Chapter 4: Strengthened beauty
The barrel slammed into place in the cellar with a final, satisfying thud that echoed in the cool, damp air. No grunt of effort escaped Lia. Her reinforced muscles, compacted and humming with the dense potential of the tavern’s wild magic, made the task trivial. She straightened, wiping sawdust from her calloused palms. She didn’t feel the familiar burn in her back, the tremor in her arms. Just a deep, abiding solidity. Stone, not sand.
Climbing the cellar stairs back into the tavern’s main room, the wave of sound, smell, and feel hit her with renewed intensity. The mid-morning sun slanted through the high windows, illuminating swirling dust motes dancing in thick beams. The scent of stale ale, roasting pork fat, and unwashed bodies was a familiar assault. But beneath it, the thrum was stronger now. Sharper. She wasn’t just hearing the clatter of mugs and raucous laughter; she felt the vibrations of greed in the dice game near the hearth, the spike of frustration from a merchant arguing his tab, the lazy contentment of an old man nursing his first ale. And something else… something that prickled against her newly attuned senses like static.
Eyes. Dozens of them. Following her.
Molly dropped a stack of wooden trenchers onto a table with a clatter, her own gaze lingering on Lia a beat too long. "Bloody hell, Lia. Did you bathe in moonlight last night? You look… different." Her voice held open curiosity, tinged with a hint of something sharper. Envy? Apprehension?
Lia touched her cheek, feigning surprise. "Just… slept well, Molly."
Molly snorted, unconvinced. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Well, whatever you did, keep doing it. Old Man Hargrave at the end of the bar nearly choked on his breakfast sausage when you walked past. His eyes were glued to your arse." She waggled her eyebrows, but the unease didn't leave her eyes.
Lia looked towards the bar. Hargrave, a leathery-skinned carter, was indeed staring. Not with his usual lecherous leer, but with a slack-jawed, almost dazed intensity. Desire radiated off him in thick, palpable waves. Hot, sticky, and tinged with confusion. He wasn't the only one. Garvin, nursing a mug and looking sullen after his previous humiliation, tracked her movement across the room. His gaze wasn't just lustful; it held a simmering, possessive anger now, mixed with a bewildered fascination. Even Martha, wiping down the bar, paused to watch her, a frown creasing her brow as she took in Lia’s changed bearing, the unnatural smoothness of her skin, the way her simple shift seemed to cling to curves that felt both more defined and strangely denser.
It wasn't just strength she'd reforged. The wild magic, compacted into her very substance, had reshaped her exterior as well. Her frame seemed subtly fuller, yet harder, like sculpted marble replacing weathered wood. Her movements held a liquid grace that bordered on the predatory. Her skin, once rough and wind-chapped, now had an eerie, luminous smoothness, catching the firelight in ways that made it seem almost translucent. And her eyes… her amber eyes held a depth and stillness that felt ancient, unsettling. Unnatural beauty. A vessel now shaped to attract attention as much as withstand force.
Garvin slammed his mug down, ale slopping over the rim. "Oi! Serving wench! Another one! And less gawking, more pouring." His voice was a rough bark, but the undercurrent was unmistakable – a demand laced with frustrated, covetous heat. It rolled off him, a physical pressure against her skin.
Lia met his gaze. Not with fear or submission, but with that unnerving stillness. A spark ignited in her fractured core. Not compassion, not fear. Interest. Could she? Not just strengthen her body, but… use this? This raw, messy hunger directed at her?
She walked towards the bar, feeling every eye. Hargrave’s dazed lust. Molly’s wary fascination. Martha’s suspicion. Garvin’s aggressive need. She focused on Garvin. Not on twisting the ale, but on the source. On the hot, turbulent storm of him. His frustration at her defiance yesterday. His raw, uncomplicated lust. His bruised male pride. She didn't push. She didn't pull. She… invited.
It was like opening a furnace door. Garvin’s desire, already a smoldering coal, roared into an inferno. His face flushed crimson. His knuckles turned white on the mug handle. His breath hitched, ragged. He didn’t just want her; the need became a physical agony, a compulsion that burned away all other thought. "Fuckin' move it, girl," he rasped, the words thick. "Or I'll find another way to get serviced."
Lia placed a fresh tankard before him, her fingers brushing his knuckles. A deliberate, feather-light touch. The contact was electric. Garvin gasped, a shudder running through his entire frame. She felt the surge – a raw, untamed torrent of pure, animal lust pouring into her. Not energy she could shape into strength, not yet. But power. Hot, chaotic, and immense. It flowed into her fractured core, filling the ancient void not with light, but with a dark, potent heat. It wasn’t pleasant. It felt invasive, greasy. But it was undeniably potent.
She held his gaze, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Patience, soldier," she murmured, her voice low and carrying an odd resonance that vibrated in his bones.
Garvin flinched as if struck. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, held a flicker of primal fear beneath the overwhelming lust. He snatched the tankard, spilling more ale, and slammed back a deep gulp, unable to tear his gaze away.
Lia turned, the heat of his stolen desire a molten coal settling low in her belly. She felt… charged. Dangerous. She moved through the crowded tavern, the sensation intensifying. Every lingering glance, every stolen appraisal, every crude whisper washed over her, each adding a tiny spark to the furnace within. The coarse weaver’s apprentice near the door imagined her bent over his loom; she felt the spike of his fantasy like a pinprick. The merchant’s guard pictured her on his lap; a brief, possessive warmth flared. It was a constant, low-level hum of stolen longing, feeding the dark potential coiled inside her.
Later, hauling slops out back, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows. The stench was foul, but Lia barely registered it, focused on the thrumming energy within. She flexed a hand. The air around her fingers seemed to shimmer faintly with heat haze. Could she use this? Not just absorb it, but wield it? She focused the stolen lust – Garvin’s burning need, the merchant guard’s possessive heat – down her arm. Not for strength, but for… influence.
A rat, large and mangy, darted from behind a barrel towards the midden heap. Lia focused the gathered heat, the raw, directive force of desire, and pushed it towards the creature mentally: Stop.
The rat skidded to a halt, twitching. Not fear. A sudden, overwhelming fixation. Its beady eyes locked onto a patch of slimy mold on the cobblestones beside it. It trembled, utterly captivated, consumed by an unnatural, burning need for that patch of rot. It nuzzled the filth, oblivious to Lia, oblivious to danger, lost in a trance of impossible, directed lust.
Lia released the flow. The rat blinked, shook its head with a confused squeak, and bolted. The power drained away, leaving her momentarily lightheaded, but exhilarated. Control. Not just over bodies, but over minds. Over the deepest, most primal urges.
The implications were staggering. And terrifying.
Back inside, the tavern was filling for the evening rush. Smoke hung thick, laughter was louder, and the air vibrated with drunken energy. Garvin was deep in his cups now, his earlier fear drowned in cheap ale, leaving only the simmering aggression and the banked, resentful lust. He watched her, a predator eyeing prey it both craved and resented. His friends, fellow soldiers in the Duke’s colors, were similarly drunk, loud, and leering.
Lia navigated the chaos, delivering mugs, clearing plates. She felt the weight of their collective gaze, the building pressure of their crude jokes and whispered promises. She felt… powerful. And reckless. The stolen desire hummed in her veins, demanding an outlet. Garvin’s eyes followed the sway of her hips as she passed his table. He licked his lips, a slow, deliberate gesture. One of his friends, a burly man with a broken nose, elbowed him. "See somethin' you like, Garv? Still smarting from the wench twistin' your ale?"
Garvin flushed darker. "Shut it, Borin. She’s just a tavern slut. Needs remindin' of her place." His voice was thick, slurred, but the heat in it was scalding.
Lia paused near their table, ostensibly wiping down an empty spot. She met Garvin’s glare. The furnace of his frustrated lust was an open flame now, fanned by drink and his friend’s goading. It called to the dark heat coiled within her. An experiment. A demonstration. A release.
She focused, not just inviting, but amplifying. Pouring her own dark intent into the torrent of his desire. Twisting it, honing it into a single, all-consuming imperative.
Garvin’s mug clattered to the table. His eyes glazed over, pupils swallowing the irises. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. He surged to his feet, knocking his stool over. "Mine," he growled, the word slurred but thick with possession. He lurched towards her.
His friends roared with drunken laughter. "Go on, Garv! Show the bitch!"
But Garvin wasn’t aiming for her face. He stumbled past her, driven by the unnatural, amplified lust Lia had focused with pinpoint accuracy. Not on her. She’d redirected the torrent.
Straight towards Borin.
Borin’s laughter died in his throat as Garvin crashed into him. Not a punch. A desperate, clumsy lunge. Garvin’s hands, rough and calloused, grabbed at Borin’s tunic, fumbling for the laces. "Need… need you," Garvin rasped, his voice thick with a terrifying mix of aggression and raw, desperate need. He pressed his body against Borin’s, his arousal unmistakable even through layers of wool and leather.
Borin’s eyes widened in drunken shock and dawning horror. "Garvin! What the fuck? Get off me, you drunken arse!" He shoved at his friend, but Garvin, fueled by the unnatural compulsion Lia had ignited, was a desperate animal. His hands scrabbled, tearing at Borin's belt. One hand plunged downwards, grabbing roughly at Borin’s crotch. Borin yelped, a high-pitched sound of outrage and disgust.
"Get his fucking cock out, Garv!" another soldier hooted, momentarily confused but caught up in the spectacle. Others stared, open-mouthed, mugs frozen halfway to their lips. The tavern noise died to a stunned hush, broken only by Borin’s panicked curses and Garvin’s ragged, lust-drunk breathing.
Lia watched from the edge of the circle that had formed. Not smiling. Her expression was cold, detached observation. The power thrummed within her, dark and sated for the moment. She’d turned Garvin’s aggression, his toxic lust, into a weapon. Used his own desire against his friend. Borin kneed Garvin hard in the groin. Garvin howled, collapsing, clutching himself, the unnatural compulsion shattered by agony, replaced by bewilderment and searing pain.
Martha exploded from behind the bar, a heavy cudgel in hand. "RIGHT! THAT'S ENOUGH! YOU FILTHY ANIMALS! OUT! ALL OF YOU!" She swung the cudgel towards the soldiers, her face purple with rage. "Take your fuckin' perversions elsewhere!"
The soldiers, shamed and confused, hauled the whimpering Garvin and the furious, disheveled Borin out the door. The tavern erupted in a cacophony of shocked whispers, nervous laughter, and muttered curses. People looked at Lia, standing untouched amidst the wreckage. Their gazes held no suspicion now. Only fear. And a different, deeper kind of hunger – the chilling fascination reserved for something beautiful and utterly dangerous.
Lia turned away, picking up a dropped tankard. The stolen desire within her had cooled, leaving a residue of potent darkness and a profound sense of control. She felt the lingering stares. Felt the fear. Felt the undercurrent of forbidden fascination. She was no longer just the strange, strong serving wench. She was becoming a vortex, drawing in the world’s chaotic desires and twisting them to her will. The power was intoxicating. Addictive. And as she glanced towards the shuttered windows, beyond which lay the city and the shadow of the wizard king, she knew this was a weapon far more potent, and far more perilous, than mere strength. She had tapped the raw, filthy heart of the beast. And the beast, she was learning, was hungry.
The tavern’s uneasy quiet lingered long after Garvin’s howls faded into the street. Fear hung thick as pipe smoke, a palpable layer beneath the forced laughter and clinking mugs. Lia moved through it untouched, a sleek predator navigating startled sheep. She felt their stares like physical touches – wary, fascinated, repulsed. The stolen lust, potent and dark, coiled low in her belly, a satisfied serpent. Control. Absolute.
Martha slammed the tavern door shut, the heavy oak thudding like a tomb seal. Her face was still flushed crimson, sweat beading on her upper lip beneath the harsh lantern light. She leaned against the door, breathing hard, knuckles white around the cudgel she hadn't lowered. "Filthy fucking animals," she spat, voice trembling with residual fury. "Deserve to have their cocks nailed to the city gates." Her gaze swept the room, landing on Lia clearing the soldiers' abandoned table. Suspicion warred with something else in Martha’s eyes – a flicker of primal awareness, a recognition of the unnatural stillness radiating from her serving girl.
Lia met her stare, unblinking. The furnace within her pulsed. Martha’s anger was a hot, jagged thing, vibrating in the air between them. But beneath it, Lia sensed something else. A low thrum. Not the simple lust of Garvin or Hargrave. Deeper. Older. A weary hunger buried under layers of practicality and barked orders. Years of loneliness etched into the lines around her eyes, the tight set of her jaw. Lia tilted her head, a subtle shift. She didn’t amplify. She probed. Like dipping a finger into a hidden spring. Martha’s breath hitched. Her knuckles tightened impossibly further on the cudgel. A flush crept down her thick neck.
"Need help locking up, Martha?" Lia asked, her voice a low murmur that somehow cut through the tavern’s din. It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation laced with velvet command, resonating in the hollow spaces Martha kept guarded.
Martha blinked, confusion momentarily clouding her fury. "I… I can manage," she rasped, pushing off the door. But her feet didn’t move. Her eyes were locked on Lia’s face, tracing the impossible smoothness of her skin, the unsettling depth in her amber gaze. The wild magic Lia had compacted into her very bones shimmered faintly, a subtle allure impossible to ignore. Lia took a step closer. The air crackled. Martha’s pulse hammered visibly in her throat. The cudgel lowered an inch.
"Let me," Lia breathed, closing the distance. She didn’t touch Martha. Not yet. She let her presence envelop her, a wave of focused intent carrying the distilled essence of stolen desire – Garvin’s raw need, Borin’s panicked heat, the merchant guard’s possessive fantasy. She channeled it all, refined it into a spearpoint aimed at Martha’s buried ache. "You carry so much. Let me ease it." The words vibrated with unnatural resonance, bypassing thought, sinking straight into marrow.
Martha shuddered violently. A low groan escaped her lips, rough and involuntary. The cudgel clattered to the floorboards. Her hands, rough from years of scrubbing and hauling, rose tremblingly, not to push Lia away, but hovered uncertainly near Lia’s waist. Her eyes were wide, dilated, drowning in the ancient stillness Lia projected. The tavern keeper’s resistance crumbled like rotten timber. Years of hardened practicality dissolved under the onslaught of Lia’s amplified, directed allure. "What… what are you?" Martha whispered, her voice thick, slurred.
Lia smiled. A small, cold curve of the lips that held no warmth, only predatory satisfaction. "Relief." Her hand finally lifted, fingers brushing the sweat-damp skin of Martha’s neck. The contact was electric. Martha gasped, jerking as if branded. Lia’s touch trailed down, over the coarse fabric of Martha’s tunic, tracing the swell of her heavy breast. She felt the frantic heartbeat beneath her palm, the sudden stiffening of Martha’s nipple against the cloth. "So tense," Lia murmured, her other hand sliding around to grasp Martha’s broad hip, pulling her closer. Martha stumbled forward, her body yielding with terrifying ease, her own hands finally settling on Lia’s shoulders, fingers digging in with desperate strength.
Lia guided her backwards, not towards the bar, but into the narrow, shadowed alcove beneath the stairs where spare kegs were stored. The space smelled of damp wood and stale hops. Lia pressed Martha against the cold stone wall, pinning her with her body. Martha’s breath came in ragged, wet gasps against Lia’s neck. "Fuck…" Martha moaned, her head lolling back against the stone. "Can’t… shouldn’t…" The words were meaningless reflex, drowned by the tidal wave of compulsion Lia had unleashed.
"Shhh," Lia breathed, her lips brushing Martha’s ear. She slid her hand from breast to waist, fingers deftly working the ties of Martha’s rough trousers. The coarse wool fell slack around her hips. Lia’s hand plunged downwards, past the linen of Martha’s underthings, fingers encountering coarse curls and slick, swollen heat. Martha cried out, a sharp, choked sound. Her hips bucked involuntarily against Lia’s invading hand. "Oh gods… yes…" she whimpered, her hands scrabbling at Lia’s back, pulling her closer, grinding herself onto Lia’s fingers.
Lia explored ruthlessly. Martha was wet, incredibly wet, her folds slick and parted. Lia pushed two fingers deep inside her, curling them upwards. Martha screamed, back arching off the wall, her thick thighs clamping around Lia’s wrist. "Fuck! Fuck! Like that! Harder!" Martha babbled, her voice raw, stripped of any pretense. Lia obliged, pistoning her fingers relentlessly, her thumb finding Martha’s engorged clit, rubbing hard, fast circles. The sounds were obscene – wet slaps of skin, Martha’s guttural moans, the scrape of her boots on the stone floor. Lia watched dispassionately as Martha’s face contorted in ecstatic agony, eyes rolling back, mouth slack. She felt the powerful clench of Martha’s cunt around her fingers, the desperate, rhythmic spasms as the tavern keeper hurtled towards climax.
"Come for me, Martha," Lia commanded, her voice a low thrum that vibrated through bone. It wasn’t encouragement; it was compulsion woven into the fabric of the lust she controlled.
Martha shattered. Her body convulsed violently, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as her cunt clamped down like a vise on Lia’s fingers, hot juices flooding over Lia’s hand. She slumped against the wall, trembling uncontrollably, gasping for air like a landed fish, her eyes unfocused, glazed with spent rapture and profound confusion.
Lia slowly withdrew her slick fingers. She didn’t wipe them. She lifted her hand, examining the glistening evidence in the dim light filtering through the kegs. The potent energy she’d drawn from Martha’s climax – a complex mix of raw lust, deep-seated loneliness, and the sheer shock of surrender – flowed into her, richer, darker, more substantial than Garvin’s crude hunger. It settled into her reforged core, a thick, satisfying ember. Power. Not borrowed. Taken.
Martha slid down the wall to sit slumped on the floor, trousers around her ankles, staring blankly at the damp stone between her spread thighs. Her breath still hitched. Lia looked down at her, the unnatural beauty of her face impassive, cold. "Lock up," she said, her voice flat, devoid of the velvet command now. It was an order. Then she turned, stepping over Martha’s trembling legs, leaving the tavern keeper panting in the dark alcove amidst the smell of sex and spilled ale.
Lia walked through the silent main room towards the stairs. The fear radiating from the few remaining patrons was a palpable wall. She ignored it. The beast within, fed on Martha’s stolen climax, purred. It wasn't sated. It was awakened. Refined lust, seasoned with surrender and shame, tasted far sweeter than crude hunger. The city slept. The wizard king stirred. And Lia, her fingers still slick, climbed the stairs to her attic, the hunger sharpening, seeking its next, richer feast. Control was absolute. Dominion was the next step.