The cottage door clicked shut, leaving Lyra in the sudden stillness. She stood for a moment, her fingers brushing the edge of the rough wooden table where Esther had laid her purse. The lingering scent of the other woman's skin—sweet and clean, like fresh bread and rain—seemed to fill the small space, thickening the air in Lyra's lungs. She sank onto the edge of the narrow bed, the sheets still warm from Esther's body. Her mind replayed, unbidden, the soft curve of Esther's hip as she'd slipped out of bed, the generous swell of her rear, the trusting way she'd settled into sleep beside her.
A tremor started deep in Lyra's core, a shiver that had nothing to do with the morning chill. It was a frantic, primal pulse that beat against her ribs, a hunger she hadn't allowed herself to name in years. Dark, hazy images flickered behind her eyes—the rough hands of the priest, his hot breath on her neck, the suffocating weight of shame. But another sensation rose to meet them, hotter, more insistent: the memory of Esther's powerful presence, the undeniable weight of her gaze.
Her breath hitched. Her hands, trembling, flew to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. She squeezed her eyes shut. Goddess, forgive me. The words were a thin, desperate whisper, lost in the silent room. But the plea was a formality, a final, flimsy barrier. The need was a physical ache, a coiled spring demanding release.
Lyra collapsed forward, burying her face in the pillow on Esther's side of the bed. The scent of her was stronger here, an intoxicating perfume that made Lyra dizzy. She pressed her hips hard against the mattress, a choked sob catching in her throat. Her hand slid down, past the waistband of her habit, under the thin layer of her smallclothes, seeking the source of the burning heat that threatened to consume her. The guilt was a bitter taste in her mouth, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming, desperate need to feel something other than the crushing weight of her past. She moved her hand with a frantic, borrowed rhythm, her mind a chaotic swirl of forbidden memories and the shocking, vivid image of Esther's sleeping form. Lying face down on Esther's side of the still-warm bed, inhaling her lingering scent on the pillow, Lyra began to touch herself, her movements quick and frantic. After the shuddering orgasm, she cleaned herself with shaking hands, straightened her habit, and slipped out the door to run her errands.
The forge was her first destination, the heat hitting her like a physical wall as she stepped inside. Kael looked up from sharpening a plowshare, his face immediately flushing. "How are you... is everything alright?" he asked, his eyes not meeting hers. "Progressing. I'll have everything ready in two days. I can't forge from scratch that fast, but I've found some quality pieces to rework." As he spoke, his gaze dropped, far less subtle than before. His eyes fixed on her chest, and Esther felt a familiar, unwelcome warmth rise to her cheeks, but she remained silent. She also selected a simple short sword, its blade plain but serviceable. After paying for the wooden shield and the weapon, she turned to leave. She could feel his stare like a brand on her backside; she knew he was watching how the navy blue fabric of her skirt dug into the generous curves of her ass, the pink of her underwear showing right through the thin material with every fucking sway of her hips as she walked away.
Her next stop was the village alchemist. An old man with spectacles perched on his nose was working with a young apprentice, meticulously grinding herbs in a mortar. He looked up, surprised by Esther's change in attire, but then his eyes widened as they dropped to the low-cut shirt and the lace bodice beneath before catching the emblem of the Goddess on her clothes. "Is that... what I think it means?" he asked, his voice thick with an emotion that was part awe, part something else. Not wanting to make a scene, Esther simply nodded, a familiar heat creeping up her neck. The old man's face broke into a wide, slightly greasy smile. "A blessing upon this village! How can I help you, Heroine?" "I need healing potions," she said. "As many as you have." He nodded enthusiastically, his gaze flicking down once more to the hint of cleavage revealed by her shirt. "Of course, of course. I have eight in stock. They are small, but potent. You could carry four at a time, perhaps, without them being too cumbersome." He offered her a significant discount if she took them all, an offer she readily accepted, though a bitter thought surfaced as she paid: was this discount for the Heroine, or for the view she was offering?
Meanwhile, Lyra had purchased a small wire cage containing several white rats and some dried herbs for the stew she planned to make for Esther's return. Esther prepared her pack, carefully arranging the eight small potion vials inside. She strapped the wooden shield to her arm and slid the newly purchased short sword into the sheath at her hip. Ready to face the forest again, she headed straight for the woods, bypassing the cottage entirely.
Esther spent the morning tracking, using the meager skills of an F-Class adventurer. She'd found her target: a solitary goblin, leaner and quicker than the last one, scouting a territory near a gurgling stream. The plan was a textbook ambush: surprise attack, use her advantage, and if things went south, use the potions. She positioned herself on a small rise behind a cluster of rocks, the wind carrying her scent away. New short sword in one hand, wooden shield in the other, four healing potions bumping gently at her hip. She felt prepared, professional. Her brother's voice was a faint whisper in her mind, "Too quiet. Too confident."
The goblin passed beneath her perch. Esther leaped from the rocks, letting out a fierce cry to startle it. Her sword aimed for the creature's shoulder, but this was no thuggish male. It was a female, a hunter with young to feed, and it knew ambushes. With a practiced flick of its wrist, it brought up a small, crude wooden shield. The shield splintered but held, deflecting the blow. The fight was on, and it was more even. This goblin was better. It fought with a jagged dagger, constantly pressuring Esther, getting inside her reach and negating the advantage of her longer blade. Cuts began to appear on Esther's arms, her shoulder, her abdomen, her thigh. The slash to her belly was deep, slicing through her sacred garments and the pink bra beneath, exposing her breasts to the forest air. The wounds made her slow, clumsy. She could feel the fight slipping away again.
"The potion," Esther thought. Stumbling back, she fumbled a vial from her belt with her left hand, her shield held forward. The goblin saw the opening. It lunged, its foot connecting with her wrist. The vial flew through the air, smashing against a tree trunk in a useless, glittering red puddle. One potion down. Desperate, she tried again. Clutching her bleeding thigh, she grabbed another vial. But her hands were slick with blood and trembling with fear and poison. The glass slipped through her fingers, shattering on the forest floor. Another potion gone. The goblin laughed, a horrible, high-pitched, mocking sound. The humiliation burned as hot as any wound. In a fit of rage, Esther charged, but her leg buckled. She fell hard onto her backside. The goblin, sensing victory, kicked the sword from her grasp. It advanced, its dagger raised for the kill.
Esther broke. Tears streamed down her face. She was weak, and she couldn't fight anymore. She didn't want to die, not like this. She dropped to her knees, begging, pleading for mercy. Seeing the goblin hesitate, confused by the sudden surrender, Esther prostrated herself on the ground. "I yield! I yield!" she sobbed. She unbuckled her shield, holding it out as an offering. She unhooked a potion and offered it. The goblin snatched it from her. Still laughing, it pointed its dagger at her. Esther, frantic, took out the small pouch with her Letters of Exchange and pushed it forward. The goblin seemed to understand the concept of value, grabbing the pouch, then stooping to pick up Esther's fallen sword. On her knees, Esther watched it gather her belongings, mocking her, before leaning down to spit a thick, foul-smelling yellow liquid directly in her face.
Left there on the ground, bleeding and sobbing, she eventually pushed herself up. The wounds were shallow, but the shame was a gaping hole in her chest. She didn't stop crying as she stumbled from the woods. "What do I do?" she begged her brother. "Maybe this was too soon," he replied, his voice uncharacteristically flat. "Maybe you should think about Dry Port. Find a master." Clutching her torn shirt to her exposed chest, Esther fled the forest, a muddy, tear-streaked wreck, stumbling back to the small cottage where Lyra was waiting with a hot meal.