Chapter 1: Possessed and Used
The air in the Forbidden Sanctum didn’t just smell of dust and old stone. It smelled of stolen breath, of memories gone sour. Veins of cracked silver pulsed with a faint, sickly light across the walls, turning the entire chamber into a fragmented, living mirror. Elara’s fingers, usually so steady, trembled as she traced the final sigil in the air. Its emerald light bled onto the surface of the enormous, freestanding mirror before them—the only one still whole.
“You’re sure this is the binding ritual?” Rhys’s voice was a low murmur from the shadows beside a plinth. Her hand rested on the hilt of a dagger. “It looks like you’re trying to give it a fucking heartbeat.”
“It’s a containment lattice,” Elara corrected, her voice tight. “The spirit within is a reflection of greed, a parasite that feeds on desire. We weaken it, then seal it.”
“Right. A parasite.” Rhys shifted her weight, the leather of her gear creaking. “And the artifact we’re here for is…?”
“Behind the glass. Sealed within its prison. The theory is—”
“Theories get you killed down here, mage.” Rhys flashed a grin, her blue eyes catching the weird silver light. “I say we smash it, grab the shiny thing, and go. My feet are killing me.”
Elara ignored her. The potion Rhys had chugged from a found flask an hour ago—against all advice—was probably to blame for more than sore feet. She’d been… twitchy since, adjusting her trousers with a peculiar agitation. But focus was key. She channeled her will, the final thread of magic snapping into place around the mirror’s frame.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the silvered surface rippled like water. A face emerged, but it wasn’t a reflection. It was her own, yet not. Elara’s features, but twisted with a leer she’d never worn, her green eyes now pits of hungry violet. The reflection spoke, but the voice was a chorus of broken whispers, all wrong.
“Little mage… so tight with her control… Let me show you how it feels to unclench.”
The lattice of light shattered.
A wave of force, cold and invasive, hit Elara in the chest. She couldn’t scream. The air was ripped from her lungs as something vile and ancient poured into her mouth, her nose, her eyes. She felt herself being folded, compressed, shoved into a tiny, silent corner of her own mind. The last thing she saw with her own eyes was Rhys, lunging forward, face etched in panic.
Then, darkness. And a new, terrible perspective.
Elara was now a prisoner behind her own eyes. She saw the sanctum from her own height, felt the stone under her boots, but she wasn’t moving her body. Her hand rose, and she watched it, helpless, as it slowly, sensually, dragged down the front of her travel-stained robes.
“Oh, this is nice,” a voice purred from her own throat. It was her voice, but saturated with a decadent, mocking malice. Lysandra. “All that power, all that wanting, locked up under these hideous clothes.” Her—its—hands tore at the clasps. The robes fell open, then were shoved roughly from her shoulders. The cool air hit Elara’s bare skin, and the shame was a fire in her trapped soul. Lysandra looked down at Elara’s body, at the full breasts and curved hips the mage always kept hidden, and let out a wet, appreciative chuckle. “Much better.”
Across the room, Rhys was on her knees, clutching her head. A low, pained groan escaped her, warping mid-phrase into something deeper, hungrier. When she looked up, her blue eyes were gone, replaced by smoldering coals of orange-red. Malakor.
“Feeling a bit… pent up, little thief?” Lysandra cooed, stepping forward. Her movements were a grotesque parody of Elara’s own grace, all predatory sway.
Malakor-Rhys stood. There was a strained, tearing sound from her trousers. The fabric bulged, then split as a thick, fully erect cock sprung free, impossably large, already leaking at the tip. The potion. It had been a catalyst, a welcome Mat had paved the way for this. Malakor looked down at it, grinning with Rhys’s face. “The vessel was… prepared. Convenient.”
Elara screamed soundlessly in her prison. Rhys’s consciousness, similarly trapped, recoiled in horror.
Lysandra closed the distance. There was no tenderness, no pretense. She grabbed the back of Malakor’s neck and crushed their mouths together. It was a violent, biting kiss, all teeth and probing tongue. Elara felt the coppery taste of her own lip splitting, felt the harsh grip on her bare hip. She was a passenger in her own violation.
Malakor’s hands—Rhys’s strong, agile hands—gripped Elara’s ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. They broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting them. “On the floor,” Malakor growled, its voice a gravelly distortion of Rhys’s.
“Make me, you brute,” Lysandra taunted, shoving at his chest.
It was a game. A sick, scripted game for their own amusement. Malakor drove a fist into Elara’s stomach. The air whooshed out of their lungs, and Elara felt the blinding pain, the fold of her body as she was thrown onto the cold, grimy stone floor. The impact jarred her spine. Shards of broken mirror frames bit into her bare back.
She watched, from inside, as Malakor knelt over her, using Rhys’s body. She saw the terrifying length of him, thick and veined, as he positioned himself. There was no preparation, no care. Lysandra spread Elara’s legs wide, a mocking invitation.
“Watch this, little mage,” Lysandra hissed internally. “Learn what your body is really for.”
Malakor thrust.
The pain was searing, a brutal, tearing invasion. Elara’s silent scream echoed in the void of her mind. Her body, under Lysandra’s control, arched off the ground, not in pleasure, but in a savage mimicry of it. A raw, guttural moan was torn from her throat—Lysandra’s performance.
“Tight!” Malakor roared, his hands pinning Elara’s wrists above her head. “So fucking tight!”
The rhythm he set was punishing, a relentless, deep pounding that shook Elara’s entire frame. Each thrust was a violation, each grunt from Malakor a desecration of Rhys’s voice. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the sanctum, echoing off the whispering mirrors. Lysandra thrashed beneath him, meeting each thrust with a violent snap of her hips, encouraging him, cursing him, a frenzy of false ecstasy.
“Yes! Fill me up, you beast!” Lysandra screamed, Elara’s voice raw. “Feed me!”
Elara could only watch as her own body was used, see the brutal concentration on Rhys’s stolen face. She felt the building pressure, the grotesque imitation of pleasure Lysandra was orchestrating within her own nervous system, a weapon to torture her with.
Malakor’s movements became jerky, frantic. “Going to… flood you…” he snarled.
With a final, brutal slam, he buried himself to the hilt and convulsed. Elara felt the hot, sudden rush inside her, a claiming. Malakor threw his head back and howled, a sound of pure, triumphant corruption.
As he shuddered, the coals in his eyes blazed. He seemed to grow stronger, more solid. The demon was feeding.
Panting, he pulled out, collapsing to the side. Lysandra, still in control of Elara’s ravaged body, rolled onto her hands and knees. She looked back over her shoulder, a filthy smile on Elara’s lips. Her hand slid between her thighs, collecting the spill of seed. She brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean, groaning with performative delight.
“Mmm. Potent.” She turned her violet eyes, glowing now with stolen power, toward the still panting form of Malakor. “My turn.”
Elara, broken and screaming inside a prison of glass and terror, understood. This was just the beginning. The demons were trading fuel. And she and Rhys were the vessels, forced to watch every obscene second.
The obscenity of it vibrated through the sanctum. Elara, trapped in the silent, glassy-dark prison of her own mind, felt everything. The ache of the brutal penetration, the chill of the stone on her skin, the warm trickle of spent seed down her inner thigh. It was a violation so complete it had shattered her. Beside her in the non-space, she felt Rhys’s consciousness as a raw, trembling wound. They couldn’t speak, but a shared, screaming horror passed between them—a wordless echo of agony.
On the outside, Lysandra sighed, a contented, oily sound. She rolled Elara’s body over, sitting up with a wince that was purely theatrical. “My turn,” she’d said. But it wasn’t a request.
Malakor, still breathing heavily from his release, watched with Rhys’s burning eyes. A cruel smile twisted his stolen lips. “Teach them,” he grunted.
“Oh, I intend to.” Lysandra pushed to her feet, Elara’s legs unsteady for a moment. She stretched, a languid, obscene gesture, then pointed a finger at Malakor. “Get up. Against the glass.”
“You command me?” Malakor growled, but he was already rising, the interest between his legs stirring again, impossibly swift.
“I show you how to truly feast.” Lysandra grabbed him by the wrist—Rhys’s wrist—and dragged him toward the great, standing mirror. Its surface was no longer silver but a deep, reflective black, a window into nothing. Or into everything. From inside, Elara and Rhys could see their own stolen bodies approaching, monstrous parodies of themselves.
Lysandra shoved Malakor’s back against the cold, hard surface of the mirror. “Hold still,” she purred, and the command slithered into Elara’s mind, a foul lesson meant for the audience of two. Watch, little mage. This is how you break a thing.
Elara’s hand—Lysandra’s hand now—rose. A faint, verdant glow, the color of Elara’s magic but sickly and frayed at the edges, sparked at her fingertips. It wasn’t the intricate, careful weaving of power Elara knew. This was a blunt, greedy wrenching of the magical currents in the room.
She pressed Elara’s body flush against Malakor, her back to his front. Elara felt the hard line of Rhys’s stolen cock, already rigid again, press against the cleft of her ass. Lysandra ground against it, a crude, hungry motion.
Then she reached back, guiding him inside her.
The entry was smoother this time, slick with their previous violation. But the angle was different, deeper, more claiming. Malakor’s hands clamped onto Elara’s hips, his fingers digging in as he began to piston into her from behind. The wet slap of their meeting filled the chamber, a relentless, rhythmic counterpoint to the pulsing silver in the walls.
“Good,” Lysandra moaned, her head falling back against Malakor’s shoulder. “Now, watch this.”
She lifted Elara’s hands, placing them flat against the mirror’s surface on either side of them. The green, corrupted magic flared brighter, seeping from her palms into the glass. But it didn’t stop at the mirror. It snaked back along her arms, across her shoulders, and into Malakor’s body—into Rhys’s body.
“The vessel is strong,” Lysandra hissed, her voice tight with the effort of the fuck and the spell. “But it can be… improved.”
Inside the mirror-prison, Rhys’s silent scream tore through Elara’s consciousness. A new sensation, foreign and terrifying, erupted within the confined space they shared. It was a stretching, a burning pressure.
On the outside, Malakor let out a roar that was equal parts pain and perverse pleasure. The hands on Elara’s hips tightened viciously as his thrusts grew more frantic. “Yes! Fuck, yes!”
Elara, forced to watch through her own eyes, saw it happen. As Malakor fucked into her body, Rhys’s chest, pressed tight against her back, began to change. The modest, toned breasts swelled against Elara’s shoulder blades, growing heavier, fuller, the nipples peaking and darkening under the strain of the leather bodice until the seams groaned. The curve of Rhys’s ass, already firm, expanded in Malakor’s gripping hands, rounding into a lavish, exaggerated shelf of flesh that quivered with each brutal impact.
Lysandra was using Elara’s magic, warping it, to alter Rhys’s physical form as the violation happened. It was a demonstration of absolute dominion.
“See?” Lysandra gasped, her own pleasure a performative crescendo. “We can shape them. We can make them better. Riper.” She forced Elara’s body to meet each thrust with a vicious snap. “Their fear is power. Their violation is our art.”
Malakor was lost to it, his face buried in Elara’s neck, biting. The new, heavy weight of Rhys’s enhanced breasts swayed with the violent motion, the enlarged ass providing a deeper, softer target for his grip. He was close again, his growls becoming ragged.
“Fill me!” Lysandra demanded, her chant becoming a ragged scream. “Feed their prison! Let them feel it!”
With a final, shuddering plunge, Malakor erupted inside her again. This time, the release seemed to pull something from him—a dark, vibrant energy that Lysandra drank in greedily through their connected flesh. The magic around Elara’s hands flared a blinding, poisonous green.
Inside the mirror, the world went white with a pain that was not purely physical. It was the agony of being unmade, rewritten as a toy for depraved gods.
As the echoes of Malakor’s roar faded, Lysandra slumped forward, Elara’s body spent and trembling against the cold glass. She chuckled, a low, wet sound of satisfaction. Her fingers, still splayed on the mirror, traced idle patterns in the condensation their heat had left behind.
She turned her head, her violet eyes looking directly into the reflection—directly into the trapped souls of Elara and Rhys.
“Lesson one,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. “You belong to us now. Every inch. And we’re very, very creative.”
The silence that followed her whisper was worse than the violence. It was a living thing, thick with the smell of sweat, spent seed, and cold stone. Malakor remained pressed against Elara’s back, his breathing a ragged drum against her spine. Rhys’s altered body—heavier, softer in all the wrong places—felt foreign and cumbersome, a suit of flesh he was still learning to wear.
Lysandra pushed away from the mirror, peeling Elara’s spent form from the cold glass. She turned, a smirk on Elara’s bruised lips, and looked at Malakor. Her stolen green eyes, now forever tainted with that hungry violet light, slid down his form.
“You’re already flagging,” she observed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “All that power, spent so quickly. Tsk.”
She lifted Elara’s hand. A flicker of that same sickly green energy, corrupted and sharp, snapped from her fingertips like a tiny whip. It lashed out, not at Malakor’s face, but lower. It struck the base of his cock, which had begun to soften.
A jolt went through him. Through Rhys. Inside the mirror prison, Rhys’s consciousness recoiled as a fresh, unwelcome wave of sensation surged through the stolen nervous system—a dark, artificial heat, a tightening, a violent reawakening. On the outside, Malakor grunted, his back arching as the flesh stiffened anew, thickening and rising with unnatural speed until it stood rigid and angry once more.
“Better,” Lysandra purred.
She didn’t ask. She simply sank to her knees on the grimy floor, the hard stone biting into Elara’s kneecaps. The movement was fluid, predatory. Her eyes locked on Malakor’s as her hands, Elara’s skilled mage’s hands, went to the ruined lacings of his trousers. She didn’t bother untying them. She yanked, the leather tearing further, until the garment sagged and she could pull the massive cock free.
She looked up at him, a parody of devotion on Elara’s face. Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth in one slow, deliberate glide.
Elara watched from her internal prison, screaming into a void that had no sound. She felt the stretch of her own jaws, the unfamiliar pressure against the back of her throat, the salt-and-iron taste of him. It was obscene. It was meticulous. Lysandra worked with a greedy, focused intensity, her head bobbing, her tongue swirling around the head before diving down the shaft again, deep-throating with a practiced ease Elara had never possessed.
“Fuck,” Malakor growled, his hands—Rhys’s hands—coming up to fist in Elara’s braided hair. He didn’t guide her. He held her there, his fingers tightening in the dark strands. “That’s it. Use that pretty mouth.”
With his other hand, he ripped at the remains of Rhys’s leather bodice. The hardened leather, strained by the altered form beneath, gave way with a sharp crack. Rhys’s breasts, now swollen and heavy, spilled free. The cool air of the sanctum made the pierced nipples, silver rings glinting dully in the fractured light, peak instantly.
Malakor looked down at them, a dark amusement spreading across his stolen face. He rolled one pliant mound in his palm, his thumb brushing roughly over the metal ring, then pinching the tender flesh around it. A sharp, twisting pain echoed in Rhys’s trapped mind. He did the same to the other, playing with them, weighing them, as the body he inhabited shuddered with a mix of violated sensation and building release.
His gaze, however, wasn’t fixed on the act itself. It was fixed on the mirror. On the reflective surface where two faint, shimmering outlines were barely visible—the trapped essences of the real Elara and Rhys, pressed against their side of the glass, forced to watch.
“See this?” Malakor said, his voice thick. He thrust his hips forward, forcing Elara’s throat to take him deeper. Lysandra gagged, a wet, choking sound, but didn’t pull away. “See what your body can do? What my body feels?”
He yanked Elara’s head back by the hair, pulling her off him with a pop. A string of saliva connected her lips to his glistening tip. “Look at them,” he commanded Lysandra, though his burning eyes stayed on the mirror. “Make them watch.”
Lysandra, panting, turned Elara’s head toward the glass. Her green-and-violet eyes were glazed, her lips swollen. She gave the trapped reflections a bloody smile. Then she dove back down, taking him even deeper, making a show of it—hollowing her cheeks, moaning around him, the sounds obscenely loud in the silent chamber.
Malakor’s control broke. His hips snapped forward in a brutal, punishing rhythm. He fucked Elara’s mouth with a single-minded ferocity, his grip on her hair keeping her in place, his other hand mauling Rhys’s enlarged breast. “You’re nothing but flesh for us,” he snarled at the mirror. “Watch. Watch your shells serve.”
The tension coiled, tight and unbearable, at the base of his spine. He could feel it, the cresting wave of corrupt power, and so could Rhys, a horrified passenger feeling her own body being used to generate it.
With a final, grunting thrust, he held himself deep and came.
It wasn’t a gentle release. It was a violent eruption, spurting hot and thick down Elara’s throat. Lysandra swallowed greedily, convulsively, milking him with sharp sucks until he was spent. Then, as he pulled out, the last few pulses splashed across Elara’s face—over her closed eyelid, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
Malakor held her there, on her knees, panting, painted with his seed. He forced her face toward the mirror again, one hand still tangled in her hair.
“Look,” he breathed, triumphant. “Remember this. This is all you are now.”