The Nightshade’s Rest was the first place he heard the name of the demonic being said to dwell far from the hustle of cities or any honest road.

Dorian had come there for a drink and some company, after nights spent cold and sleepless without a roof over his head.

He’d spent his last coin on a mug of stale ale, watching the women flirt with guests, trying to earn a little extra before sunrise.

One patron sitting nearby, well past drunk on moonshine—or something worse—didn’t seem to care whether the body next to him belonged to a man or a woman. He casually draped an arm around Dorian’s shoulders and tugged down the hood he was wearing.

Then, in a slurred voice, the man whispered, "You look like you could use some… I need someone to drink with, you know?"

Dorian fought the urge to gag. The man reeked of sweat and rot.

He shoved him off.

"Keep your distance. I’m not your whore," he muttered, spitting at the man’s feet.

The touchy patron staggered upright, knocking his stool over, fists clenched and ready to swing. Dorian was already watching his every move, coiled like a cat.

But before it could escalate, a woman in her thirties—clearly a seasoned worker of the house—stepped in. She caught the man’s wrist and whispered something close to his ear, guiding the man’s hand to her ass. Drunk as he was, he followed her with the obedience of a whipped dog, tail between his legs.

Dorian exhaled, disbelieving, and returned to his drink.

The bartender leaned in toward him, lowering his voice.

"Sorry about that guy," he said. "He’s here almost every night. Spends good coin, so we let him linger."

Dorian just nodded, not interested in small talk. But the man kept going.

"He didn’t used to be like this, y’know. Not before his boy went missing."

The man paused, taking a slow drag from his tobacco, to then continue in a lower voice, "Him and a bunch of other fools decided to raid the Spider Queen’s nest. They heard she’s a devil’s child. A succubus. Wants to wipe out every last man and boy on this island."

The bartender chuckled, shaking his head.

"Guess they thought they’d have some fun with a monster, then kill her. But they never came back."

Dorian’s brow twitched. He stopped mid-drink.

"Spider Queen?" he asked, voice dry. "As in... eight legs and a thousand eyes kind of shit?"

The bartender smirked and poured him another drink, clapping him on the back.

"Nah. Worse. An actual devil’s child. A woman with venom in her kiss and claws. A body made to seduce and devour. She feeds her young on men like you and me."

Dorian didn’t know what to think. But he listened.

And with every word, he found himself more intrigued... more invested.

More drawn toward the web.

He had heard the rumors—the slander, the overblown tales that passed between townsfolk like wildfire on dry grass. 

Dorian had heard it all. And yet, despite the warnings etched in every drunken tale and hushed voice, he couldn’t shake the hunger—the need—to see her for himself.

He was no knight. No noble. Not anymore. Once, perhaps. But those titles had been stripped from him like old paint—flaking, faded, and forgotten. Cast out by blood, left to rot with a merchant’s life and a coin pouch that never stayed full.

He was still a young man, but his face told a different story—worn, weathered, shaped by harder years. His blond hair had grown too long and tangled at the edges, so he tied it back with little care. A dagger still hung at his side, more for habit than show. No one would guess, looking at him now, that he once drank wine in gilded halls and spent his evenings surrounded by pretty ladies who didn’t shy away from lifting their skirts for him. 

He heard the Queen’s name passed between shady buyers, old drunks, traders who crossed more than just borders. And when he spoke of seeking her, when he dared voice his desire, some spat at his feet. Others made the sign of warding.

“To crave such a woman,” one man had muttered, “is to be a madman.”

So he accepted this title. As long as he could gather more information about her. 

During his brief stay in the town of Grimcross, Dorian had met a man named Abe—a local who lived at the very edge of the Queen’s domain. Modest, slow-tongued, and always chewing on a piece of bread, Abe wasn’t much to look at. But he owned a horse-drawn carriage and, more importantly, he knew the winding road that led to the forbidden castle.

Apparently, it had become something of a sightseeing trail for thrill-seekers and cowards alike—those who dared to look, but never knock.

As they traveled, Dorian kept his eyes on everything. The webs hanging from the trees. The quick movements of spiders crawling over trunks and moss. None of it felt random.

He figured the Queen probably had her spies and watchers even out here, beyond the castle walls. Maybe even traps. Maybe she already knew he was coming.

No, he was sure of it. And still, his throat tightened.

“If your mad ass just wants someone to warm your bed,” Abe muttered suddenly, crumbs falling from the corners of his mouth, “we’ve got girls who’d do it for a coin. And they wouldn’t kill you after, either.”

Dorian only chuckled, low and dry.

“Keep those for yourself, old man. I’m not the naive soul you think I am.”

Abe snorted, half-laughing, half-choking on his bread.

“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard that one. But suit yourself, hungry boy. Our Lady does love fresh meat like you.”

Dorian tilted his head slightly, voice low.

“Tell me something, then. Is it true her venom stays only in her claws and fangs?”

Abe gave him a sly side glance and nodded, still chewing.

“That’s what they say. Just claws and fangs. Though…” —he wiped his mouth— “I have heard that she wears Belladonna on her lips. So if I were you, I wouldn’t go kissing her either.”

Dorian didn’t respond. Truth be told, he no longer felt like talking at all.

When they finally reached the end of the road—a short, winding path leading into the trees, marked with withered flowers and draped in unnaturally thick cobwebs—Dorian pulled out his pouch and handed over every last coin he had.

“Come back here in three days,” he said. “Can I count on you?”

Abe raised his eyebrows, weighed the pouch in his hand, then shrugged.

“Bet I will,” he muttered. “I’ll be right here. At the end of this creepy-ass path. I’ll wait, just out of curiosity. Not like I got anything better to do.”

That was enough for Dorian. He gave the old man a nod and leapt down from the carriage.

The moment his boot touched the grass-choked earth, something shifted.

The path didn’t look long at first—but as he walked, the cobweb tunnel around him grew thicker. He soon realized the silk was swallowing the light. No sun broke through. No sounds followed him in.

He focused on the faint glow ahead and forced himself to take slow, steady breaths. The walls seemed to press closer with every step, as if they were tightening around him—cutting off the air, inch by inch.

The world grew dimmer. And all he could hear was ringing in his ears, his own breath—

And something else.

Faint. Almost imagined.

Come closer. Right at my door.

Hypnotized by the echoing phrase in his mind, Dorian barely noticed his own hand pressing against the heavy wooden doors. They groaned as they opened—not locked, not even latched. Just… waiting. Like a mouth yawning open to swallow him whole.

He stepped inside.

The air shifted immediately—thicker, almost wet, like a spider’s breath on the back of his neck. Shadows slithered across the walls, pulled by a dim, unnatural light that seemed to seep from veins in the ceiling. He told himself he was brave. A man without fear. But even he flinched at the sight of the webs.

Not delicate ones. Not the kind you brush from a windowsill.

These were vast, dense sheets of silk hanging like tapestries, layered and knotted and pulsing with some awful, quiet life. Massive spiders sat still in the corners, their glassy eyes tracking his movement. They were nothing like common huntsmen—these were creatures, monstrous and ancient. Their legs moved with an eerie kind of grace. Some spiders sat deep in long, hollow tunnels woven into the webs—just waiting. Always waiting.

Dorian kept his hands at his sides, careful not to touch anything. He didn’t want to wake the predators hiding inside.

He walked through the corridor until he saw her.

She was right there. Sitting with her legs crossed, lazily spinning threads of web between her fingers, sipping something dark and red from a heavy glass. Wine, perhaps. Blood, possibly. He couldn’t tell. 

She was stunning—in a way that no real woman should be.

A figure both delicate and commanding. Hair like spilled wine in candlelight. Skin pale as porcelain, untouched by sun or hardship. Her hands—slender, elegant—seemed made for art or cruelty, not labor. Unlike the women he’d known in the villages, hardened by work in the fields.

But her nails… those were something else. Long, curved like claws, glinting faintly. Poison-tipped, perhaps. His throat worked in a slow swallow.

Then she stood up, and it felt like every spider in the room turned to watch him. But he barely noticed their eyes—his focus was entirely on her.

A vision of grace and danger. Her silhouette was poetry—curves and edges in perfect tension. Hips wide but not exaggerated. Her waist cinched just enough to soften at the ribs, flesh yielding with each breath. She was draped in silk that clung to every curve, leaving little to the imagination, while a velvet cape cascaded over her shoulders.

And her breasts—well, he couldn’t stop himself from looking.

Full. Heavy. Unnaturally round. Not the kind of softness born from idle comfort, but something… biological. Intentional. Engineered by nature—or perhaps curse—for a singular purpose.

He’d heard stories. Whispers shared in taverns and brothels by men too drunk to censor their fears. That her body produced a kind of milk—not human, not exactly. Thicker. Paler. Laced with something venomous, like her kiss. And that it flowed not for pleasure, but to nourish the creatures born of her—her starving spiderlings, trapped deep in the castle’s belly, never seeing sunlight.

But that was just a rumor. He couldn’t confirm just from looking. 

She stood there, smiling—but only with one corner of her lips, a crooked little curve that felt more like amusement than any true welcome.

“Mortal,” she purred, the word gliding from her tongue. “So you've come to entertain me? Even after all the warnings? After your kind begged you to turn away from my door?”

Her voice was smooth, refined—but every syllable had weight, like a thread tugged tight against his spine. And when she whispered that last word, door, it echoed in the chamber louder than it should have. Or maybe she wasn’t speaking aloud anymore. Maybe she was already inside his head.

He felt it. The pull. The cold sweat at the back of his neck. Still, he clenched his fists, lifted his chin, and held steady.

“Yes,” he said, voice low but steady. “My name is Dorian Hart. I seek your audience, my Queen.”

He dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. He knew better than to meet her eyes too soon—or speak with arrogance. Politeness could mean survival here.

She nodded in acknowledgment, then lifted the glass still cradled in her hand.

“I won’t deny it—I’ve been bored,” she sighed, raising an eyebrow as her eyes locked on him. “And hungry. I haven’t seen a human in… a month.” Her gaze sharpened, voice dipping into something darker. “Do you understand the weight of that hunger, mortal?”

Before he could answer, she lifted a hand to gently stroke the long, slender leg of a spider hanging above her. It didn’t even flinch.

“And not just me,” she added, gesturing into the dark where the silken tunnels stretched endlessly. “My companions are starving too. And to nourish them, I must be nourished first.”

Her smile curled, just enough to chill.

“You’re just a larva. A bug that wandered too close to the den. And I can’t promise anything, darling… except that promises don’t mean much when a little moth willingly knocks on the trapdoor.”

Dorian inhaled deeply and lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, just briefly. Then his eyes lowered to her breasts again, as they swayed a bit with her motions.

“I understand,” he said, cleaning his throat. “I’m prepared to face any consequence… as long as you allow me to prove myself first.”

Silence fell like a thick veil. She watched him, weighing him like prey with a spark of curiosity. Then, slowly, she set down her glass and began to descend from her dais with a glide that didn’t feel quite human.

“Dorian Hart,” she whispered. “I have heard your name before. And the rumors… oh, they are delicious, aren’t they?”

She came close, close enough for him to feel the shift in the air. Towering over him now, her voice turned silken and sharp.

“You don’t seek pleasure. No… you crave vengeance. You want to spill the blood of your own kind. Tell me I’m wrong.”

The air thickened with her presence. Dorian rose slowly to his feet, but kept his gaze respectfully low.

“My Queen,” he murmured, “I have heard the stories. Of the army, you keep hidden in your caverns. Of the unhatched eggs—fertile only by your choosing. An empire waiting for a reason to awaken and devour the world of men.”

His voice softened, then steadied.

“But I’m no fool. I don’t presume to be the reason. I do not seek vengeance alone. If you believe that’s all I am… then you’ve only begun to know me.”

Her smile deepened, predatory and amused, her eyes glittering with interest.

“Oh… how thrilling.” Her voice dropped to a purr. “Alright, human. I will allow you into my quarters.”

She leaned closer, and he could feel the heat of her breath and the smell of berries. He looked at her full lips, glistening with deep red. 

“My little pet. My spiderling. All mine…”

Before he knew it, a thread of silk slid around his neck—the same one she’d been toying with earlier—now tightening around his throat, until his body tensed up like a string. 

She tugged the strand, and Dorian stumbled back to his knees, gasping, desperate to catch a breath. 

She simply smiled, eyes sparkling with cruel amusement, and lifted the hand that held the shimmering web.

“First things first,” she said, her voice soft but with an edge of authority. “You do as I command. You do not wander alone. As long as you obey, I promise you this—I won’t kill you.”

She tugged the silk again, forcing him to lift his gaze.

“But I make no promises once I get bored. You might just become my next meal. I need fresh ones to keep my children alive, my little bug.”

She let out a quiet chuckle, tilting her head as her gaze narrowed. Then she released the thread. He coughed and touched his throat, feeling a pulsating sting where the silk choked him. 

“But don’t be discouraged. I am merciful… at times. If you prove yourself worthy, we might reach an understanding.”

Without another word, she turned away.

Then Dorian felt it—something soft, yet certain—descending on his back.

Eight legs slowly crept up his neck. He wasn’t fast enough to brush it away—it bit him right on a pulse point before skittering off.

His body froze. Heartbeat quickened. Knees buckled.

All he heard before losing consciousness was the sharp ringing in his ears—and nothing else.

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t in the same room.

The chamber was smaller—stone walls tight and irregular, as if the place had been hacked into the ground by unsteady hands. Thick and clinging cobwebs sogged in the corners, and the air was heavy, with the faint scent of old metal and something sweeter—sickly sweet, like decayed perfume.

A few warped wooden stands leaned against the walls, draped in dust but arranged with eerie precision. Rusted weapons lay across them, most of them being short swords or daggers. 

He blinked, head aching as he slowly turned from side to side… and that’s when he noticed it.

He was trapped.

Entangled in thick webbing, his back pressed against the cold wall, arms pulled upward and bound.

His clothes were still on—thank the gods—but considering the circumstances, he wouldn’t be surprised if that changed soon.

He slowly regained full consciousness as the Queen entered the room. She smiled seeing him awake.

“Finally. Took you long enough,” she said, voice flat and detached as her fingers traced the jagged edge of a sword. “I was growing impatient.”

He drew a slow breath, trying to steady his voice.

“Why here? I didn’t expect a dismemberment party as my welcome.”

She laughed lightly, tapping a nail against the rusty blade.

“Oh? No, don’t mind those. I like collecting them—but I haven’t the faintest idea how to use them.” She gave a slow, careless shrug and stepped closer. “Not like I need them. Although…”

Her hand reached out, and one sharp nail began tracing a slow, deliberate line from the dip between his collarbones down to the edge of his ribcage.

“I wonder… do I need knives to rip these off? Or will my claws do?”

A faint chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.

“Are you talking about my clothes… or my skin?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she hooked a single claw under the neckline of his shirt and tugged—effortlessly tearing the fabric open in one swift, downward motion.

“Both,” she said simply. “Why? Worried about something?”

Her cold hand settled flat against his bare chest, the chill of her touch sinking deep. Slowly, deliberately, she dragged her fingers across his skin until they found his heartbeat—unsteady rhythm beneath her palm.

“Only two of my claws contain venom. And I won’t kill you accidentally. So don’t be afraid of my touch…” She rubbed her fingers against his skin, while moving closer till her lips almost nipped at his neck. “You’re so warm. And sweaty… I think I will have to give you a bath after we are done, my little pet.”

He couldn’t help but bite his lips at her probing touch. His hands were bound, and he was left absolutely vulnerable. Yet he also felt… aroused from the closeness of this woman. Her cold hands were also surprisingly gentle. And her voice close to his ear was sending chills down his spine. From his position he had the perfect view on her silhouette and swaying breasts, with her nipples poking right through the flimsy silk that she treated as a corset. He felt a pang of embarrassment at how close he was to salivating when she moved with such grace. 

She circled his left nipple lazily with the tip of her finger. Meanwhile, her tongue, so hot and wet in comparison to her hands, touched the pulse point on his neck. She left a trail of saliva there and then moved to his throat, his Adam’s apple. Leaving him whimpering against his will. 

“I like your taste. Your skin is salty but sweet… I wonder how other parts taste too.” She whispered against his neck while her hand was slowly sliding down between the ripped fabric, right to his belt. 

“You’re very… straightforward…” he managed to breathe out, feeling his mouth going dry. 

She didn’t entertain him with an answer and just tugged on his belt, noticing that it was a pretty tough leather. She smirked and then slowly, deliberately unbuckled it. 

“You keep your treasure safely locked away, huh? So modest.” 

He let out a soft laugh at this, but still felt a bit tense when she was shamelessly staring down there. 

“I can see the outline.” She murmured and ran her finger along his growing bulge. “My little mate is feeling ready, ah?”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. 

“Now I’m a mate? I thought I’m supposed to be your pet?“

She rolled her eyes and ripped the remaining cloth, leaving his flesh exposed, at her mercy. Already shamelessly hard, even though he really didn’t plan on giving in so quickly. 

“I see no difference,” she said, voice smooth and unbothered. “But just in case, I’ll clean my lips—for your sake. Wouldn’t want you to experience anything... regrettable. Let’s just say—I’ve learned.”

He followed her movements with sharp eyes, watching as she wiped the Belladonna from her lips and licked them—slowly, deliberately. 

“It doesn’t hurt you?” he asked, voice low, curiosity slipping through. “Most people get… nasty consequences from playing with poisonous berries.”

She shrugged, and traced a finger on her lower lip.

“No. I like them as a treat.”

A faint smile curved her mouth.

“One man once tried to poison me with them—offered a whole bowl as a gift.”

Her eyes glinted.

“Since then, they’ve become my lipstick.”

He… didn’t know what to say. She didn’t wait for an answer. She dropped to her knees and her now clean lips played along his navel, making him twitch and grunt at the tease. She kissed gently, like a feather touching his skin, while her hand, carefully, without including her claws, slid into his pubic hair… and lower… lower…

She grabbed his shaft tightly, letting her fingers gently glide across the sensitive skin. Her thumb found the tip of his cock, pressing and moving around in a teasing manner. 

‘’Do you want me to comment on your size, or should I leave my opinion to your imagination?’’ She whispered while looking up at him from her provocative position. 

‘’If you ask… then better show me what you think with your mouth.’’ He answered breathlessly. His eyes rolled up and he whimpered once again, this time more deliberately, feeling that she meant business. 

She smiled and stroked him deeply yet gently. No claws, no fangs to fracture the illusion of grace she wore so well, while she let her lips fall lower. Right to the tip of his cock. He held his breath for a moment as she teasingly touched it with one of her fangs, eyes narrowing teasingly. Her tongue followed, gently soothing his stress.

“Oh, don’t flinch. I like to taste my meals before I decide—are you a delicacy… or just warm chum for my hatchlings?”

He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, yanking hard against the webs—but the silken strands didn’t budge.

They only clung tighter. They hugged his wrists like lovers turned cruel, digging into the skin until the pressure bloomed into hot, pulsing pain.

By now, the raw spots were throbbing like a heartbeat.

She pressed her wet tongue against the tip of his cock and twirled it, making him squirm in his confinements. She kept on nudging and nudging at the same point that was now covered in both her saliva pre-cum. His brain was screaming for her to finally stop teasing, but his mouth was too scared to speak up his desires. Not yet, he thought. He couldn’t act desperate, no matter how much she tortured him.

She could see from his body language that he was asking for more. She didn’t need him to say it. Her mouth curved into a devilish smile right before she took him into her mouth, forcing a louder moan from his throat. And oh god, he thought shamelessly– what a delicious feeling it was. Her juicy, moist mouth, clenching around him, swallowing him like some savoury delicacy. Her tongue rubbed against the bottom of his shaft while she worked her mouth, moving slowly in and out. His body squirmed in the restraints. He wished he could put his hands on her head, guide her deeper, and caress her hair. He got the idea that she was enjoying it even more than he was, or else she wouldn't—

His lips parted as she brought her face right to his pubic hair, pushing his member down her throat. She didn’t even flinch, her muscles just accommodated all his girth, and she effortlessly moved her head, still… savouring him… Her throat clenched tightly around the length of his cock, making him laugh in some breathless, pathetic way, biting his own lip, sweating and feeling like he needed to… he needed to…

She suddenly pulled out and chuckled sweetly.

‘’Oh? Someone’s feeling a little bit too eager, hm?’’

He froze. His body tensed. He got denied. Refused and left with nothing but his own throat that was clenching for air.

‘’You’re so… cruel…’’ he murmured and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He yanked his arms, trying to get free from those webs. They didn’t even flinch. Maybe if he wasn’t so weak right now…or maybe he could never compete with them.

She ran her tongue from the base right to the tip, leaving a wet, slippery kiss on it. A trace of saliva connected the flesh with her lower lip as she moved her eyes slowly to his face.

‘’Cruel?’’ She let out a laugh, ‘’You’re the little spiderling who needs to be taught his place. You don’t come unless I allow it. And If you decide to be disobedient, it’s only natural I put you in your place.’’

She got up from her knees, and he grunted lowly, in visible disappointment. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down… to control himself.

“Consider it a welcome gift. Soon, you’ll learn that I am not to be underestimated… and before long, you’ll find yourself grateful to be the meal. They all are—mere vessels, coming to offer their seed before fading away, destined to feed the brood that will never see the light. Just like the male spiders who surrender themselves willingly to their females, content to be consumed, so long as their legacy lives on.”

She touched his cheek with a surprisingly warm hand.

“I’ve spent years… meeting many men,” she whispered. “They were all the same—predictable, never surprising me. And that’s fine, my little bug. It’s just what humans do.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead softly against his, breath mingling with his.

“But I won’t lie… I’m waiting for the one who will tame me… not the other way around.”

Right after saying that, she pressed her lips against his. It tasted… salty. Dorian wasn’t repulsed, but answered the kiss with equal passion. He closed his eyes and pushed his tongue into her mouth, exploring her own tongue and her fangs. He felt his head spinning… all around the single thought that he will not let her break him. He isn’t here to be broken…

He opened his eyes slowly, then sank his teeth gently into her lower lip, tugging just enough to coax her awake. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his fierce gaze.

“I won’t disappoint you, my queen. I didn’t come here to die. I may be a man… but I think you don’t know men as well as you think you do.”

She stepped back, a slow smile spreading—this time, it reached her eyes, sparking with challenge.

“I don’t go easy. That’s never been my style. But you’re welcome to try and change my mind.”

Without another word, she turned and plucked a short dagger from the stand nearby. His brow furrowed in confusion.

It was his dagger. His own. And now it was gone from his thigh.

She returned to him and expertly sliced through the silk that bound his wrists, then freed his feet with equal ease.

“I promised you a bath, didn’t I? Be so kind as to follow me—I guarantee you won’t regret it.”

Since she had torn his clothes, and the temperature outside ‘the storage room’ was biting cold, she handed him a robe that felt heavy and thick against his skin. The sleeves fell long enough to hide the red marks still burning on his wrists, left by the silk strings that had once bound him to the wall.

He had just finished tying the belt around his waist when the sound of metal clattered behind him—a chain, falling to the ground.

His eyes flicked toward the sound, fluttering in disbelief—

only to meet her gaze.

Her lips curved into a knowing smirk, as she wrapped the chain around her wrist like a piece of jewelry.

"You didn’t think I’d let you walk around freely, did you?" she giggled—then wound the chain around his throat like it was a festive decoration. 

He didn’t flinch.

When the lock clicked shut beneath his throat and echoed along the stone walls, she leaned in, her breath brushing hot against his ear.

"Just a little precaution," she whispered.

"You wouldn’t believe how many men tried to stab me in the back. Or set fires in my caves. Or steal little treasures from me..."

Her tongue traced along the shell of his ear.

"Your little dagger stays here. And your breath? Under my control.."

Dorian quickly learned the truth.

The castle above—the one visible to outsiders, the one that all the legends were about—was mostly empty. She wandered there now and then, out of boredom or when expecting someone.

But the real castle was beneath.

A web of stone tunnels and dripping caverns, carved not by human hands but by time… and perhaps something worse.

She didn’t say much, but as they descended deeper—toward the bathing chamber—he gathered fragments. There was also a meal chamber. A sleeping chamber. And something she only referred to as the Shed.

She offered no explanation about the purpose of the last one, but he had a feeling it wasn’t to store farming tools.

She held the chain tight, and each step was a silent command.

Dorian moved carefully—fast enough not to be tugged, slow enough not to touch her.

The weight of the chain swayed between them like a question neither of them asked.

Once they reached the bathing chamber, Dorian had to stop for a moment. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t it.

An underground pond spread out before him—glass-still, the water crystal clear and impossibly deep. Above, the ceiling hung low and jagged with stalactites.

There were no torches. No candles. No flame at all.

And yet, he could see everything.

The entire cavern was bathed in a dim, red-purple glow. That light came from above—vein-like tendrils stretched across the ceiling, glowing softly, pulsing with hues of violet, crimson, and gold. They shimmered like the inside of a living thing. A womb. Or something far more ancient and wrong.

He saw her silhouette ahead, already disrobing, already stepping toward the water. Her pale skin glowing in red hue, her curves almost illuminating and swaying hypnotizingly and—then he realised that he had been staring for too long. She pulled the chain harshly, causing him to grunt and move forward. He felt the rush of anger and exhaustion and stopped looking under his feet. 

He took a few steps forward and got startled by a hiss.

Dorian stumbled backward and glanced down—only to realize he’d stepped on something soft and slick. A long, smooth tail, its tiny, shiny scales shimmering faintly under the dim light.

He pulled his foot back and raised his gaze.

There she sat—still, yet impossible to ignore.

A woman at the edge of the lake, her knees dipped in the cool water. She looked as otherworldly as one might expect in a place like this—pale skin glowing faintly, like the Queen’s, but with patches of iridescent scales tracing the curve of her spine and spilling over her shoulders.

The first thing he noticed was that she was completely naked and her silver hair was falling long and straight over her shoulder. Her modest breasts were covered in patches of scales that traced curving shapes up to her collarbones and down to her belly button. She narrowed her eyes, her sharp pupils flashing beneath long, dark lashes as they fixed on him.

The Queen gave the chain a sharp tug, snapping Dorian’s attention back to her.

"Don’t get distracted," she said coolly. "She’s just hiding here from humans. Means no harm. Isn’t that right, Nythera?"

The girl froze, still as stone for several long, dragging seconds… then nodded—slowly—her eyes never leaving Dorian’s face. 

"Oh—uh, nice to meet you?" he offered carefully, edging his foot away from the long tail he’d nearly stepped on. 

Without warning, the Queen gave the chain another yank—harder this time.

Dorian stumbled, falling forward into her with a startled exhale. His cheek collided with her breasts, his breath catching as he felt her softness against him. She caught his chin with one hand, her thumb gliding slowly across his cheek as she turned her gaze—not to him, but to Nythera.

"You can go tend to your fish now, Nythera. I want some time alone with my guest."

Nythera looked angry at being dismissed. She stared at Dorian for a moment longer, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. There was no argument—just a sudden splash as she dove into the pond, the water smacking against the Queen’s legs in quiet defiance. 

It didn’t feel like affection. It felt like ownership, performed just loudly enough for someone else to notice.

Once Nythera disappeared beneath the water’s surface, the Queen released him. With quiet, practiced ease, she began to slip off her robes.

"Pay no mind to her," she murmured without looking at him. "We have a bath to take."