The first thing to return was the ache. Not the sharp agony of a wound, but a deep, thrumming exhaustion that had settled into her bones, a full-body bruise left by a night of being stretched, filled, and fundamentally rewritten. Lyra's eyes fluttered open to the grey pre-dawn light filtering through the cracked crystalline walls of their makeshift camp in the Ashen Grove. The air was thick, heavy with the cooling scent of sweat, spilled cum, and the lingering, sweet-rot perfume of the blighted flora outside.
She was tangled in a pile of limbs, slick skin sticking to slick skin. A massive, muscular thigh was thrown over her waist—Damask's. The sheer weight of it was a comfort, an anchor. Her new Dom. The thought was a smooth, polished stone in the chaos of her mind, something solid to grip.
A soft, rhythmic puff of breath against her shoulder blade drew her attention. Curled against her back was the Fem, Petunia. His small frame was a stark contrast to the powerful bodies of the Doms and Bitches piled around them. He looked peaceful in sleep, his face slack and free of the terror that had been etched there when they first arrived.
Seeing him—so small, so utterly vulnerable, yet so completely devoted—was the key. Something in the sight of his fragile peace, a peace bought by Damask's protection, struck a resonant chord deep within her. It was a memory not of an event, but of a feeling: the terror of being a tool, a pawn in a game played by monsters. And with that feeling, the dam broke.
Belladonna.
The name slammed into her consciousness not as a thought, but as a taste—a dark, earthy, impossibly refined musk that coated the back of her throat. It was the scent of her own violation.
The memories didn't return. They detonated.
A chamber of crimson silks. The languid, insolent smirk. A colossal, solid-grade cock pressing against her, a power that felt ancient and absolute, nothing like the raw, liquid potential of Damask's. The feeling of being impaled, not with the heat of lust, but with the chilling precision of an alchemical procedure. A cold, viscous fluid flooding her, not to bring pleasure, but to overwrite, to erase. Her own mana screaming as it was silenced, her mind fracturing, her body becoming a puppet.
Her breath hitched, a dry, ragged gasp. Her muscles seized, the memory of the curse a phantom pain that was more real than the pleasant soreness of the orgy. For months, she had been a passenger in her own flesh, a ghost trapped behind a pane of frosted glass, her identity a wordless scream.
Then, the flood shifted.
The ambush. The shriek of a corrupted beast. The poison flower. The jolt of agony that was so pure, so real, it had shattered the curse's hold for a single, glorious second. The fight. Her body moving on instinct, her internal cockwomb channeling power she didn't know she still had. And then… the orgy. The culmination of their victory.
Damask's monumental shaft, a nascent but formidable weapon, fucking her with a desperate, reclaiming force. Marigold, the Sow, her dark Nightshade mana a soothing, terrifying balm as she was taken from the other end. Kestrel's rough, dominant mouth. Petunia's slick, eager hole milking her own cock. Milky's submission…
It all crashed down on her. The horror and the ecstasy, the loss and the reclamation. She wasn't the cursed Bitch anymore. She wasn't the broken toy.
I am Lyra, she thought, the name a shockwave through her system. I am Lyra of the SteelClaw. And I am bound to Damask of the Ivy Court.
A new sensation pricked at the edges of her awareness, a faint, metallic tang on her tongue. It wasn't a memory. It was… information. She could taste the sleeping mana signatures around her. Damask's was a deep, resonant hum of molten earth and budding power, the core of their new pride. Marigold's was a paradox—warm, sweet, and nurturing like a Sow's, but with a cold, dark undercurrent that tasted of Nightshade secrets and Belladonna's poison. It was the taste of her cure. A profound, instinctual gratitude washed over her. She owed that Sow her life.
Then she tasted Kestrel's signature. It was sharp, clean, and unyielding, like polished steel and glacial ice. The taste of pure, unwavering loyalty. A flicker of movement from that direction confirmed Kestrel was awake, her sharp eyes already assessing the camp.
"You're lucid," Kestrel's voice was low, a statement, not a question. She shifted, her lean, muscular body disentangling from the pile with practiced efficiency. She stood, her naked form a testament to the Bitch archetype—all whipcord muscle and coiled potential.
"I am," Lyra said, her own voice raspy.
Kestrel nodded once, a curt, professional gesture. "Good. We'll need two fully functional Blades if we're going to survive the Grove." She paused, her gaze flicking over Lyra with an assessing sharpness that was both clinical and a subtle challenge. "Try to keep up, Second."
Second.
The word landed like a slap. Not cruel, not angry. Just a matter-of-fact statement of rank. Kestrel was the First Blade. Lyra, the newcomer, the damaged goods, was now number two. A raw, furious pride, something she hadn't felt in months, surged in her gut. The SteelClaw clan didn't breed seconds.
I'll show you 'Second,' you self-righteous cunt, Lyra thought, the fire a welcome heat against the lingering chill of the curse.
As if sensing the shift in the pride's energy, Damask stirred. The Dom grunted, rolling onto his back, his still-recovering cock lying thick and heavy against his thigh. His eyes opened, and for a moment they were unfocused, the eyes of a leader still grappling with his own catastrophic power loss. Then they focused on Lyra, and a flicker of something—relief, satisfaction, ownership—crossed his face.
He pushed himself up, the muscles of his torso, leaner now but still powerful, flexing in the dim light. "Report," he commanded, his voice raw with sleep.
"All clear, Dom," Kestrel replied instantly. "Lyra is fully lucid."
Damask's gaze lingered on Lyra. He didn't offer comfort or platitudes. He offered a command, the greatest gift a Dom could give a Bitch: purpose.
"Good," he grunted. "Pack your shit. We move out in an hour. We make for the old border fort by nightfall. I want a full scouting report before we get there. Kestrel, you take the lead. Lyra, you're on her flank."
He looked at her, his authority absolute even in his weakened state. "Don't fuck it up."
Lyra felt the order settle into her bones, a welcome weight that pushed out the last vestiges of phantom cold. She was herself again. She had a Dom. She had a pride. And she had a rival to put in her place.
"Yes, Dom," she said, the words tasting like victory.