The sun hung low in the sky, its light filtering in narrow, golden shafts through the dense canopy of the Darkwood, casting an eerie veil over the remnants of Sylvanis. Lydia walked slowly through what had once been her home. Each step sank softly into the moss-covered ground, yielding beneath her high crimson boots like a living creature—soft, forgiving, almost comforting. But nothing here offered comfort anymore. The huts of living wood, once seamlessly woven with the trees, were now mere decayed skeletons, overgrown with thick ivy and fern, as if the forest itself had chosen to bury the memories in a green grave.
Lydia's breath came in heavy bursts, thick with disbelief and pain. Her skin still tingled from the events at the temple stream—those living vines that had coiled around her naked body in her sleep, warm and pulsing, as if possessed of their own hungry life. They had stroked her, pressed against her, rubbed her most sensitive places: around her waist, beneath her breasts, between her thighs. The aftereffects lingered like a faint echo—every shift of her torn crimson leather straps rubbed against her skin, hardening her nipples, stirring a warm, throbbing ache between her legs. The magic that had awakened within her made everything more intense: the gentle breeze brushing her exposed skin, the earthy scent of rotting leaves, even the thin sheen of sweat on her body, making her curves glisten.
She paused before the remnants of the gathering hut. Here they had celebrated festivals beneath the full moon, naked and free, as Waldelf tradition demanded. Bodies pressed together, moans blending with the rustle of leaves, the air thick with sweat and desire. And Eldrin... Eldrin had always been with her, her dominant presence like a warm cloak. Lydia closed her eyes, and the memory flooded her like a wave of hot water.
Eldrin had pressed her against an ancient tree trunk that night, her hands firm yet tender. "Stay still, my love," she had whispered, her voice soft as velvet but laced with a tone that brooked no argument. Her fingers had cupped Lydia's breasts, kneaded them, rolled the nipples between thumb and forefinger until Lydia moaned, her body arching. Then lower, Eldrin's tongue gliding slowly, savoringly over her belly, down between her legs. Eldrin had licked her, sucked her, circled her clit while her hands gripped Lydia's hips, preventing her from writhing. "Let it build slowly... I decide when," she had murmured, and Lydia had trembled, begged, until the orgasm crashed over her like a storm, wave after wave, leaving her spent in Eldrin's arms.
The memory made Lydia gasp now, a shiver running down her spine. Her hand slid involuntarily over her belly, brushing the edge of a torn strap—the touch sent a spark through her body, but she forced herself to stop. Not here. Not now. The magic made her sensitive, vulnerable, and the emptiness of the village weighed on her chest like a stone.
A faint giggle tore her from her thoughts. It came from the shadows of a nearby ruin—high-pitched, throaty, disgustingly familiar. Lydia froze, hand on her shortsword. Then a second giggle, deeper, grunting, accompanied by wet smacking sounds.
"Look at that, brother... a hot little elf cunt. All alone. And already half-stripped, the slut."
"Hehe, those fat tits... spilling out like ripe melons. And the smell... you catch that wet slit? She wants to get fucked till she squirts."
Two figures scurried from a cellar hole—small, barely half the height of a human, with warty green skin, yellow eyes, and sharp, yellowish teeth. Goblins. They circled her nimbly, claws clicking on stone, eyes gleaming with greed, tongues licking over drooling lips.
Zwick, the chattier one, giggled high: "Fresh meat, Zwack! Look at that juicy cunt—I bet it's tight and already dripping. I'll ram my cock in first till she howls."
Zwack grunted in agreement, licking his lips, a rusty dagger flashing in his hand: "And that ass... let me tear it open, brother. I'll hold the slut down, you can milk those tits and piss in her mouth when she screams."
Lydia spun, sword half-drawn. "Get lost."
But they were too fast, too cunning. Zwack lunged from behind like a shadow, seizing her legs in an iron grip, yanking her brutally off balance. His claws dug deep into her thighs, tearing leather and skin, scratching agonizingly close to her most intimate place—the tip of a claw grazed her labia through the fabric, sending a sharp, unwanted jolt through her body. She gasped in pain and rage, but the magic twisted it with a forbidden tingle that flooded her senses. Zwick seized the moment, leaping high like a predator, filthy hands grabbing—kneading her breasts roughly, ripping the fabric further, pinching her hard nipples brutally. "Such horny nipples! Hard as pebbles—the slut's already hot for goblin cocks! Feel her shaking, Zwack?"
Lydia thrashed wildly, rage and shame erupting like a volcano. The touches were rough, vile, humiliating—yet her hypersensitive skin responded involuntarily, sending sparks of arousal through her body, mingling pain with a hot, throbbing desire. Zwack, in his frenzy, drew the dagger—not to kill, but to threaten—and in the desperate struggle, the blade plunged deep into her left thigh, a hot, searing stab wound that burst open instantly. Blood welled up, warm and sticky, streaming down her skin, mixing with sweat and the wetness between her legs, dripping to the ground.
Pain exploded like fire, searing every nerve, yet something wild surged within her. The magic awakened fully and brutally—her hair shifted to luminous emerald green, her eyes blazing with fury and raw power. Lust and rage fused into an animal, unstoppable force. She roared, a deep, primal cry that shook the ruins, hurling Zwack away—he crashed against a wall, the dagger clattering to the ground. Zwick tried to flee, screeching in panic, but she seized him by the collar with iron strength, slamming him down, knee on his chest, shortsword at his throat. Her body burned with adrenaline, breasts heaving heavily and fast, sweat beading between them and making her skin gleam, blood pulsing from the wound down her thigh, warm and red.
"You... filthy... beasts!" she snarled, voice vibrating with power.
She drove her knee hard into his crotch—he howled shrilly, writhing like a worm. Zwack staggered up, limping and cursing, but a precise, merciless kick sent him crashing again, bones cracking. The goblins shrieked in panic, fleeing into the forest: "She bites! The green-haired cunt-beast bites for real! But next time... next time we'll fuck you bloody, you horny elf whore!" Their giggles echoed, fading into the undergrowth.
Lydia remained, trembling with adrenaline and pain. The thigh wound burned like fire, blood pulsing out, running warm down her skin, pooling in her boot. Her clothing hung in tatters—breasts almost fully exposed, scratches burning on thighs and chest. The magic faded, hair returning to sky-blue, yet the arousal lingered—a throbbing desire born of battle, touch, and her new power, mingled with the sharp pain of the stab. She sank to the ground, leaning heavily against a ruin, the world spinning, weakness overwhelming her like a wave.
From the shadow of a nearby, overgrown hut, Lyora watched everything. The young half-elf had secretly observed the fight—first wary, then fascinated and breathless. Lydia's movements, so sensual and lethal; the sudden green hair; the raw power that had erupted from her, despite the injury. Lyora blushed deeply, her small breasts rising faster beneath the scant fabric, an unfamiliar, warm ache spreading between her legs. She had never seen anything like it—so much wild beauty, so much... desire in every motion.
As Lydia lay exhausted, blood seeping from the deep thigh wound, Lyora stepped forward hesitantly. Her golden hair shimmered in the fading light, wavy and long, her silhouette soft and inviting.
Lydia looked up, vision blurred from blood loss—and for a heartbeat, her breath caught. The golden hair... the gentle figure... Eldrin? Her heart skipped, a wave of longing flooding her, hot and painful despite the burning agony. "Eldrin...?" she whispered brokenly, voice barely audible, before darkness claimed her. She fainted, body slumping on the moss-covered ground.
When Lydia came to, she lay in the forbidden temple ruins—among moss-covered stone columns, in a small natural hollow of ancient stone where light filtered dimly through vines. The place pulsed with old magic, the air heavier, warmer. The pain in her thigh was dulled, a firm bandage of herbs and cloth binding the deep stab wound, blood only seeping lightly through. The healing felt stronger, more intense—as if the place itself had hastened the mending.
Beside her knelt the stranger—golden hair, brown eyes full of concern. Not Eldrin. The disappointment stung briefly, but the young half-elf smiled shyly. "You... you're awake. The wound was deep, but here... in these ruins... my magic is stronger. I brought you here so you'd heal faster."
Lydia sat up slowly, the movement tugging the bandage, a dull throb mingling with her skin's lingering sensitivity. "Where are the others?"
Lyora lowered her gaze, her voice soft. "I know no others. I live alone in the ruins of the temple."
Lydia sensed the innocence, the curiosity in the young half-elf, and something warm stirred within her.