I skipped with utter glee—and I mean full head-swaying, arm-swinging, borderline-musical-number type of shit—as I pranced through the wreckage of the beastkin's ruined kingdom, soaking in all the wondrous carnage.

There wasn't even a wisp of smoke left—whatever hell tore through here—Slaethians backed by the Ascended Empire—had done their work weeks ago. Maybe months. Hard to tell. I probably should've asked Asherah for more details, but let's be real—I didn't give a shit about the beastkin.

No. I was marveling at the chaos.

The only sad part? The bones.

All that juicy flesh? Long gone. Peeled away by time, rot, and whatever else came sniffing through. Just bones now. Dry. Scattered. Cracking like snapped pretzels beneath my feet.

Not a single morsel left for me. Tragic, really.

Most of the buildings looked like they'd once stood proud—three stories, maybe more—but now? They were nothing but broken teeth jutting from the ground. Half-walls. Crushed stone. Rebar—or maybe some bamboo-style interior reinforcement—jutted out like shattered ribcages, each structure left hollow and flayed. The whole city felt gutted from the inside out, with snapped beams and rubble strewn like the bones of the victims littering the streets.

It reminded me of those old black-and-white photos from Earth—WWII Europe, bombed to shit and back.

Pure, delicious devastation.

Honestly? It sang to my cruel, shattered soul. Off-key, of course—but still, it was beautiful.

Both before and during my little foreplay warmup with the three-man train—whoops, that came out way kinkier than intended. Not a train. A patrol!—I hadn't really taken in much of my surroundings.

Truth be told, I'd been running on pure, unfiltered impulse this entire time.

"Maybe I should slow down a bit and actually think for once… Nah!"

Maybe a little thought wouldn't hurt.

"What is there to think about?"

Aislinn.

When are we getting back to her?

Why are we even here?

What's our plan?

"Urgh," I groaned, wanting to curse at the voices in my head. "Those are… good questions."

I kept muttering under my breath—most of it unintelligible, even to me. Couldn't imagine what it sounded like to the brooding high elf still trailing behind—as I skipped over scattered beastkin bones littering the busted cobblestone streets.

Listening to the voices was usually a terrible idea—but annoyingly, they were making some sense.

Or maybe I was making sense.

Technically, the voices were just fragments of my own fractured soul, so… does it even count as listening to someone else?

Whatever. Details.

None of that mattered right now.

No, right now I was going to fuck up any Slaethians or Imperials I could find at whatever base camp they'd crawled out of.

Why, you may ask?

Because it feels good.

And if there's one thing I excel at—aside from butchery, blasphemy, cannibalism, and kink-fueled horror—it's making myself feel good. Sadistic pain, panic, power—I get off on it. Literally. Sometimes with a hand. Sometimes with a corpse. Sometimes with a victim. Sometimes all three. If they're lucky.

Sometimes with farm animals!

"What?! No. No, I do not! Bestiality is off the table!"

That's not what you were thinking around all those beastkin.

Hey, didn't you suck on that chimera's nuts once?

"Bitches."

...Yeah, okay, all of that came out way darker and kinkier than I meant it. And ignore the chimera comment. That didn't happen, as far as I'm concerned—

Scratch that—I meant every word.

"Damn. I really need to get laid. I haven't had a dry spell this long since I was th—"

"…You know what, let's not say. Let's just not."

I glanced back, realizing I'd been speaking aloud. Hate when my inner voices leak out.

No you don't.

"Shut up."

Anal-lyth was giving me that confused, slightly horrified look—not concern for me, but of me, if I had to guess. Apparently, she'd missed a chunk of my delightful self-dialogue.

Point is—I need holes filled while filling some of my own. Or flay someone alive while touching myself. Depends on the mood.

And there was no way I was touching my prissy little high elf here. So, until I tracked down my hottie vampire, guess what? I'd be flaying someone alive while diddling myself.

What? An eldritch girl's gotta do what an eldritch girl's gotta do.

Besides—unless you're ready to hand over your browser history, don't you dare judge me for wanting to get my freak on.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"So!" I beamed at the elf.

She flinched.

What's with that reaction?

Maybe it's the manic grin?

I think it's the occasional head twitch.

Wow! We are not bringing up the head twitch—we're sensitive about it.

Pfft. No we're not.

Anlyth's eyes narrowed. "What do you want? Haven't you slaughtered your fill for the day?"

"No." I shook my head, all innocent-like—if innocence came wrapped in a gooey eldritch-black dress and a glowing, twitching orange eye. "You did the killing. I only got to torment. That's like… edging without the climax. And trust me, I don't edge well. If I had balls, they'd be blue enough to qualify as a new mana tier—and I'd be hunched over dying."

"I—I—it was a mercy!"

"Sure it was, Anal sweetie." I grinned—all teeth, no soul. "Anyway, you wouldn't happen to know where their little camp is, would you? I'd just love to go introduce myself—rip out a few intestines, wear a couple faces, maybe craft a tit-skin g-string for the full 'hello, new neighbor' vibe. Y'know… bonding rituals."

Her eyes dropped to my legs, then snapped back up, face pale. I was clenching and unclenching my thighs with the kind of anticipation most people reserve for orgasms or chocolate cake.

You think she's figured out how much of a sadist we are yet?

Pfft. Only a little. We're still playing coy.

"I'm heading back underground. If anyone can talk some sense into you, it's Asherah. I don't know what it is about her, but you seem slightly more reasonable around her. Less…"

My eyes narrowed. "You just gestured at all of me."

"I… did, didn't I."

Fuck, she's going to go tattle on us to Auntie Goddess in hiding.

Kill the elf?

I'm game.

"No. We're not killing the elf," I sighed.

"Excuse me?"

"—Nothing!" My eyes widened. I flashed a smile—way too wide, way too awkward.

Yeah… she bolted. Spun on her heel like a cowardly little bitch—

But not before hurling a glowing golden orb straight at my face.

"What did I sa—?"

BOOM.

~

The blast of holy magic left her palm before she even realized she'd made the choice.

It had been pure panic.

"We're not killing the elf."

She didn't believe that for a second.

Blake had been muttering to herself again—talking, whispering, arguing with voices that weren't there. Or maybe they were there, buried deep in that fractured, festering mind. Multiple personalities? Echoes of madness? Gods only knew what lurked in that head.

And then there was the way she smiled while torturing people. The joy she took in it.

It was sick.

It was wrong.

Anlyth ran.

Her thoughts spiraled into a frantic storm. How could I have been so stupid? Siding with that monster… that thing.

She's insane.

How did it come to this?

Every twisted step—every compromise—had led her here. All of it, just to get her husband back.

And now?

Now she was cooperating with the very creature who had killed him.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Could she take Blake in a fight?

…

Honestly? She wasn't sure.

She hoped Blake had some vulnerability to holy magic. It had to be true—something like her shouldn't be able to stand under divine light without burning.

But the creature had shown so many magics—raw, unnatural, terrifying.

Anlyth didn't think she'd win.

She had to get out.

Now.

Before it was too late—

A vice-like grip clamped around Anlyth's throat, yanking her off the ground and slamming her to a brutal halt. Her breath was ripped away in a wheezing gasp, legs kicking and flailing in the air as her boots scraped uselessly against empty space.

She clawed at the fingers crushing her windpipe—frantic, feral, her nails tearing into the slick, inky flesh. But the gouges filled in instantly, healing before she could even blink. The hand didn't flinch. It didn't loosen. It didn't care.

It didn't feel human.

From the swirling Ethereal Mist, the shape began to solidify.

Not Blake.

Not the manic, unhinged terror she'd learned—foolishly—to tolerate.

This… was something else entirely.

The figure was pitch black—glossy, rippling, alive—like tar given shape and will, sculpted into the perfect feminine form. No silk. No stitched-on smile. No glowing orange eyes peeking out from behind a sadist's playful mask.

Only gold.

Twin irises burned like suns, radiant and unblinking—radiating a judgment so absolute it pressed against Anlyth's soul like a crushing weight. Veins of divine light spiderwebbed through the tar-black flesh, pulsing with celestial fury that vibrated in her bones. And at the center of it all—her chest.

The hole.

Once a soft orange glow—now, a blinding golden furnace. A miniature sun—no, a wound in reality itself, burning with the light of a divine star. The brilliance wasn't just bright—it was devouring. All-consuming. And yet… it never spilled past the edge of her dark, tar-flesh form. Contained. Controlled. Caged.

Which somehow made it even more terrifying.

This wasn't just power.

It was annihilation in divine form.

She snarled, revealing teeth the same tar-black as her skin—jagged, unnatural things framed by pitch-dark gums. No warmth. No kindness. Just abyssal hunger bared in a mockery of a smile.

Terror seized Anlyth's heart.

This wasn't a creature. This wasn't a system user. This wasn't madness in perfect feminine form.

This was divinity.

A goddess born from nightmares and rage and ruin.

And she had dared to strike her.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.

Her hands dropped, fingers twitching weakly. Her mind screamed to fight, to summon magic, to do something—but her body refused. Every instinct howled that it was over. That she'd crossed a line that no mortal should.

She closed her eyes.

A shuddering breath wheezed through her crushed throat.

And she waited—for judgment, for agony, for obliteration.

For the end.

The hand released her.

Anlyth collapsed, crumpling to the ground in a coughing, gasping heap. Her lungs burned. Her vision swam with tears and lingering golden afterimages. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze—

Only to flinch hard when she looked up.

Blake hovered over her, crouched low in an inhuman squat—knees spread, spine arched, like some predator mimicking playfulness. Her arms rested lazily atop her knees, glowing orange eyes pulsing with lazy amusement and something far more unhinged lurking just beneath the surface.

But the divine horror was gone.

No more golden suns staring through her soul. No tar-black flesh riddled with cracks of celestial golden light. Just the silk-wrapped white face in a flowing black dress, glowing orange eyes flickering with mischief—and that same twitchy curiosity she always wore like a mask, barely hiding the madness underneath.

Blake tilted her head, slow and side to side, studying her like a child inspecting a broken toy.

Then, just when Anlyth tensed for the final blow—

Boop.

Blake poked her on the nose.

"Don't ever do that again," she said cheerily. "Also, no, I'm not going to kill you. You're one of my champions, aren't you? So, there's nothing to worry about."

Her smile widened—just a little too sharp.

"Just remember one thing: I'm very possessive of the things I consider mine."

Anlyth couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Her brain hadn't caught up yet.

Blake gave her a condescending pat on the head, like a scolded puppy that'd pissed on the carpet.

"Come on. We'll go back to Asherah for advice. As much as I wanna go paint the ruins with Slaethian and Imperial blood while nibbling on their intestines like spaghetti, I should probably come up with an actual plan, y'know?"

She flashed a grin—way too cheerful for someone casually mentioning cannibalism.

She paused.

A shadow slipped beneath her tone, quiet, almost reverent.

"I need to figure out how to get back to my Ais—Aurelia."

The name hit the air like a bruise that never quite healed.

It lingered. Heavy.

Even through the madness, even through the chaos, Anlyth felt it.

That name meant everything.

A vampire whispered about in frightened campfires, etched into terrified hearts, and cursed beneath trembling breaths. A nightmare carved into the blood-soaked history of Slaethia—cold, cruel, and unforgettable.

The kind of name you didn't speak unless you wanted the night to answer.

And Blake—the monster, no… the goddess—was in love with her. Anlyth swallowed hard. That kind of love could destroy worlds.

"What side have I taken?" the whisper slipped from her lips. "Have I become the very villain I once swore to destroy?"

"Oh, most definitely," Blake chirped, clapping her hands as she wandered off.

Anlyth, still dazed, blinked after her. "Um… the entrance is that way."

"Ha! I knew that!" Blake cackled, spinning on her heel and strutting right back the way she came, completely unbothered.

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