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The Apprentice’s Amazons (TG Story) - Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2025-09-17 01:45:46 +0000 UTCThe Apprentice’s Amazons (TG Story)
Korr and Dane were the north’s proudest brutes and barbarian warriors — cockswinging, scarred, stronger than any man alive. But when a witch who bent men’s wills with a whisper rose against them, their only hope was a filthy, forbidden ritual. They burned up their manhood, trading cock and pride for raw power, and rose again as towering Amazons: busty, muscled, dripping with strength the witch could not touch. They crushed her with their new bodies… but victory came at a price.
Day by day, their power seeped away — not into nothing, but into their apprentice, Leif. As he grew taller, harder, more manly with every sunrise, they shrank: muscles softening, voices sweetening, their proud dominance withering into need. By the end, the Iron Wolves of the north weren’t warriors at all, but hot, submissive women — blushing, breathless, and bound to the apprentice who had become the man they could never be again.
By the end, Korr and Dane weren’t warlords or Amazons anymore — just soft, needy women, too weak to even swing a sword. And Leif, the boy they once mocked as “soup-boy,” had become the man they now clung to, the one they called master… and eventually, their husband.
Link for the PDF File: https://drive.google.com/file/d/12myE9BbZTbE6UO37g0qCfyRm6x2iDHq4/view?usp=drive_link
Part 2
The tavern was roaring — mugs slamming, songs bellowed off-key, Dane’s laughter booming loud enough to shake the beams. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and spilled ale, but no one cared. It was the kind of night Frostmere lived for.
Then the door burst open.
A man staggered inside, his boots dragging like they weighed a ton. His face was pale as death, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He swayed in the doorway, catching himself on the frame. The laughter died down in patches, a ripple of unease breaking through the din.
“The… the goddess…” he croaked, voice cracked and thin. His lips trembled as though each word burned him. “In the square… she’s in the square…”
He muttered again, nonsense between gasps, his head jerking side to side as if he were trying to shake off a dream. “Beautiful… too beautiful… can’t—can’t look away…”
Then his legs buckled, and he dropped hard onto his knees, staring at nothing, his mouth opening and closing like a man drowning.
For a heartbeat, the whole hall was silent but for the crackle of the fire. Then the jeers started.
“Drunk as a sow!” someone shouted from the back.
“Goddess, my arse. He’s seen the bottom of too many mugs!” another roared, and a wave of laughter followed, though it was brittle, forced.
The women didn’t laugh. They leaned in close to each other, whispering sharp and fast, eyes darting toward the door like they expected it to burst open again.
I watched as my masters exchanged looks over the rim of their mugs. Dane raised a brow, his grin faltering just a little. “What d’you make of that?” he muttered, his voice low but carrying in the sudden hush.
Korr’s jaw worked, his scar pulling tight as he stared at the pale man twitching on the floor. “Not ale-sickness. Not fear either. That was real.” His hand dropped unconsciously to the hilt of his axe.
A murmur spread through the tavern, unease prickling the air. Men laughed too loudly, trying to shake it off, but no one went to help the stranger on the floor.
And me? I just sat frozen, heart hammering, staring at my masters. If Korr’s hand was on his weapon, if Dane’s smile had slipped… then whatever this meant, it was trouble. Big trouble.
Dane pushed back his bench with a scrape loud enough to cut through the muttering crowd. He strode across the hall and crouched low, his hand clamping down on the pale man’s shoulder.
“Oi. You heard him, didn’t you? Speak plain, man. What goddess? What’s in the square?” His voice was booming but not unkind, like he thought he could shout the sense back into him.
The man only trembled, lips quivering. His eyes rolled up, showing too much white. “She… she’s there. Can’t… can’t stop looking. She’s…” His words broke off into a choking gasp.
Korr rose slower, his shadow falling long across the firelight. He loomed over them both, voice low and hard as a hammer striking stone. “Tell us what you saw. Who is she?”
The man clutched at his own chest, gasping. “Beautiful… too beautiful… she—she takes them. She takes them all. They kneel, they—” His words tangled, breaking apart into stuttering panic. “Can’t… fight… can’t breathe—”
He doubled over, shaking, babbling nonsense now, his tongue tripping on half-formed words.
The tavern had gone deathly quiet again. Even the jeering stopped. I sat on the bench, gripping my mug with white knuckles, watching my masters try to drag sense from the poor bastard.
And the fear in me curdled into something heavier. Because if a man could look into the night and come back like this… then whatever was waiting outside wasn’t just drink-talk or madness.
Outside, the noise had shifted. No music. No laughter. Only a broken chorus of sounds — low moans that raised the hairs on my arms, sharp shouts that cut off too suddenly, and the sickening clatter of steel hitting stone again and again.
The women in the tavern stilled. Their chatter died into a hush, eyes wide, knuckles white as they clutched their mugs or each other’s sleeves. The men barked too loudly, trying to shake it off, muttering about drunks and street brawls. But their laughter rang hollow, already cracking at the edges.
Then the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the beams.
A town guard stumbled in. His helmet was askew, blood smeared down the side of his face. His chest heaved like he’d been running for leagues, but his eyes — gods, his eyes — were wide and glassy, like he wasn’t fully there.
He staggered two steps into the hall, then dropped to his knees with a crash. Both hands clutched at his head, nails digging into his scalp until the skin broke. His voice came ragged, choked:
“She’s… here.”
The word hissed out like a curse.
He swayed once, twice, then collapsed forward, his body hitting the floor with a thud that echoed through the hushed hall.
No one moved.
I turned to my masters. Dane’s jaw had gone slack, his booming laugh cut off for the first time that night. His wide grin was gone, replaced with something I’d never seen on his face before: uncertainty. He looked to Korr, as if expecting him to bark out an explanation.
But Korr said nothing. His dark eyes were locked on the man twitching on the floor, his hand hovering above the axe at his hip. His face was carved from stone, but his chest rose and fell like a man bracing for a storm.
The silence in the tavern was thick enough to choke on. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
And in that stillness, one thing was clear — whatever “she” was, my masters knew this wasn’t tavern superstition. This was real. And it was here.
g gone. He leaned in close, his golden hair spilling forward, eyes darting to the tavern door. “Aye. And if it’s true she’s out there, the square’s already lost. We’ve got to see it for ourselves.”
The two locked eyes — a silent understanding passing between them, stern as an oath. Both men rose, the benches creaking under their weight as they reached for their weapons.
My chest clenched. I pushed up from my seat before I even knew what I was doing. “I—I’ll come with you.”
Korr’s head snapped toward me, eyes like burning coals. “No.”
Dane shook his head, already slinging his axe across his back. “This isn’t your fight, pup. Stay in the hall. Do as we said.”
“But—”
Korr’s voice cut across mine like a blade. “You’ll only die in the way.”
The words stung worse than any strike. I froze as they straightened to their full height, shoulders broad, weapons glinting in the firelight. Without another glance back, they strode for the door.
The tavern parted around them like water, men and women alike shrinking back, eyes wide. Then the door swung open, and Korr and Dane stepped out into the night.
And I was left there, rooted to the bench, heart hammering, staring after them as the silence closed in around me.
The door slammed shut behind them, and for a moment the tavern was nothing but silence and firelight. I sat frozen, fists curled tight in my lap, my breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat.
Their words still rang in my skull. Stay in the hall. Do as we said. You’ll only die in the way.
Gods, it felt like a knife.
I wanted to run after them, to prove I wasn’t just a pup — not just the clumsy “soup boy” who’d stumbled into their shadow. But the way Korr’s eyes had burned when he said no, the weight in Dane’s voice… it pinned me to the bench like chains.
The hall around me buzzed with unease. The women whispered sharp and fast, clutching their shawls. The men tried to laugh, but their voices cracked, breaking off as they glanced at the door like it might burst again at any second.
And me — I just sat there, drowning in shame and fear. My hands shook as I stared at the empty mugs on the table, at the place where my masters had just been.
What if they didn’t come back? What if the last thing they ever said to me was that I’d only get in the way?
My stomach knotted. My heart hammered. And still, I sat.
The tavern felt wrong without them. The noise of the fire, the low mutter of frightened voices, the nervous scrape of boots against the floorboards — none of it filled the hollow they’d left behind. The bench beside me was still warm from Dane’s massive frame, but the weight was gone, and with it, the sense of safety that always clung to them.
Their words echoed in my skull over and over. Stay in the hall. Do as we said. You’ll only die in the way.
I hated how it stung. Hated how it settled in my gut like a stone. They weren’t wrong. Gods knew I was no match for whatever waited outside. My arms were wiry, not thick with scars and brawn like theirs. My chest was flat, unimpressive, not the kind that made women gasp when I walked past. I didn’t have their presence, their laugh, their scars, their weight.
But sitting there, I realized something worse than death was gnawing at me: the thought of living with this shame. To stay here, clutching my mug like a coward, while they fought and bled outside — no. That was worse than dying.
I stared into the fire, and in the flames I saw them. Korr’s dark, scarred form standing unshaken in battle, eyes like embers. Dane’s golden mane wild, his grin split wide as he swung steel through blood and chaos. Legends, both of them, carved from flesh and fury.
And what was I? Nothing but the soup-boy they’d dragged along for laughs. The one they cuffed and jeered, but still let sit at their fire. I’d always told myself I was lucky just to be there. But now — now the thought of staying behind while they fought for the village, while they put their lives down against whatever had driven those men mad — it burned.
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, sharp enough to sting. My whole body shook, but not from cold. From something hotter, sharper — shame, yes, but also anger. Anger at myself, at the weakness I’d worn like a second skin, at the thought that maybe they’d been right all along. That maybe I’d never be more than this.
“No,” I muttered under my breath. My throat was tight, but the word cut through it. “Not this time. Not like this.”
I stood slowly, knees trembling under me, the bench creaking as I rose. My heart thudded against my ribs, each beat loud enough I thought the whole tavern would hear it. Every nerve screamed at me to sit down, to obey, to let them fight and die without me. But I gritted my teeth and forced myself forward.
I thought of the stories they told — not the boasts in the tavern, but the quiet lessons by the fire. Dane telling me that sometimes the only thing that keeps a man alive is the refusal to lie down. Korr growling that stubbornness was harder than steel.
Then let me be stubborn, I thought. Let me prove I’m worth more than sitting on a bench while they fight for my life.
I pulled my belt-knife free — a pitiful scrap of steel compared to their great axes, but it was mine, and my hand gripped it like I meant to carve my name into the world with it.
The tavern was too busy whispering, too busy watching the door, to notice me slipping away. I kept my head down, shoulders hunched, every step heavier than the last. My breath burned, hot and ragged, as if every inhale was a dare.
At the threshold, I froze. The wood of the door was rough beneath my palm, the firelight behind me warm and tempting. One step more and I was leaving all of that — safety, light, laughter — behind.
My whole body shook, my chest tight with terror. Courage, I realized, didn’t feel like the songs promised. It didn’t roar. It didn’t glow. It felt like sickness and fire all at once.
But I pushed anyway.
The door groaned as it swung open. Cold night air slammed into me, sharp enough to make me flinch. I gritted my teeth, my whole frame trembling — but I stepped out.
For Korr. For Dane. For myself.
Whatever waited in the square, however strong, however cursed… I’d face it. Weak, trembling, afraid — but standing.
The cold slapped me as I stepped out of the tavern, the warmth of fire and voices cut off behind me. For a moment, I thought I’d walked into another world.
The square was wrecked. Torches lay scattered like bones, their flames spitting in the dirt, smoke coiling into the night air. Tables had been overturned, carts broken, wheels rolling lazily where they’d been shoved. Steel lay everywhere — swords, spears, shields — abandoned mid-fight, clattering still in my ears though no one had dropped them in that moment.
And the men… gods, the men.
They stood like puppets with cut strings, swaying and drooling, their mouths half-open as if to beg for something none of us could see. Their eyes were the worst — clouded, pale, glowing faint with a haze that made my stomach knot. Some muttered nonsense under their breath, half-formed words and pleas. Others moaned long and low, the sound too close to pleasure, too far from pain, a chorus of men lost.
The women of the village clung to doorframes, staring with wide, horrified eyes but keeping back. They didn’t dare step close. Not one of them.
And in the middle of it all, standing like mountains against the storm, were my masters.
Korr and Dane.
Axes drawn, feet braced in the dirt, their shoulders square and wide in the firelight. Even here, with madness dripping off every wall, they looked unbreakable — the kind of men who could hold the world together just by standing in it.
But I knew them too well. I saw the way Korr’s jaw worked, the tension there, his scar pulling taut as his dark eyes swept the square like a hunter trying to track something he couldn’t smell. Dane’s hands flexed on his weapon, his grin gone, golden hair sticking to his face with sweat. He looked sharp, focused, but his chest rose and fell a little too quick.
Korr’s voice cut low, meant for his brother-in-arms. “This isn’t war.” His axe twitched in his grip. “It’s sorcery. I can feel it.”
Dane spat into the dirt, his laugh missing. “Then we find the witch and split her wide.” He glanced sideways at Korr, his lips tight, his voice quieter than usual. “If we can.”
Korr didn’t answer. He shifted his stance, his muscles coiled, eyes narrowed, like a wolf sniffing the air before a storm.
The two of them moved slow, shoulders brushing, circling with their axes ready, scrutinizing every corner of the square as if expecting something to leap from the dark. They were legends, giants, and still I could feel it — the edge of doubt clinging to them.
And me? I pressed myself into the doorframe’s shadow, heart hammering so loud I was sure it would give me away. I couldn’t stop staring at the men standing slack-jawed all around them. At the ruin of the square. At my masters, steady as stone but straining, straining against something I couldn’t yet see.
Something was here. Watching. Waiting.
And I had the terrible, electric certainty that whatever it was, it wasn’t afraid of my masters. Not one bit.
Korr and Dane moved like wolves through the square, their eyes sharp, their shoulders tight, axes gleaming faint in the guttering torchlight. Every line of their bodies screamed focus. I should’ve stayed where I was, hidden, but my legs betrayed me.
I tried to slip further from the doorway, crouching low, skidding sideways toward a toppled cart. My boots scuffed the dirt louder than I meant, snagging on loose stone. The wood creaked beneath my hand as I braced myself, and then — crack.
A shard of plank split under my palm, the sound sharp as a whip in the dead quiet.
Both my masters spun.
Their axes came up immediately, gleaming, their stances wide and ready to split skulls. I froze mid-crouch, my mouth open, caught in the firelight like a rabbit in a snare.
Korr’s eyes blazed as he growled, “Leif.” His voice was a warning, heavy as a hammer.
Dane’s face twisted with disbelief, his teeth flashing. “By the gods, boy—what the hell are you doing out here? We told you to stay put!”
My tongue fumbled. Words tumbled out in a rush, clumsy, humiliating. “I—uh—I just—I couldn’t—” I stood too fast, nearly tripping over my own boots, my knife clattering uselessly against my thigh. “I thought—maybe I could help, I just—”
Their stares cut me sharper than any blade.
Korr’s glare was molten, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. Dane barked a laugh, but there was no humor in it — just exasperation and anger.
“Help?” Dane snapped. “You’ll get yourself gutted before you even swing that toy!” He jabbed his chin at the little knife clutched white-knuckled in my hand.
My face burned hot, shame crawling up my throat. I wanted to speak, to defend myself, but the words tangled like rope. All I could manage was a pathetic, “I—I couldn’t just sit there.”
Korr’s growl rolled low and dangerous. “And now you’re in the way.”
Before I could stumble through another excuse, before my masters could tear me to pieces with their words, the night itself broke.
A sound ripped across the square — low, heavy, endless, like a thousand blades hitting stone at once. The torches flared with unnatural light, shadows stretching long and sharp across the cobblestones. For a heartbeat, I thought the air itself shivered.
Korr’s head snapped to the side, Dane’s right with him. Both raised their weapons in perfect unison, axes high, shoulders braced, eyes scanning the dark. Their breath steamed in the chill, but their bodies were iron-still.
Then I saw her.
At the square’s center, where a moment before there had been nothing but broken carts and scattered steel, she stood.
The witch.
Her body shimmered in the wavering torchlight, silks of black and crimson clinging to her curves like liquid fire. Her hair spilled long and dark, catching glints of gold in the flame, as though each strand was woven with embers. She didn’t walk so much as glide, every step too smooth, too perfect, hips swaying like a pendulum. The torches seemed to bend toward her, like even the flames couldn’t resist.
And with each step, men broke.
The first dropped instantly, his knees cracking against stone, his eyes rolled back and mouth slack as a moan dragged out of his chest. Another let his sword fall with a heavy clatter and tore open his tunic, ripping cloth and leather with frantic hands until his chest was bare to the night. A third stumbled forward, clawing at his armor straps, panting as though the plates burned his skin.
Dozens followed. A sea of men — warriors, hunters, guards — all reduced to drooling husks by the mere sway of her hips, the tilt of her smile.
Her laughter rose above it all. Not cruel, not shrill — soft. Gentle. The laugh of a mother bending over a cradle, the sound of a lover in your ear. It should have comforted me. It froze my blood instead.
And then she spoke.
“That’s it, my loves…” Her voice was silk over steel, each word warm, intimate, undeniable. “Drop your swords. Drop your pride. Show me what you really are.”
The command rippled out of her like perfume on the wind, and the men obeyed. Steel clanged as more weapons hit stone. Voices groaned, breath hitched, chests heaved as they staggered closer to her — slack-eyed, slack-jawed, undone.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even blink. My body felt heavy, too warm, my knees softening. Part of me wanted to crawl forward like the others, to fall at her feet, to beg for her touch.
Korr’s knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip on his axe. “Sorcery,” he spat, though his voice had a rasp I’d never heard before. His scarred face was carved in stone, but his jaw trembled once before he clenched it tight.
Dane’s spit hit the dirt, but it didn’t carry his usual defiance. His eyes narrowed, his weapon shifting restlessly in his hand as though it suddenly weighed double. “Then let’s cut through her tricks,” he muttered — but his tone lacked conviction.
And me? Gods help me, I couldn’t tear my eyes off her. Every sway of her hips pulled me deeper, every lilt of her laugh tightened the noose around my chest. My masters braced against it, their strength the only thing holding them upright.
I was smaller. Weaker. And the thought twisted in my gut: if I wasn’t careful, I’d fall before they did.
Gods… she was fucking hot.
Not maiden-pretty, not dainty. No — this was the kind of hot that burned you just looking. Her body swayed like she owned the ground under her boots, those black and red silks sticking to every curve — tits full and heavy, hips rolling slow, thighs flashing with every step. Her lips were glossy, wet, red like blood, and when she smiled it was wicked — like she already knew every man in sight was hers.
And she didn’t even lift a finger… except when she wanted to.
One wink — that was all. A soldier dropped his helmet, moaning as he hit his knees. Didn’t even try to fight it, just knelt there drooling like a bitch in heat.
She crooked a finger — and another guy hit the dirt, crawling to her on all fours, mouth open, panting like a dog.
The sounds… fuck. It wasn’t battle cries. It was begging.
“Goddess… please… you’re too—too beautiful—” one slobbered, spit dripping down his chin.
“Take me, take me, I can’t—oh gods, take me!” another cried as he clawed at his own shirt, tearing it open just to bare his chest for her.
A third just laughed and sobbed at once, grinding his forehead against the stones as he muttered, “Don’t… don’t wanna fight. Just want her. Just want more.”
And she? She laughed like it was a fucking lullaby, soft and sweet, the kind of sound that should calm a baby but instead made my cock twitch and my guts twist.
“That’s it, my loves,” she cooed. “Drop the swords. Drop that pride. Show me what you really are — mine.”
Men who had been giants in the tavern, drunk and roaring, were now crawling and moaning in the dirt, worshipping her like she was the only thing alive.
And me? I hated it — hated how damn hot she looked standing there, hated how my knees felt weak, hated how part of me wanted to crawl too.
I should’ve turned away. Should’ve shut my eyes, stuffed my ears, something. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Every inch of her pulled at me like hooks in my skin, dragging me closer even while I clung to the shadows.
She barely had to lift a hand. Just a crook of her finger, a lilt in her voice — and men tore themselves apart for her.
“Fight for me,” she purred.
And they did.
Two brothers — I knew them, farm lads with the same crooked nose — slammed into each other like wild dogs, fists and teeth flashing. One screamed her name as he split his brother’s lip, the other laughing through blood as if pain itself was a gift from her. Around them, more men clawed and grappled, not for gold, not for pride, but for the chance — just the chance — to touch her hand, to kiss her feet.
She watched it all with a smirk, eyes glowing, hips swaying like a queen on her throne. Amused. Entertained. Like this was nothing more than sport.
And it only got worse.
Some had already stripped bare, their clothes tossed aside in frantic hands. They pawed at themselves shamelessly, cocks stiff in the torchlight, jerking like animals, their voices breaking as they shouted her name. “Velithra! Goddess! More! Please—more!” One man clawed at his chest with bleeding fingers, moaning like he was already in her bed.
Others just stood frozen, blank-eyed, waiting like puppets with their strings cut. But even they trembled, cocks swelling, breath ragged, ready to move the second she gave the word.
And me? Gods damn me, I felt it too.
Heat spread low in my gut, hard and shameful, stiffening me as I pressed my thighs together. I clenched my teeth, tried to force it down, but it only got worse. The sight of her — those swaying hips, that wicked little smile, the way men stronger than me crawled at her feet — it stirred something I hated. I was hard, throbbing, my body betraying me even as my stomach twisted.
I wanted to spit. I wanted to crawl. Both at once.
Korr and Dane stood tall in the storm, their axes shining in the firelight. But even they weren’t untouched. Korr’s scarred jaw worked, his knuckles white around his hilt. Dane’s breath came fast, his shoulders twitching like a man trying to shake off a dream.
Her laughter wrapped around them all — sweet, soft, sticky as honey, but dripping with cruelty.
And me? Every moan, every cry, every filthy plea from the men she owned made my cock throb harder. I hated her for it. Hated myself for it.
But still, I watched.
The square had become a pit of beasts.
Men tore into each other with fists and teeth, their eyes rolled back, mouths stretched wide in snarls and howls. Their faces twisted, spittle flying, brows knotted like rabid animals fighting over scraps. I’d seen men brawl before, but this wasn’t fighting. This was rutting violence — desperate, mindless, born of lust instead of rage.
One man ripped chunks of hair from another’s head, laughing through broken teeth. Another slammed his brother’s skull against the stones again and again, not out of hate but out of some blind need to win her gaze. They moaned and panted between strikes, their lips curling, eyes wide and glazed as if every blow was pleasure.
Their bodies moved like puppets, jerking with unnatural strength, veins bulging, chests heaving. Drool shined on their chins. Some grinned through blood, others sobbed as they clawed, all of them lost to her spell.
She walked through it all unbothered, skirts trailing like smoke, her hips swaying to some rhythm only she heard. She didn’t even glance at the bodies slamming against each other at her feet. She just laughed — soft, musical, sweet as a mother crooning a lullaby — and her voice dripped poison.
“This?” she purred, her eyes glowing gold as she looked over the writhing heap of men. “This is the strength you brag of? All it takes is a glance, and your manhood shrivels to nothing.”
The words hit like a lash, but none of the men cared. They only fought harder, moaning, drooling, clawing for the right to be noticed.
Her gaze slid past them, up toward the women who huddled in doorframes, clutching their children, their eyes wide with horror.
She smiled slyly, lips glistening, head cocked like she was sharing a joke. “Don’t look so surprised. You knew it too, didn’t you? That they were always this weak.”
The women shrank back, pale as bone, but none dared answer.
I pressed myself deeper into the shadows, my heart slamming, heat crawling under my skin. The sound of fists on flesh, of men moaning and sobbing, mixed with her voice until the air itself reeked of madness.
And still, gods help me, I couldn’t look away.
She glided through the ruin like a queen surveying her court, her golden eyes fixed not on the moaning men, but on the women clutching the doorframes. Her smile was wicked, gleaming, a knife wrapped in velvet.
“Oh, sisters… don’t act surprised. You’ve always known the truth, haven’t you? Look at them.” She gestured lazily to the heap of men clawing and sobbing at her feet. “Your husbands. Your brothers. Your champions. So proud, so loud… and all it takes is one glance, one smile, and they fall to their knees like dogs.”
She laughed softly, a cruel, musical sound.
“Men build their whole lives on strength — on muscle, on rage, on dicks they think make them gods. But that strength belongs to me. It always did. Their manhood is nothing but a leash I tug with a finger. Their pride is a collar I tighten with a whisper.”
She stepped closer to the women, hips swaying, eyes glinting. The moaning men followed like moths dragged by invisible strings, pawing at the dirt to keep up with her.
“No man can fight me. Not a soldier, not a king, not even the gods of your fathers. They see me once, and they break. They beg. They worship.”
Her voice rose, ringing against the stone walls of the square.
“So tell me, who is left? If every man is mine — if every ounce of ‘masculine strength’ shrivels at my touch — who could ever stand against me?”
She spread her arms wide, basking in the silence, the women shrinking back, the men groveling, the whole square trembling with her triumph.
To be continued...
