other nipple with just the right amount of pressure to send jolts of pleasure-pain through her body. What surprised her most was how quickly her body responded, how easily arousal coiled in her core despite the degradation of the moment. Her nipples hardened to tight, sensitive peaks under his assault, and she felt a warm slickness spreading between her thighs, soaking through her thin skirt. In just 30 seconds, she began to moan, unable to push him away or tell him no. His erection, pressing against her, brought her out of the trance a bit and she pulled away. "That was enough," she said, her voice trembling. He accepted, with a triumphant smile.
While Esther put away the drugs, before leaving, she asked him: "What are the other non-magical drugs you have?". Silas leaned against the wall, catching his breath. "I have everything. Aphrodisiacs, of course. Hypnotics. And one that's the opposite of your sedative: it gives you a temporary adrenaline rush, makes you more alert, faster... and prevents you from sleeping for hours. Very popular among guards and thieves." Esther was about to leave, but Silas was touching his cock over his pants, looking at her with bright eyes. "I'm going to masturbate now," he told her, his voice hoarse. "Because of you." He asked her if she wanted to see. She turned and left without a word. But as she walked, she felt aroused, her mind filled with the image of the drug dealer's hard cock.
On the way back to the tavern, Esther felt different. The chaos of the drugs had subsided, replaced by a sensation of tangible power. She felt her mana, an internal reserve many times greater than what she had originally, an ocean of magical energy waiting to be unleashed. However, that power came with a price: her body was in a state of constant arousal, a latent fire fueled by the memory of what the drug dealer, Silas, had done to her. When she arrived at the inn, the atmosphere was the same as always, but she felt more exposed than ever. Among the regular customers, there was a figure who didn't fit: an elegantly dressed man, sitting at a separate table, observing everything with a calculating calm. It was Eduard LaMartine. He had heard one of his merchants talk about the "female" at that inn, a waitress who wasn't a prostitute but acted like one, and his curiosity had brought him there.
Eduard watched as Esther put on her usual show. She would bend over to serve the pitchers, showing her cleavage, and move between the tables in a way that made her ass become the center of attention for everyone. The men, knowing that Marco wouldn't allow direct touches, would get as close as they could. They would run their hand very close to her ass and her sex, "by accident", the proximity a deliberate torture that made her skin crawl and burn simultaneously. A drunk merchant would stumble past, his knuckles brushing against the curve of her buttocks with a false apology that reeked of cheap wine and entitlement. Another would reach for a dropped coin, his palm hovering just beneath her skirt, close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. They would take her by the waist to "pass by", their fingers pressing against her skin with a possessiveness that made her stomach clench. A dockworker's calloused hand would linger longer than necessary, the rough texture of his skin a stark reminder of the power dynamics at play. A young sailor, emboldened by his companions' laughter, would slide his hand from her waist to the small of her back, his thumb deliberately tracing the dimples above her buttocks. She allowed it all, with her head down and her body burning, her cursed form reacting even as her mind recoiled. The shame warred with the unwanted arousal, a poisonous cocktail that Silas's drugs had brewed within her. Each touch was a violation, yet her body responded with a treacherous warmth, her hips subtly shifting into the fleeting contact as if craving more. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the empty tankard, her knuckles white. The coarse fabric of her uniform scratched against sensitized skin, a minor irritation compared to the phantom sensations left by each graze and squeeze. In the periphery of her vision, she could see Eduard LaMartine's eyes, dark and intense, observing her degradation with an unnerving stillness, his gaze adding another layer to her torment. The comments were completely out of line: A grizzled sailor with a scar across his cheek called out as she passed, his eyes locked on her swaying hips. "With that ass, you don't serve beer, you serve trouble! Each step you take is a promise that makes a man's throat go dry and his hands forget their duties." Another customer, a merchant whose fingers were stained with ink, leaned in conspiratorially to his companion, his voice a low purr that carried across the tavern's din. "I bet you get wet just from hearing us talk! Look at the way her cheeks flush—she's enjoying this as much as we are. Makes you wonder what sounds she'd make if someone whispered something truly wicked in her ear." A third man, young and drunk, gestured with his tankard toward her lips as she bent to retrieve an empty tray from a nearby table. "That mouth isn't just for drinking, eh? I've watched her all night. She has a way of parting her lips when she's thinking—a little gasp, a little invitation. A man could drown in those lips and thank her for it." The comments hung in the air like tobacco smoke, thick and invasive, as Esther moved through the tavern with her tray held steady, her fingers trembling just enough to be noticeable if anyone cared to look. The only one not participating in the cacophony was Eduard. He simply observed, analyzing. When Esther passed near his table to pick up some empty pitchers, he spoke to her with a soft and authoritative voice. "I want to talk to you when you're done." Before she could respond, he left a pure gold coin in her hand, a tip so extravagant that it left her breathless.
Before they could talk, Kork's father had to leave in a hurry because they were running out of beer barrels for the next day. As soon as he left, Kork saw his opportunity. The harassment intensified to a level never seen before. Every time Esther approached the counter, he would come up behind her and caress her nipples over the fabric, his clumsy and possessive fingers pressing and twisting with an unnerving certainty that made her breath hitch. The linen of her Heroine Clothes offered no real barrier against his insistent touch, each contact sending jolt after jolt of unwanted electricity straight to her core. His knuckles would brush against her ribcage as he lingered, his breath hot and reeking of stale beer against the nape of her neck, while the tavern's cacophony faded to a dull roar in her ears. She learned to anticipate these moments—the slight shift in air as he approached, the soft scrape of his boots on the worn wooden floor, the way the shadows seemed to deepen around the counter's edge. Yet despite her readiness, her body would always betray her, nipples hardening under his touch as if welcoming the violation, a physical response that shamed her more than the act itself. Sometimes he'd whisper filth in her ear, words so vile they made her stomach clench while simultaneously stoking the fire Silas's drugs had ignited within her. "Feel that?" he'd murmur, his voice a sickening mix of pride and entitlement. "That's how a real man gets you ready." Other times he'd say nothing at all, letting his hands do the talking as he positioned himself just so, ensuring anyone glancing their way might mistake it for an accidental brush, a plausible deniability that only added to her humiliation. His fingers creeping beneath her shirt's hem to find the sensitive skin of her lower back, tracing patterns that made her arch involuntarily. The worst part was the helplessness—how she couldn't cry out, couldn't retaliate, couldn't even pull away without risking the other patrons' notice. So she stood there, trapped between the counter and Kork's predatory touch, her hands trembling as she cleaned mugs or wiped down surfaces, her mind a battlefield of conflicting sensations as the drug-enhanced arousal warred with profound disgust and the burning shame of her body's treacherous response. The tavern's heat was a physical thing, pressing against her skin like another unwelcome hand. Kork's eyes, small and calculating in the dim light, followed her every movement, a predator tracking its prey through the jungle of tables and chairs. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength for someone so wiry. "Come here," he hissed, his voice barely audible above the tavern's din. He pulled her closer to the counter, his body partially shielding their interaction from prying eyes. "Lick," he commanded, holding up his index finger, which glistened with the grease from the sausages he'd been eating. Esther's stomach churned, but her traitorous body, still under the influence of Silas's drugs, responded with a subtle warmth between her legs. She hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, and Kork's grip tightened. "Now," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. Reluctantly, she extended her tongue, the sour taste of his skin making her want to gag. His eyes glinted with satisfaction as she complied. "Good girl," he murmured, then added two more fingers. "These too." The degradation intensified with each finger she was forced to lick, the mixture of stale beer, food, and his own unique musk filling her senses. The tavern's sounds faded to a distant roar as she focused on the horrifying task, her mind disassociating from the reality of what she was doing. When a group of sailors near the counter burst into laughter at a joke, Kork used the distraction to escalate his assault. He pulled his hand away, leaving a trail of her own saliva on his fingers, and moved closer, his thigh pressing against hers under the counter. The moment arrived when Esther needed to pass to the other side of the bar to retrieve clean tankards. As she squeezed past him, Kork had already anticipated her movement, positioning himself with practiced precision. With one quick motion, he had freed himself from his trousers, his erection springing free in the dim light beneath the counter. Before she could react, he pressed it firmly against her rear, the heat and shape of him palpable through the thin fabric of her underwear and skirt. The sudden contact sent an involuntary shudder through her body, her hips arching back slightly despite her mind's screaming protest. The coarse texture of his trousers against her bare skin where her shirt had ridden up added another layer of sensory violation. Kork leaned in close, his body now shielding theirs from anyone who might glance their way, and whispered in her ear, his voice thick with lust and triumph. "You're excited, aren't you?" His hot breath against her neck sent another wave of conflicting sensations through her. "I can feel how wet you're getting through that thin little fabric." Esther remained frozen, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white. She didn't respond, didn't move away. She simply stayed there, trapped between the unyielding wood of the counter and Kork's predatory presence. The heat of his erection pressed against her, the rhythm of his breathing, the texture of his clothes—all became overwhelming sensory details that seared themselves into her memory. A torrent of humiliation and arousal completely soaked her, the drug-enhanced pleasure warring with her profound sense of violation. She could feel herself becoming wet, the betraying response of her body adding another layer to her torment. Kork's hand moved to her hip, his fingers digging into her flesh possessively as he subtly ground against her. "That's it," he murmured, "take it all in." Time seemed to stretch and compress, each second feeling like an eternity yet passing too quickly for her to process fully. The tavern's sounds returned gradually—the clink of glasses, the rough laughter of patrons, Marco's wooden leg thudding against the floorboards—but they felt distant, unreal. In this moment, in this corner of the tavern, there was only the shameful heat spreading through her body and the unbearable weight of Kork's gaze.
The shift ended. Esther slipped off the damp apron, feeling the day's weight in every muscle. Outside, the night air of Dry Port was cool and damp, a momentary relief against the fire still burning under her skin. Eduard LaMartine was waiting for her, leaning against the opposite wall like an elegant shadow. Before she could open her mouth, a customer stumbled out of the tavern. Seeing Esther alone with a well-dressed man, a sloppy smile spread across his face. He approached, and with the clumsiness of a drunk, he groped her ass with a familiarity that had already become habitual. Esther didn't move. She let him, her eyes fixed on the dark cobblestone, as the man leaned in and left a wet, foul-smelling kiss on her neck. He walked away laughing, not knowing he had just sold her for a few coins. Eduard said nothing until the man disappeared around the corner. Then, he turned to her, his dark eyes reflecting the lamplight. There was neither shock nor contempt in his gaze, just a cold, analytical understanding. "I understand you have to endure all that for money," he said, his voice a silky murmur that slid under her skin. "That's why I'm going to make you an offer you'll like."
He explained the deal with the same precision a surgeon describes an incision. He wanted her to accompany him to a dinner at "The Golden Sail," the most exclusive restaurant in town. Her job was simple: pretend to be his girlfriend. He confessed, with a vulnerability that seemed rehearsed, that he had an ex-fiancée, a woman of nobility who had left him for cheating on her, and he wanted to show her that there were other beautiful women, women like her, who were willing to accept him as he was, even if he saw other people. Esther didn't like the idea. She felt she was trading the noisy cage of the tavern for a golden and silent one, but it was a cage nonetheless. Eduard, seeing her hesitation in the tension of her jaw, sweetened the deal. He would pay her the equivalent of 50 gold coins in letters of exchange, just for accepting. Plus, he would give her an extra 10 gold coins for each "thing" he let him do, like kissing her or touching her, to make the act convincing. He added, with a cunning that didn't escape Esther, that since they were a "new couple" and "getting to know each other," it wasn't mandatory for her to accept everything, giving her a false sense of control. She thought about it for only two minutes. The money. The words echoed in her mind like temple bells, each toll drowning out the whispers of doubt. Fifty gold coins. A sum so vast it made her head swim, enough to buy more drugs, to become stronger, to be ready for whatever fate would demand next. The thought was intoxicating, a rush of power that made her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides. It was a lifeline in this suffocating city, a chance to regain some measure of control over her cursed existence. "I accept," she said, her voice firm despite the lump in her throat that tasted of metal and regret. Eduard's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but he nodded with the satisfaction of a man who had just secured a valuable asset. The event would be the day after tomorrow, which meant she couldn't work that night at the tavern—Marco would be displeased, but the coins Eduard slipped into her palm would more than compensate. As she watched him walk away, she wondered which was the real cage: the tavern where men pawed at her for free, or the gilded one where they would pay for the privilege.
Eduard looked her up and down, his eyes traveling over the worn fabric of her shirt and the revealing cleavage. "Can you go dressed as you are now?" he asked. Esther agreed; she wasn't planning on changing much anyway, and while her work clothes were too revealing for an elegant dinner, it was what she had. She went up to her room with the weight of the letters of exchange in her pocket, a promising weight. Lyra was already asleep. Like the night before, she was almost naked, only in her very thin culotte, exhausted from the excessive mana expenditure it cost her to heal so many people. On a nightstand, she had left stacked the few copper coins and the letters she had earned with her sacrifice. Esther lay down next to her, hugging her gently, feeling the warmth of her body and the weight of her secrets, and fell asleep.