I never imagined my worst fate would be running out of clean socks on a Monday morning. My alarm screamed at 6:15 a.m., and I smashed it into submission before it could demand another groan. Rolling out of bed, I discovered I had precisely zero pairs of clean underwear, which felt uncomfortably prophetic. My apartment was only marginally larger than the closet I’d rented freshman year, but at least it was mine, chaotic, cluttered, and entirely predictable. I shrugged into the least questionable outfit I could find, skipped the bra and panties, maybe going commando would get me lucky today, and reminded myself that mediocrity was sexy, even if it was boring.

By 7:30 a.m., I was driving down Maple Street with my headphones tucked in just enough to catch the latest pop‑culture podcast. But windows down to save on AC gas. The air smelled like dampness and promise, two things I was determined to chase. As I passed my roommate’s yoga studio, I slowed to admire the instructor on the stoop: sculpted calves, athletic grace, the kind of flexibility that suggested fun after class. I rated her silently on a scale of one to ten, mentally cataloging her as “Definitely Worth a Compliment.” My reputation as a flirt was well‑earned, and I wore it like a badge, though my heart secretly craved something deeper than a new number in the scorebook. But I mess those kinds of things up.

Steam & Stories Café felt like home, even if I treated it like a stage for my one‑woman comedy. Marcy, the manager, greeted me with her usual half‑smile. “Late again, Skylar?” she chided, tapping her watch. I tossed her a grin. “Only by the standards of people who actually care,” I replied, tying my apron with a dramatic flourish. That exchange was routine; my specialty was latte art disasters and sarcastic banter, which would eventually get me fired. Marcy just hasn’t gotten a taste of me yet. I flirt, but if she gets a taste, I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll be out of a job.

The morning rush arrived in predictable waves of caffeine addicts and freelance writers hunting outlets for writer’s block. I fielded orders for triple‑shot lattes, oat‑milk cappuccinos, and the occasional confused tourist who thought I was a therapist. I thrived on the juggling act: “Sir, your macchiato is strong enough to start its own revolution,” or “Madam, I promise this foam tsunami is on the house.” The banter kept my mind busy, but it was still the same routine day in, day out-until the world decided to rewrite my script.

At roughly 10 a.m., a screech of tires rattled the windows. I peeked over the counter to see a delivery van plough through the front of the book shop next door, glass shattering like a burst of fireworks. The driver yelled something in a language I couldn’t place, slammed the transmission into reverse, then lurched forward again. I called out, “Probably just misread Google Maps,” but the half‑joke died on my lips as the van tipped at a cruel angle. Everything went white, like a flash filter on a too‑bright selfie, and then…nothing.

I awoke to the stench of damp stone and something metallic that felt disturbingly like fear. My eyelids scraped as I blinked, revealing iron bars mere inches from my face. I sat up, head pounding, and tasted soot on my tongue. The narrow cell felt impossibly small, its walls breathing shadows in the torchlight. I pressed a hand against the cool metal and whispered to myself, “Okay, Skylar. You’ve officially peaked. Hit by a car and then thrown into a dungeon”

Staggering to my feet, I discovered my body was stronger, leaner. “Did I always bench‑press boulders for breakfast?” My hair, once a messy brown mop, now fell in sleek midnight waves down my back. My familiar jeans and T‑shirt were replaced by a velvet‑trimmed bodice and leggings scented faintly of lavender and old parchment. Though they looked torn as if abused in recent nights. Every impulse screamed that this was not my body, but in my mind I was the same sarcastic barista who flirted her way through every shift.

My new body is definitely fire though, my breasts have got to be a C cup, way better than my flat chest. Never admitted it, but it was one of my wishes to get an implant one day. So this works.

I examined the cell more closely: rough‑hewn stone walls, a thin cot bolted to the floor, and a barred door leading to a dark corridor. My pulse spiked when I caught sight of polished leather boots in the shadows. A female guard walked past, giving me a sneer. Attraction flared instantly, someone with power, authority, or perhaps both. I let my gaze linger, wondering if she was good in bed before I chastised myself for thinking about flirting in a prison cell.

Hoping for any advantage, I tested the bars and discovered an iron shackle clasped around my ankle, tethering me to the ground. I needed a hairpin, a paperclip, anything. Desperation lent me courage as I tore a strip of leather from my sleeve and fashioned a crude lock‑pick. I worked the mechanism with trembling fingers. It groaned once, as if curious, then snapped. My improvised tool splintered. I cursed under my breath, slamming my fist against the bars until my knuckles ached.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. The cell door rattled open, and a guard in spiked black armor appeared. His gaze swept over me with contempt. “Lady Seren Valerion,” he barked, “beg forgiveness or be executed.” His voice was flat, void of mercy. 

“Skylar Summers,” I replied, flashing my trademark smirk. “I specialize in flirting, not a crime. Nothing to apologize for.”   I struck a pose, making a V with my fingers and holding it perpendicular to my eye, like a character from anime, as if I felt very Isekaied right now. For those who don’t know what this means, it’s someone transported to another world.

He sneered, shoving a rolled parchment into my chest. “High treason, conspiracy, murder of the Lightbringer’s heir. Execution at dawn by incineration.” His boot shoved me unceremoniously into the corridor, where two more guards awaited. Did he say murder?

I stumbled down the hall, the torchlight flickering against the runic carvings on the walls. Every guard I passed, I mentally rated for attractiveness: the tall one had broad shoulders but cold eyes; the shorter one had warm hazel irises but an unfortunate scar. I’m not into men, so I don’t know why I’m doing this. I told myself it was a coping mechanism. Fear twisted in my stomach as they strapped me to a stake in the courtyard, the dawn sky bleeding red overhead. Lanterns lined the perimeter, and a hush fell over the onlookers gathered to witness my end.

Chained wrists bit into my skin as the executioner, face hidden behind a visor of polished steel, approached with a torch. The wood beneath my feet hissed, soaked in oil that promised a quick, fiery death. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath. 

“Any last words?” the executioner demanded. 

I forced a grin. “Yes, does this place have Wi‑Fi? I’d hate to miss my Yelp review.” 

A wave of murmurs and confusion rippled through the crowd. The man’s torch trembled at his side. He dropped it to the ground, lighting the oil at my feet and then engulfed my clothes and burned me alive.

Then everything changed. A cold wind blew through the courtyard, carrying the scent of brimstone and sulphur. Suffocating the flames, not whiffing them out. But they dared not consume more in this personage's presence. From the shadows stepped a figure draped in a cloak of shifting smoke, her curves unmistakable beneath the folds, her horns curling like obsidian crescents. Flickering lantern light caught the glint of her eyes, which were molten gold and held centuries of whispered bargains. The torchlight danced across her crimson lips as she smiled, her skin gray, almost ivory glowed with power, and even the executioner faltered, clutching his axe as though threatened by her presence.

“Lady Seren Valerion,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk and edged with danger, “I have been watching you. You stand upon the pyre, yet I sense you belong to another fate.”

I blinked, my mouth suddenly dry. “I didn’t request a guest of honor,” I shot back, though my pulse hammered with something closer to awe than fear.

She stepped forward, each movement a caress of power. Black flames curled around her fingertips, casting shadows that writhed like living things. “I offer you a contract. Refuse, and you will perish in these flames. Accept, and you shall rise from the ashes with power beyond imagining.”

My heart thundered. The fire hissed at my feet, and every instinct screamed to run, but running was no longer an option. Taking a shaky breath, I tilted my head. “What do I get in return? Besides, you know, not dying.”

Her smile widened, revealing teeth sharp as broken glass. “Flame at your command, strength of ten mortals, and loyalty… when I call upon you.” She paused, eyes glittering. “And I will expect to call upon you in ways most… personal.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a spark of exhilaration. “So,” I said, lifting my chin, “where do I sign? And I should probably check do I get to sleep with you, or is that extra?”

Her laughter rang out, low and melodic, echoing against the stone walls like distant thunder. “Everything has its price and its pleasure, Lady Seren. Sign here.” She produced a scroll that glowed with runes of sapphire flame.

I reached out, fingertips trembling, and pressed them to the parchment. In that instant, power surged through my veins, cold and electric. Flames subsided at my feet as if recognizing my claim.

The woman watched me, satisfaction in every curve of her lips. Then, with a final nod, she melted back into shadow, leaving me unbound, alive, and irrevocably hers.

I stood in the center of the courtyard, torchlight flickering across my skin as every pair of eyes tracked my next move. The guards hesitated, uncertainty rippling through their ranks like a shockwave. That’s when I felt it, power thrumming through my veins, urgency in my limbs. With a twist of my shoulder, I slipped between two guards who barely had time to shout before I was past them.

Averting a swing of a heavy mace, I arced over a low stone bench, boots landing on cobblestones with surprising grace. My heart pounded, equal parts fear and exhilaration, as I sprinted for a stack of wooden crates. Each step felt impossibly light, as if the very air bent to carry me. I vaulted up, grabbing the gutters with lightning reflexes and hoisted myself onto the wall in one fluid motion.

Above me, the moon painted the city in silver and shadow. Lamps glowed like distant stars along twisting streets, and rooftops rose and fell in a jagged skyline. Arrows pierced the dark air behind me, thudding into stone with muted thumps. I didn’t wait for another volley. Pushing off the wall, I soared to the next rooftop, landing in a crouch that sent sparks dancing from my fingertips and shots of pain through my legs.

The world narrowed to a rhythm of breath, heartbeat, and footfalls. Below, guards clamoured up ladders, desperate to catch me. I dodged past a turret, turning a near‑miss into a roll that left me facing forward, ready for the next leap. Every jump stretched farther than I believed possible, each stride carrying me past terrified onlookers and clattering tiles.

After a dozen bounds, I reached the old quarter where roofs gave way to narrow alleys. I spotted a wrought‑iron drainpipe and shimmied down, nails biting into rusted metal as I lowered myself with trembling muscles. My feet touched the damp cobbles of a deserted lane that smelled of rotting wood and rain‑washed brick. I paused to steady my breathing, adrenaline still buzzing like restless bees in my chest.

At the mouth of the alley, a soft glow beckoned: a lantern‑lit sign swinging gently in the night breeze. ‘The Gilded Lily’ read the curling letters, probably a brothel, from the looks of things. Heat drained from my body at the thought of safety, or at least a roof over my head that wasn’t trying to kill me. I brushed a strand of midnight hair from my face and pushed open the heavy door.

Inside, velvet drapes and polished mahogany bathed the room in warm lamplight. Plush settees lined the walls, and satin‑draped booths promised privacy. A bar stood at the far end, crystal decanters shimmering in neat rows. I slid onto a high stool, heels clicking against the wooden floor, and caught the bartender’s eye.

“What’ll it be?” he rumbled, voice low and gravelly.

“Something strong,” I replied, wincing as my throat burned. “And sweet enough to drown out pyres.” He cracked a half‑smile and poured me a spiced wine that smelled of cloves and night‑blooming flowers.

I cradled the glass, surveying the girls winding through the room. The auburn‑haired beauty leaned against a velvet column, lips curved in a mischievous smile—ten out of ten, hands down. The statuesque woman with angular features possessed a fierce elegance; ugly only if you thought scars were a flaw—probably a solid eight for thrill‑factor. And the third, with curves that put Shakira to shame and eyes like molten honey, looked like a perfect ten in bed. I let my gaze linger, humming a silent rating in my head.

A redhead approached, hips swaying to a song only she could hear. “Welcome to the Lily,” she purred. “Looking for some company tonight?”

I lifted my glass in salute. “I’m just passing through,” I said, letting the wine warm me. “Thought I’d sample the local entertainment before plotting my next escape.” 

She laughed, a bell‑like sound that settled the last of my jitters. “Well, you’ve found the right place. Take your time.” 

I leaned back, inhaling the scent of silk and possibility. Once the adrenaline died down, I swallowed the rest of the drink. Filling my throat with a new fire. And kicking me out of the chair.

I set the glass down, the last drop of fire sliding into my stomach. The warmth spread through me, a liquid courage that chased away the chill of the night and the weight of the weeks I’d spent on the run. My pulse thrummed part anticipation, part something dangerously like hope. The brothel buzzed around me, a symphony of laughter, clinking glasses, and hushed whispers. It was a world away from the cold, damp forest I’d been hiding in, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to breathe.

“You know what, gorgeous,” I said, catching the redhead’s attention with a tilt of my chin and a voice steadier than I felt, “I think I’d like that.”

Her name was Agatha, though I hadn’t asked. I recall hearing it spoken amongst the other women. She didn’t need a name to be memorable though; her presence alone was enough. Her fiery hair cascaded in loose curls down her back, and her dress clung to her curves like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. She smiled, her lips curving in a way that promised both sin and salvation, and extended her hand. I stood, the world tilting in that comforting warmth, and let her lead me toward a silk-draped booth.

The sultry hush of the booth enveloped us as I followed her inside. The lantern light cast warm shadows across her perfect cheekbones, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. She closed the curtain behind us with a soft click, and suddenly the world outside felt miles away. My pulse thrummed against my ribs as she guided me to a plush settee, the silk cushions cool beneath my thighs. Every nerve in my body was alive, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, the soft rustle of fabric, the way her eyes seemed to drink me in.

“Comfortable?” Agatha purred, her voice low and velvety. She moved with the grace of a predator, her every gesture calculated to entice. I leaned back, crossing my legs slowly, my long black hair spilling over one shoulder. I felt her gaze linger on my lean frame, her eyes tracing the curve of my C-cup breasts before meeting mine again.

“As comfortable as I’ll ever be in a place like this,” I replied, my tone laced with a challenge. I wasn’t used to being the one pursued, but Agatha’s confidence was disarming. She smirked, her red lips parting slightly as she stepped closer, her hand brushing the back of the settee behind me.

“A place like this?” she echoed, her voice dripping with amusement. “Darling, this isn’t just any brothel. And I’m not just any woman.”

I arched an eyebrow, my sassy side taking the reins. “Oh? And what are you then? A queen?”

Her laughter was a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Something like that,” she said, leaning in closer. Her breath ghosted across my cheek, and I felt the heat of her body, the scent of her perfume musk and spice, intoxicating and primal. “But tonight, I’m yours. If you’ll let me.”

The air between us crackled with tension, thick and heavy with unspoken desire. I licked my lips, my heart pounding in my chest. Agatha’s dominance was a force, a current that pulled me in whether I liked it or not. And, truth be told, I liked it very much.

“I think I’ll let you,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. My flirty nature had always been a shield, a way to keep people at arm’s length, but Agatha’s boldness was chipping away at my defenses. She smiled, a slow, triumphant curve of her lips, and her hand slid down to my thigh, her touch firm and deliberate.

“Good girl,” she said, her tone commanding yet tender. Her fingers traced the hem of my dress, sending sparks of anticipation through me. I shivered, my breath catching as her touch lingered, teasing but never crossing the line. Not yet.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admitted, my sarcasm giving way to something softer. Agatha’s charm was undeniable, her caring nature peeking through the seductive facade. She raised an eyebrow, her hand stilling on my thigh.

“And what did you expect?” she asked, her voice gentle but her gaze piercing.

I shrugged, though my heart wasn’t in it. “Someone less… real, I suppose. Someone who didn’t make me feel like I’m more than just another customer.”

Her smile softened, and for a moment, the predator was gone, replaced by a woman who saw me. Truly saw me. “You’re not just another customer, Skylar,” she said, my name rolling off her tongue like a promise. “Tonight, you’re mine. And I intend to make it unforgettable.”

Her words sent a rush of heat through me, a flush that spread from my cheeks to the very core of me. I leaned forward, closing the distance between us, my lips brushing hers in a fleeting touch. She tasted of wine and desire, and I wanted more.

Agatha pulled back slightly, her eyes dark with want, but her control unwavering. “Not yet,” she whispered, her hand sliding up to cup my cheek. “First, let me show you what I have in mind.”

I nodded, my breath coming in short gasps as she stepped back, her movements deliberate and sensual. She gestured to the center of the booth, where a low table held an array of objects: silk scarves, a feather, a length of rope. My heart raced as I realized what she was offering. Sensory play. Seduction. Submission.

“Lie down,” she commanded, her voice firm but laced with a warmth that made my knees weak. I hesitated for only a moment before complying, stretching out on the settee, my body flush against the silk. Agatha’s eyes gleamed with approval as she moved to stand beside me, her hand trailing down my arm, her touch light but electric.

“Trust me,” she murmured, her lips brushing my ear. I shivered, my skin prickling with anticipation. “Let go, Skylar. Let me take care of you.”

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the moment, to her. Her fingers traced patterns on my skin, slow and deliberate, building tension with every touch. The feather brushed my neck, my collarbone, my breasts under my clothes, sending shivers of pleasure through me. I gasped, my body arching slightly, and Agatha’s laughter was a soft, triumphant sound against my skin.

“So responsive,” she whispered, her voice a husky purr. Her hands moved lower, her touch firm but gentle as she slid the silk scarf over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. My other senses heightened—the scent of her perfume, the sound of her breathing, the feel of her hands on my body. I was hers, completely and utterly.

Her lips trailed down my neck, her teeth grazing my skin in a way that made me shudder. “You’re beautiful,” she murmured, her breath hot against my ear. “And so very mine tonight.”

I moaned, my hands clutching at the silk beneath me as her touch became more insistent, more demanding. Her fingers traced the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips, before slipping beneath the edge of my dress. My breath hitched as her hand slid over my thigh, her touch bold and unapologetic.

“Agatha,” I whispered, my voice trembling with need. She chuckled, low and dark, her lips pressing against my shoulder.

“Shh,” she said, her hand moving higher, her fingers brushing the lace of my undergarments. “Just feel.”

And I did. Every touch, every whisper, every moment of tension building between us. Agatha’s dominance was a balm to my weary soul, a release from the weight of my past. Tonight, I wasn’t a woman on the run. I was a woman desired, cherished, and worshipped.

Her fingers slipped beneath the lace, her touch slow and deliberate as she teased me, her thumb circling the peak of my pleasure. I moaned, my hips arching off the settee, my body begging for more. Agatha’s laughter was a soft, triumphant sound as she leaned in, her lips brushing my ear.

“Not yet,” she whispered, her voice a promise and a threat. “I’m not done with you.”

“You’ve been running, Skylar,” she murmured, her voice a low purr. “Tonight, you surrender. Let me show you what it means to truly feel.”

Her words were a challenge, a promise, and I couldn’t resist. I nodded, my breath quickening as she began to undress me. Her fingers were deft, unlacing my corset with practiced ease. My breasts, full and aching, were freed from their confines, and Agatha’s gaze lingered on them, her lips curling into a smirk.

“Such beauty deserves to be worshipped,” she whispered, leaning in to trace the curve of my collarbone with her tongue. Her breath was warm, her touch electric. I arched my back, a soft moan escaping my lips as her lips trailed lower, teasing the peaks of my breasts with feather-light kisses.

But Agatha was not one to rush. She stepped back, her eyes gleaming with mischief, and produced a length of silk rope from the bedside table. My heart raced as she approached, her movements deliberate. “Trust me, Skylar,” she said, her voice steady. “You’ll thank me later.”

Before I could protest, she had expertly bound my wrists together, the silk soft against my skin but unyielding. She secured my ankles next, spreading my legs wide, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. My pulse pounded in my ears, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through me.

Agatha knelt between my legs, her red hair cascading like a waterfall around her shoulders. Her eyes locked onto mine, intense and unyielding. “You’re mine now,” she declared, her voice a velvet command. “And I intend to make you mine in every way.”

Her lips descended upon my pussy, her tongue a wicked instrument of pleasure. She kissed, licked, and sucked with a skill that left me breathless. Her fingers joined the dance, teasing and probing, touching areas my less enthusiastic dates never touched, driving me to the brink of ecstasy. I squirmed against the restraints, my body arching off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me.

“Agatha… please…” I gasped, my voice hoarse with need.

She chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down my spine. “Not yet, my dear. We’ve only just begun.”

With a wicked grin, she shifted her position, her body pressing against mine. Our lips met in a feverish kiss, tongues tangling in a desperate dance. I tasted myself on her, a heady mix of desire and surrender. Our bodies moved in sync, our breaths mingling as we explored each other with hungry mouths and eager hands. Our pussies rubbing against the other sending more waves of pleasure. It all increased by the fact I couldn’t see it.

I began to hear her moans of pleasure, deep, rhythmic erotic sounds. Inducing another wave of pleasure coursing through me. Her nails dug into my thighs, and that was the last straw. I orgasmed for her as she shook but did not scream, sadly. But I knew she had climaxed just as I did.

Agatha broke the kiss, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your turn to please me, Skylar,” she commanded, her voice firm yet laced with desire.

I nodded eagerly, my lips curving into a mischievous smile. With a deftness born of experience, I wriggled free of the restraints, my hands immediately seeking her body. I tore off the blind fold to take in her beauty whilst making love. Agatha’s skin was like silk beneath my fingertips, her curves a temptation I couldn’t resist.

I pushed her back onto the bed, my lips trailing kisses down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Her nipples pebbled beneath my tongue, and she moaned, her head falling back against the pillows. I took my time, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her soft skin beneath my lips.

“Skylar…” she breathed, her voice thick with desire. “Don’t stop…”

I didn’t intend to. My lips traveled lower, my tongue tracing patterns on her stomach, my fingers teasing the lace of her panties. Agatha squirmed beneath me, her breath coming in short gasps. With a wicked grin, I hooked my fingers into the lace and slowly pulled them down, revealing her glistening core.

Her scent was intoxicating, a heady mix of musk and desire. I breathed her in, my lips hovering mere inches from her most sensitive spot. Agatha’s hands tangled in my hair, her body tense with anticipation.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice a plea.

I obliged, my tongue dipping into her cunt, tasting her, savoring her. Agatha cried out, her body arching off the bed as I explored her with relentless devotion. Her juices flowed freely, coating my lips and chin, and I lapped them up greedily, my hunger for her insatiable.

Her hands tightened in my hair, her body trembling on the edge of release. “Skylar… I’m close…”

I quickened my pace, my tongue flicking, my lips sucking, driving her higher and higher. Agatha’s cries filled the room, a symphony of pleasure that spurred me on. Her body shook, her muscles tightening as she climaxed, her essence flooding my mouth. I drank her in, my lips and tongue never stopping, milking every last drop of her orgasm.

Exhausted and sated, Agatha collapsed onto the bed, her chest heaving. I crawled up beside her, my lips brushing her sweat-dampened forehead. “You’re incredible,” I whispered, my voice thick with awe.

She smiled, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. “As are you, my dear Skylar. But the night is young, and I have more pleasures in store for you.”

Her words sent a thrill of anticipation through me. I knew Agatha was a master of sensual delights, and I was eager to see what other tricks she had up her sleeve. Or, more accurately, what other pleasures she could coax from her skilled lips and fingers.

As her hands began to roam my body once more, I surrendered to the moment, letting the waves of desire wash over me. The night was far from over, and I intended to savor every delicious second.

I woke to the faint hiss of rain against a curved window and to the shock of realizing I was still naked, draped across Agatha’s lap like a new puppy. My heart did a double‑take, then a full somersault as I blinked up at her amused smile. Agatha’s hand curved around my hip, warm and possessive even through the silken haze of sleep. 

“Morning, sexy,” she whispered, brushing a lock of my black hair behind my ear. Her voice was velvet, soft as the candlelight dancing on the walls. I blinked at her, breath catching. “Did you sleep well?” 

I swallowed, cheeks flaming hotter than the memory of her lips. “Like a corpse at a funeral,” I croaked, wrapping her robe tight around my chest. The look she gave me, equal parts pride and something darker, made me want to melt into her arms forever, but I knew better. 

She laughed, a low, delightful sound. “Tea’s on the table, and your usual breakfast is waiting if you plan to stick around.” Her eyes glinted. “Or you could be out the door by dawn, hunting your own dinner.” 

I pushed myself upright, suddenly aware of the chill seeping between my ribs. “I appreciate the offer,” I said, too aware of how I sounded, “but I’ve got… things to do.” That was an understatement: I was wanted, penniless, and just now realizing this body has been here before. The usual? This lady was also a lesbian. That’s why Agatha came on to me, she has before. 

Agatha’s smile faltered for just a moment. She reached for a slender finger‑woven bracelet on her wrist and slipped it onto mine. “For luck,” she murmured. Then she tilted my chin up, kissed my forehead, and let me go. 

I dressed in the simple shift I’d found hanging on a hook, swallowed a mug of black tea that tasted like midnight, and slipped out into the rain‑slick street. No purse, no money, nothing but that bracelet and the ache of freedom. 

By the torch‑lit stalls of the half‑asleep market, I hesitated. I knew I would need to conceal my identity and probably skip town. I was also poor. So I improvised. At the cloak‑maker’s booth, I distracted him with a wink and a compliment, “Your craftsmanship deserves a proper admirer”, then snagged a charcoal-grey travel cloak from the rack and eased it off the stand before he could count his wares. Next, I sidled to a man’s weapons stall and pretended to examine a short sword while slipping it into its sheath at my hip. 

“What’s that?” the man growled, noticing the missing blade. Before he could shout, I vaulted over his counter, cloak swirling, sword in hand, and bolted through the market’s narrow lanes. 

Cries of “Stop her!” echoed as guards poured into the district. I dove under an overturned cart piled with fruit, lavender‑scented satchels tumbling to the ground. When the first guard sprinted past, I kicked the cart free, it smashed into a stack of crates, sending apples rolling like cannonballs. I scrambled up, racing through an archway into a maze of alleys. My wet boots slipped on cobblestones, but adrenaline kept me upright. 

Behind me, shouts faded as I burst through the town gate into the Ironwood’s misty edge. The last guard’s lantern winked out when I slipped behind a moss‑clad tree and melted into the shadows.  My speed leaving them all in the dust.

Night fell before I found a sheltered hollow beneath a gnarled oak. My stolen sword felt heavy at my side, the new cloak clinging damply to my shoulders. Hunger pinched my gut, but the bigger battle was starting a fire. I struck rocks until my arms ached—sparks winked and died. Frustration flared hot beneath my skin: ‘Where’s that spark the demon promised?’ I shut my eyes, remembering her lustrous promise of power. I reached inward, thinking only of the heat I craved. 

A tiny ember bloomed in my palm, shaky but alive. I cupped it, breathing life into the glow, and let it drift down into bound twigs. Flame roared to life, chasing away the damp chill. I leaned back against the tree, awestruck. “I made fire! Ooh oh ah ah!” I chuckled at my own joke since no one was lucky enough to hear.

Over the next two days, I honed that single trick. When a wolf pack slunk close, fur mottled gray, jaws snapping, I gripped my sword in one hand, held my palm forward with the other, and sent a ball of fire searing into their flank. They yelped and scattered, leaving me trembling with triumph. 

I fought creatures I didn’t even have names for: lanky, chittering scavengers that skittered like rat‑bats, and a hulking boar with tusks like ivory daggers. Each time, I flared a globe of flame, my only real defense, and tasted power sweeter than any cup of coffee. 

The forest itself astonished me. One morning, I stumbled on stocky mountain‑folk with braided beards and metal‑rimmed caps. I assumed they were dwarfs, they eyed me as curiously as I eyed them. Another dawn, I glimpsed slender, pale‑eyed figures drifting through the mists, tall, graceful, with ears as pointed as leaves. “Elves? And Dwarfs?” I must have stumbled onto Middle-earth from the movie. I had no clue where I was. But any world with magic couldn’t be bad. Right?

On the fourth day, I’d just coaxed a spiral of fire to dance around my fist when the wind died. The forest fell suddenly silent, no birds, no rustle of leaves. My chest tightened as I pressed my back against the oak. 

From the gloom stepped a tall woman, every curve lit by the dying embers of my fire. Her hair was moonlit ash, her eyes molten amber. She moved with a predator’s grace, settling on a mossy stump opposite me.  Her dark horns adorned her head.

“That little display was entertaining,” she purred, voice low and smooth as silk. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, gaze unwavering. “But I’m not here for spells. Or to teach my pet.” The firelight flickered across her lips as she added, “I’m… hungry.” 

My pulse thundered. Desire flickered hotter than any flame I’d summoned. Without thinking, because that’s how I roll, I grinned. “Then let’s not waste time,” I said. 

Her smile was triumphant and feral. “Good,” she whispered, standing. “Because I want to try out my new toy.” 

I woke naked in a devil’s arms, and the flames of passion must have burned too bright. Because I don’t remember a single thing about last night. I feel amazing… but I don’t remember. The lady demon watched me with a knowing smile. “You were exquisite,” she murmured, “one of my favourites.”

I sat up, heart racing. “What happened?” I asked, my voice husky.

Her lips curved in a teasing arc. “Your memories of us are a reward for completing the tasks I set,” she explained, eyes glinting with mischief. “I find memory far more… motivating.”

I rolled my eyes, annoyance flickering through me. “Effective,” I admitted, “but maddening.” I tugged at the new silk robe that adorned my body, seemingly out of place in the makeshift tent I had built, trying to cover the ache between my thighs. “Do you have anything for me to do?”

She rose and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, sending shivers through every nerve. “Good girl,” she praised, voice a soft caress. “Save my other toy, Sakura Riversong.”

“Who?”