---Tinuna, Shifter of the GPA Observer Ship POV

Far above, the rough cavern roof looks down on us. My High Priestess Chamber is not in the Temple proper, but a separate building nearby. The four walls surround a smooth stone floor, but they don’t reach the cavern roof. Furnishings are few, one long solid table and several chairs. Behind a half-finished dividing wall is a grand bed and temporary hanging space for the few clothes I call my own, primarily ceremonial robes, like the one I wear now.

The whoosh of the thin switch echoes about my chamber.

They plan to roof my chamber at a reasonable height and leave the space above to darkness. The double doors are a timely recent addition to prevent prying eyes. Yet eavesdropping would be child’s play. My worshippers mean well, but privacy is essential, and it has been some time since they have returned to finish what they started. It seems the initial enthusiasm for the project has cooled. When I have a moment, I must ask why.

Another whoosh.

Presently, I have a situation and a large audience.

Several corpses, not a drop of blood leaking from them, lay on my chamber floor in a neat side-by-side row. Clan Head Durlarg, his wife and guards, I am told. All late of Hobgoblin Town, and I am sure someone will miss them and possibly come looking.

Another whoosh.

Climbing out of my chair, I draw my voluminous white robe about me and tie off the belt. The hood I usually utilise to shadow my face rests on my shoulders. Except in my chambers, I am more circumspect with my unnatural beauty now than before.

After another strike, she says nothing so I stroll closer. I nod to my agent, and he surrenders the thin tree branch switch as he leaves my chamber. Swishing the length twice to test, I then strike across her naked shoulders. Blood leaks from previous swings because of her stubbornness to talk. Her face remains impassive.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” The young female kneeling before me is a mystery. Her resistance to my nanorobots was troubling, but until now, she had kept out of my way. It is only because she resisted my nanorobots that I placed her under watch. But not close enough, it seems, given her efficiency in bloodless slaughter. However, in Clan Head Durlarg’s case, an added wrinkle, his bloodless body.

“They were the ones who attempted to kill me first. Responsible for my swim in the river going wrong.”

She speaks. Was drawing me in directly her intent?

“They were dedicated Klugites. Donating a substantial amount of gold, which seems to carry some value in this valley. Besides that, his Clan carted trade goods to and from this valley. His business could have carried the word of Lord Klug to other valleys. Our Priestesses. Possibly yourself one day.”

There is no emotion on her face. I break my stroll and kick at her chin. My soft leather shoe delivers a glancing blow. She had not avoided my kick entirely, but enough to keep up the illusion I had been successful. She didn’t check her chin afterwards. Words then flow out of her mouth as if the kick didn’t happen.

“Send me to his Clan. I will convert them and all other hobgoblins living in this valley.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Boasting? Shouldn’t you be begging for my mercy?”

“Where you see loss, I see opportunity. He could have been fickle. All smiles and fawning while in your presence, offering what he thinks you want to hear. But when amongst his own, secretive. Not actively advancing Lord Klug’s worship. If he did, wouldn’t those of this valley be eager to join us?”

I scoff. “You are simply going to walk into his organisation and take over?”

She raises her head, her eyes locking onto mine. “It has happened before, just recently, or so I have learnt.”

There it is! The valley first and then appointment as High Priestess of Klug. She doesn’t consider her youth an issue. Is this an opportunity for me? Being the High Priestess of Klug was a way to a means. Try to get close to Lord Klar from a position of strength and deliver his worshippers back to him. Not a single visit from him, though.

As Clan Head, I could be closer to him and not shunned by this valley. The recent emissary visit from Lord Torngul, for example. Not exactly welcoming, more like trying to find out about us for a minimal reveal of them. He was clearly suspicious of Klugites, and did I really want to be the High Priestess, which would have to deal with that?

I flick a hand. “Leave us and take the corpses with you.”

Some temple guards, initiates, and priestesses hesitate until I throw them stern looks.

We wait for their leaving commotion to fade back to silence.

“How did you intend to supplant me as High Priestess?” I whisper next to her ear.

Her mouth opens and then slowly closes. She narrows her eyes and climbs to her feet. I note the wounds on her back closing as she does. The healing isn’t exceptionally rapid, but it’s still impressive for one so young. Or perhaps she is controlling this illusion as well. Excellent nanorobot control, then. Probably pain suppression as well, which explains her immunity to punishment.

Hitching up her brown linen robe to cover her shoulders, she takes a long, hard look at me.

Her voice low, she says, “My initial plan was to use my nanorobots to conquer you. But I believe we are of similar proficiency and can, therefore, resist attempts from the other. My next plan was to accompany you on any mission outside the Temple. Look for an opportunity to assist in any kidnapping.”

“Not assassination?” I ask.

She recoils as if struck. “Successful assassination of the High Priestess of Klug would cast doubt on the strength of his worship. Unacceptable. Rescue from kidnapping provides hope and unites all to a common purpose.”

“And what? All attempts would fail?”

She downs a half mug of water left behind on the table. Ignoring Luda’s mead. “For some time, but eventually, there would have to be a success.”

I chuckle. “About the time you had established yourself and could convince others, as a former captive, it wouldn’t do for me to be once again High Priestess. The rescue would satisfy Lord Klug’s worshippers, though.”

She strolls back from the table to face me. “How does one so beautiful go unnoticed until an adult? It would seem you have simply appeared from nowhere.”

I flash her a knowing smile. “Protective, secretive parents.”

“What is your offer?” says asks in quiet monotone bluntness.

My turn to stroll. “I proclaim those slain as false worshippers. Recognise your absolute devotion to Lord Klug, which led you to suspect them. As a reward, I nominate you as my presumptive. You will stay by my side, learn from me, and at some future time ascend to be High Priestess.”

She barely manages to suppress a sneer. “How long can you pretend for?”

I chuckle at her jibe. Most know I am playing catch-up. There are several definitive scrolls and tomes concerning the Klugite religion in my bedroom, even now.

“For as long as it takes.” I wink. “But I think Lord Klug will call to me. Inspire me, in fact, to go on a journey in his name.” I throw her a pleasant smile. “In the valley of Farmer Hob, there is a false High Priestess of Klug, an upstart Oath Keeper, who he wants me to test.”

She bends over with laughter but sobers up soon enough. “You will give your successor good cause to march with an army in your footsteps to avenge you. Most convenient.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to die.” She quirks her head. “My purpose is to convert. You will be the Southern High Priestess, and I will be the Northern High Priestess or some such title.”

Her bottom lip trembles. “No. There must be only one High Priestess.” Her fists jab into the air beside her hips. “I made that clear to the Scribes after a visitation from Lord Klug. I am his one and only High Priestess. You are, you’re a usurper,” she hisses.

A broad, victorious smile flashes across my lips. I stare at her and wait.

Her jaw drops.

“Hail High Priestess Rexa, I presume?”

She looks at the door, then snaps her head about. Confidence returns to her eyes. “You need to run. Now. Not I.”

“I contemplated strangling you,” I muse.

“Those you sent away are all loyal to me. One shout and they will return to do my bidding. You need to run, not I.”

“I could strangle you even now, but then your spirit would return, wouldn’t it?” I raise an eyebrow.

She swallows several times, trying to recover her ability to speak.

The scan from the scout ship showed an anomaly. A glow far from any other. How could that be?

Spirit return was always possible, given the mining expedition’s tailings. They didn’t realise their waste was the veritable treasure of this planet. The mining craft’s discard heap was an unnatural concentration of a mineral catalyst, the source of the innate magic of this world.

How did we know something was amiss? Because the GPA adapted so well, far beyond all our expectations. That anomaly needed an explanation. Analysis suggested that only Farmer Hob’s valley of all of them would be capable of such chaos or mutation. Why? It started with his make-do flesh bag.

Our chosen GPA utilised a long, exposed resident flesh bag. Unknown to us at the time, the perfect start. Not so much for him, more so as an ideal host to change the nature of the nanorobots we pumped into his flesh bag to assist his survival. Just like another native of the valley, the Flint Arrows goblin tribe. Their closeness enhanced them physically, allowing them to claim a general superiority over other goblin tribes whose tribal lands lacked the mineral. The mining operation processed all the soil from the entrance of the valley. The mining machine left a cliff behind, where it stopped when ordered out.

Under Agency orders, we grew every Hob on the Observation Ship. The first few, with false histories implanted, were an abject failure. They questioned their existence and found dead spots or contradictory memories. Eventually, they became gibbering idiots who sought solace in a dark cave. All needed to be retrieved and destroyed. Then we captured “seeing the light” goblins. These became more frequent, and no one questioned why. All were happy we found a solution.

We replaced their memories of goblin interactions with hobgoblin equivalents, forcing people and place name changes. Next was to implant their restrictive purpose. This removed variation and reinforced stability to ensure they didn’t stray. All extremely pleased with ourselves, we named the process polishing.

Hence, Chief Hob, Armour Hob, Ranger Hob, Head Hob, Farmer Hob, Hunter Hob and Smith Hob. Their sole purpose was to roadblock any goblin advancement into those areas of expertise. No famous goblin farmers or smiths, for example. The ultimate plan was to keep the goblins primitive or, better still, engineer wars between the tribes until extinction so the miners could return. Shifters needed to keep humanity away so we could eventually claim the planet. As soon as possible, we introduced our own Hob into the mix.

The official GPA utilised a pristine, lab-grown flesh bag each time. Poor him.

Oh, blast, the original Lord Farmer Hob would have had a polished Flint Arrows’ “seeing the light” goblin implanted into his Observer Ship-grown hobgoblin flesh bag to create him. Then, we implanted the GPA’s spirit into the corpse and pumped it full of nanorobots. Not my idea, of course, but the outcome is the same. An uncontrolled experiment with inadequate monitoring, sampling, measurement, and analysis. This seems a more robust creation explanation of Lord Klug, a nightmare of our making.

I stare at her and grin. She still seems lost for words. I return to consider the clues of her creation.

This unknown youth had to be Rexa. Young and eager to learn before nearly drowning in the river. A force to be reckoned with afterwards. Her tutors reported her knowledge was now equal to theirs or more, correcting them often. Occasionally, she strongly argued for her interpretation or position until she exhausted any opposition. According to her tutors, it was as if she had witnessed the actual events or had been there when the scribes wrote the text. After several days, this noise about the young initiate died down.

So did my initial interest, much to my regret now. She converted them, of course. Then came her revenge on the Clan Head and his company, thinking herself secure. Such bravado.

I accused the youth before many worshippers and followers of Klug. Her submission to my judgment was a given, yet she didn’t resist or show any signs of fear. I see now that the majority who volunteered to escort her were her loyal followers. Which meant only a few were loyal to me. Now we are here.

“You understand your hopelessness now. I will rise again, always. My worship of Lord Klug will ensure I am always victorious. You need to run, not I.”

Again, with those words. Is she trying to convince me or herself? Does she simply expect me to obey? I am almost of a mind to make my exit annoying for her. Almost.

“Fortunately, for both of us, I have other plans which need me to be elsewhere. I will simply embrace you before all our worshippers, recognising you as a Priestess of Klug.”

“A promotion then?” She bows. “Elsewhere? That’s your simple plan. Walk away?”

“Well-deserved recognition.” I point at her. “You have excelled in your studies as if you were born with the wisdom of Klug, I will say.” I clear my throat. “A dramatic pause, of course, and then I will fling myself at your feet, heralding you as the true High Priestess Rexa, reborn. I was waiting for Lord Klug to tell me who, and he did so last night in my dreams.”

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“What? You will give up your position, and the faithful will simply accept? Look at you? You are the perfect female hobgoblin.”

“This will require some acting from both of us, some ceremony, and props suitable for such an occasion. I will pose with a lost look on my face. Stare out at everyone and no one. Then you will speak, and I will slip away while you capture them with your words of wisdom.”

“What would stop me from slaying the vessel? After all, its job will be done?”

I tut-tut. “You will be Klug’s High Priestess.” Half saluting, I raise my open hands. “I am but his humble messenger.” I pat my chest. “Nothing good comes from murdering the messenger, especially a holy one. And I must be holy because, as you say, my beauty is extremely rare. Some would say blessed. Perhaps even blessed by Lord Klug himself, as I have his lineage in my blood.”

“So says your pet crone.” She saunters about in front of me. “You will simply disappear. Is that what you will have me believe?”

“As a messenger, I can’t disappear.”

“What will be your message?” she asks, resting her hands on her hips.

“There is a new, young, vibrant High Priestess of Klug. Some claim she is High Priestess Rexa reborn, and all worshippers should seek her guidance, her interpretation of Lord Klug’s wisdom. Any other High Priestess’ is false.”

“Why only some?” she hisses.

“Mystery. They should investigate for themselves and make up their own minds. Not forced to decide immediately. They would need to if the messenger said High Priestess Rexa was reborn, wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe,” she pouts. “But some strays need a direct path to discover salvation. They don’t trust their own thinking and would rather place their trust in another, especially if that one receives guidance from a god.”

My cue to chuckle. “You underestimate the messenger. This messenger weighs up the audience. My words will promise to those who can’t or don’t want to think for themselves a cure for all their ills. Answers to all their concerns will be theirs if they follow High Priestess Rexa. Others, who can think for themselves on some level, will receive a more subtle message. We will exploit their mindfulness to motivate them to prove me right or wrong.”

She sucks in a breath. “Then it will be up to me to convince them to stay.”

“Yes! Show them evidence of devout and fulfilled worshippers. Seduce them with words that favour your version of the truth repeatedly so their capacity to think for themselves leads them to the right conclusion. Everyone wants to belong to something bigger than themselves, and what better than the worship of Lord Klug? A noble common purpose. Faith, by its nature, is blind.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Her sinister grin gives me pause.

“Why not?”

She slits her arm using her tusk. Blood pours out, and then a heartbeat later dribbles as the wound closes. “It has taken some time, but I slew the Clan Head for his blood. Unfortunately, my descendants don’t carry much of Lord Klug’s blood in their veins. An act of rape conceived the body before this one. Blessed with but a quarter portion of Klug’s lineage. One half of my hateful lineage, which I guess was enough to attract my rebirth to its flesh.” She strolls about, seemingly without a care in the world. “This body is half of my hateful lineage, and the other half, some of whom will think absurd, is, as best I can determine, from some Flint Arrows spawn. I mean, how does such a lineage survive across the years?”

What is she talking about? Her nanorobots were strong enough to repel mine, regardless of her bloodline. That can only be because of her innate mastery of them from her long previous life. She even activated them on some level, given her healing demonstration. My healing only manifested after absorbing two barrels of Lord Klug’s already activated nanorobot-filled blood abandoned in a forest.

“To truly be High Priestess, I need to be whole again. The Clan Head’s blood was a quarter of Klug’s lineage, but consuming it changed nothing. But you…”

A whistling, whirring sound grows behind me. As I turn, I feel bindings tighten around my shins. Three ropes ending in three heavy balls slam to a stop around my legs. I wobble and then fall. Several heartbeats later, while I struggle to free myself, a grossly overweight, sweating, stinking body lands on me.

“Got you, bitch!” His breath stinks as he huffs and puffs to drag my arms behind me.

I hear her snicker. “I dearly wanted to believe your crone. You don’t know how much I wished her tasting to be genuine. Fortunately, you have tipped my risky endeavour with only a fair chance of reward into everything I hoped for.”

“You risk everything. You mad?”

“High Priestess, you forget that failure means nothing to me. Lord Klug will ensure I return. I suspect sampling your blood over time will cure me, just like a barrel of Lord Klug’s blood did in a previous life,” she says with a note of triumph. “I enjoyed our chat, trading probabilities and possibilities.” Her voice drips with ridicule. “Two great minds planning and plotting our roles going forward and the future of this temple.” She giggles at me. “A wonderful distraction because I assumed your heightened hearing would have ordinarily detected my loyal accomplice.”

My fingers try to claw at his flesh while I rock my body to make his attempt to tie me more difficult. Yet, for all my strength, he pins me to the floor. How?

“Still fighting?” She drops to her haunches. I assume to enjoy my predicament. “Know that my friend has some of my blood. He is stronger than he looks. I wondered if he would be strong enough, but a slaver has technique and skill. They typically catch those physically stronger than themselves. Something to do with positioning and leverage or some such.”

What made me think I could reason with a two-hundred-year-old fanatic? Have a candid conversation and simply pass the High Priestess mantle to her and walk away? She just said that she doesn’t fear failure and death.

“You can’t consume my blood. We tried to dominate each other,” I squeak as my lungs lose air with every breath because of his bulk on my back.

I feel she is laughing at me.

“They will take some time to be convinced, that is all. Far away from your direct influence, they will be vulnerable.”

“You hope!”

“I am confident. Did you wonder why some of those guards and initiates, whom I am certain you made loyal to yourself, hesitated to obey you?”

“Perhaps…”

“I experimented. In the company of one of your guards, away from the Temple, I introduced my nanorobots to him. Without you there, mine neutralised yours. When he next felt the call of nature, they flowed from his body. Interesting, yes?”

I curse, “Bitch! What do you know about experimentation? You are nothing but a pathetic goblin upstart!”

She laughs.

“Know false one that in my spare time as his true and only High Priestess, the power of his blood fascinated me.” Her hands stray to caress her loins. “How did it stitch together my torn loins after childbirth? Preserve me to live a long life, for example? I thought I had dreamt the impossible when I made specific requests.”

She hugs herself and twists her body about. “These Requests, I thought a folly, after a time, became reality.”

There is a touch of sadness in her voice! “After a long time, my nanorobots, with his blood flowing through my body, could only renew my flesh so many times. Such a disappointment. Shortly after, my body turned to dust. But because of his grace, Lord Klug granted me the miracle of return.”

She was a goblin orphan who became an apprentice of Jotor. She rejected him but nevertheless learnt all he could teach. Not a well-known fact, of course. Because she tried to scrub every known record and have every vocal living witness killed. Unfortunately for her, the Observer’s Ship’s database holds the history and life story of the inhabitants of Lord Farmer Hob’s Valley. Well, as much as both GPAs could report on, at least. Her ability to return suggests she was once a Flint Arrows’ goblin before becoming Jotor’s favoured adopted daughter. So, if true, her ability to return has nothing to do with Lord Klug’s blessing. I wonder how many other Flint Arrows can return?

A sharp pain brings me back to the present. I strain to look over my shoulder. Her jaws hold my arm between them. Not one, but two stings of pain pierce my flesh. Her tusks?

She releases my arm with a heavy sigh of satisfaction. My blood drips from her tusks.

“Stop healing, pretty one. Otherwise, drawing your blood will be slow, and you will suffer longer. You have that level of control, don’t you? I mean, you sent yours after mine, so I just assumed.”

She clamps her jaws around my arm, and the twin pain returns. “Ah,” she sighs from between her jaws. After a while, she opens her jaw and rocks back into a squatting posture. She licks her tusks, not missing a drop of my blood.

“I appreciate the horrified look on your face. All whom I have fed from had the same look. I told you I made specific requests. These were failed modifications then because of the mediocre flesh I sampled. I feel slightly more certain of their usefulness this time round.”

She circles around my head.

“Now, be a good girl. No healing.”

I feel double points of pain in my other arm. I can’t wrap my mind around what she is doing. How can a pathetic goblin upstart surprise me so utterly? I am a highly trained Shifter operative, a survivor of human persecution, with the mental fortitude to survive alone in space. Now, I am a blood bank for an insane follower of Lord Klug. A GPA who I helped create and shape.

After several heartbeats, she releases my arm and her bottom lands heavily on the stone floor. Her heavy breathing dominates my former chamber.

“Are you alright, High Priestess?” he asks.

“Yes! Wonderful. Her blood is delicious.” I hear her stumble as she climbs to her feet. “Take her to the hole we prepared. Guard her. No escape. Others have already made excuses for her absence.” She stumbles again. “We should have enough time before too many start asking questions. We will send the early few of them on… deadly missions.”

Her steps slow, and my eyes find her staring back at me.

“I won’t allow you to grow lonely, pretty one. Heal, I intend to visit you often.”

---Jada, Citadel Assassin POV

Why didn’t he wake me for my watch? We are within our lands but not within the citadel’s walls yet. We aren’t entirely safe, even if, after searching, we confirmed the farm abandoned.

My eyes lock onto a warm glow of light a short distance away. It seeps out from underneath the thick woollen cloak of my companion. This sloppy assassin craftwork confirms once again in my mind why admitting these strays is a mistake. The past practice of dropping off strays and orphans to The Eater Clan was a better alternative.

The heavy dew on the ground assists my silent approach, and I effortlessly snatch away his cloak.

For a heartbeat, his posture holds and then the crouching figure underneath collapses. I spring back in shock. What once was flesh is now dust flowing away. His leather armour crumples inwardly before my eyes. Many sheathed daggers fall away, riding the dust on their way to the ground. His body no longer shields the flickering glow of the candle, revealing a bowl close by. His former posture would suggest he hovered over the contents. Why? I peer. Curiously, dust lays in the bowl.

My grandfather and grandmother had sent both of us to shadow Zergoa after she left the citadel. Her origins were important to them, was all they said. None had seen any stranger welcomed as she had been. They did not deny her training in some of our most secret weapons. Yet, even with that training, we witnessed her capture. Her role was shortly after nothing more than live bait. Somehow, the death of the one attempting her rescue was too much, and she did the impossible. Turned to dust. Despair? We could only freeze and stay quiet, regardless of the shock.

I wanted to report back. He wanted to investigate. I knew he took something from the death site of Zergoa, but dust? I recalled before I snatched at his cloak, his raised arm. Was his finger poised above his lips? Did he taste her dust? Maybe? But why would he do that?

Avoiding his dust heap, I reach for the bowl and raise it slowly, sniffing occasionally. There is no doubt. The scent of what I assume is Zergoa’s dust is unique, a dry sweat, her dry sweat, perhaps special. If I taste as he did, will I share his fate? Only a taste can confirm without a doubt. I should rush this find back to my grandfather and grandmother. That would be the right thing to do…

A few grains…

They rest on the supple leather of my glove. A simple tip of my finger and they will land on my eager, long, thin goblin tongue.

I roll my finger…

As they land, they drain away the moisture in my mouth. My water skin is quick to my lips. My first thought is to drink. His flat, drained water skin stares back at me. I spit out the water, and I hope all the dust. Another mouthful, and again, I spit.

Some motes of dust must remain within my body because an insatiable need to drink overcomes me. I race to the well beside the farmer’s cottage and hastily wind up a bucket.

Each bucket I drink feels essential. Feeding this thirst spares my flesh. I can’t live my life needing to do this forever! How can these specks of her dust do this? Where in my body are they?

I ask, and my blood answers. My forearm. They are draining the moisture from there. Three motes of dust. How do I know the number? Their essence hints of pure Lord Klug linage, an impossibility. Their lingering taste absurdly confirms this impossibility, and then, of course, panic. The absolute need to quench my thirst.

Relax. Steady my heartbeat. Slow down my blood flow. Another swig of water, and then I concentrate on them. My blood swirls around them. I learn more about them each time I deliberately wash my blood on them. They are purposeful. Something set their purpose. A final instruction. If set, can someone or something change their purpose? How?

“Stop!” I will.

“Finish!”

I swig from the bucket again.

I am not Zergoa. Is she the only one who can control them now? Is that why I fail? I am a goblin. Zergoa was a hobgoblin. Is that why? Think… I am not Zergoa. Panic rises within me. Why didn’t I take the dust to my grandparents? I blink and take another gulp of water. Because of the allure, I needed to own whatever the motes could promise. Power? Foolish imp, I declare myself.

A whimper of regret. Why me? “I am not Zergoa, so stop!” My thirst builds as I repeat the plea.

I still say these words when I realise no water is in the bucket. Yet there must be because my thirst is subtle now. This state, this type of new normal, only occurs after I drink.

All our tribe knows we are superior. The reason, though, is a mystery or well-kept secret. When asked, all the elders say is we have access to a magic all others don’t know exists. They say traditional exercises and training exploit this magic to our benefit. The elders, especially the grandmasters, can manipulate their bodies to improve and enhance. Another mystery. Not anymore. Her motes feel alive somehow. I can pinpoint them in my blood. This must be the magic they spoke of because in recognising her motes of magic, I can identify my motes of magic and instinctively understand they are weaker, much weaker.

Her three motes are busy but not draining water. They are busy converting my blood, not only my blood but also my motes in my blood. My Karo lineage is being replaced. I didn’t instruct them. A fourth mote forms! Not weak like mine, strong like hers.

Absently, I drop the bucket into the well and draw more water. This time, I sip, and, by accident, I once again eye the bowl. Three motes almost caused my death. I have grown a fourth. What would more do? His body of dust reminds me instantly. The heavy moisture in the night air causes the spread of his dust to crust. That same moisture doesn’t dampen the pile of dust in the bowl. Even passive in the bowl, they feast on moisture in the air.

Picking up the bowl, I pause and stare at the contents. Only my grandmother and grandfather will know what to do next. They know about our tribal magic. They are the masters of it.

Before I can restrain myself, my arm rises, and I empty the bowl into the bucket of water! Why?

The scent of the dust, now moist, is euphoric. My hands tremble. Unable to steady them, they jiggle the now half-empty bucket of water as I lift the sturdy wooden container to my lips. I drink the bucket dry before the dust can and before I muster the will to resist.

“I am not Zergoa. Please stop!” Then darkness envelopes me.

---

The sun’s warmth on my skin cools as an icy breeze caresses my face. My mouth is dry. My nose sniffs out the water in the well. Trying to rise on one arm, a blackness, a hardening ichor covers my arms and legs. There is more on my chest, on my face… Every pore of my skin has leaked enough to provide a thick, disgusting coat of the stuff.

A need claws at my throat. I crawl, climb to my feet, and before I realise it, I am winching up a bucket of water. Once the first is empty, I hurry to fill a second. I drink that and several more until I lose count. Sated, I lean against the stone wall of the well. I notice the ichor is no longer hard. It oozes. It flows.

I blackout.

When I wake, a puddle of black ichor spreads out around me. I use the wall to help me stand. Again, I need to quench my thirst. I drop to one knee. Sleep calls to me, but I resist.

I undress. My clothes and armour have soaked up more than enough to ruin them. Nevertheless, I use my shirt to scrape off as much of the ichor as possible. Now naked, my eyes land on his clothes. Cautiously, I pick his clothes and armour out of the dust and brush them down. I am about to dress when I reconsider. I draw water from the well and scrub my naked flesh. Are my breasts perky? Fuller? I have always dreamed of them to be, but whoa! The scar from the old dagger wound is gone. How?

The ooze, stupid, I swear at myself. I feel my nose. A giddiness rises from within. My nose is straight, but I assume it’s even better than straight. I imagine no blemishes are on the skin there because there aren’t any blemishes on my skin elsewhere. I calm myself. There is more to do.

Clean and dressed, I use his dagger to dig a hole between the roots of a nearby tree and bury my boots, clothes, and armour. I throw his bowl on the top and backfill it with dirt, scuff leaves, and foliage to complete the coverup. I throw buckets of water on the huge puddle of ichor around the well. After a time, the ground absorbs it all.

I practice my story in my head. They teach us that lies need practice. You need to repeat them until you believe them. Your belief in them will help you sell them to others.

As for my body, the shovelling confirmed other changes. Stronger, faster, healthier. Her motes have converted mine and taken over my body, making it better. The black ooze, I now understand, is the bad stuff, the impurities. Gone. Why did they obey me? Or did they simply stop obeying her previous order?

The scent of Karo and Ligia in my body, my blood, is no more. My new sense of smell at work. I wonder if my sense of smell is equal to or better than a Crone’s sense of taste? Lord Klug’s blood and nothing else flows in my veins. The hundreds of busy motes are still enhancing my body in small ways. Improve my hearing and sight; I will into them and know they obey my command.

I peer left and then right. Allow the smallest of delicious smirks to escape my lips. Then, I wish for the impossible. Perky is nice; larger breasts are better. I send my wish and command to my Lord Klug spawned motes. Taking a deep breath, I feel both lumps beneath my armour and shirt. Nothing yet, but I know they obey.

A thirst hits me. There is no urgency this time, but I immediately draw a bucket of water. The motes are like a farmer’s crop. The more you water them, the faster they finish their growing. A crop fails without being watered. I suspect motes without water will turn my body to dust. A shiver runs down my spine.

P.S. If you are not reading this chapter for free on Royal Road or Scribble Hub, then the website you are on has stolen my story.