“Please allow me to introduce myself
I’m a man of wealth and taste
I’ve been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man’s soul and faith”
-The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil”

The Order of the Radiant Warriors was, despite its impossibly pretentious title, a fairly reliable sect, hidden away in a small valley just off some of the more worn footpaths between the Great Kingdoms. For a modest donation, travelers could stay the night in assured safety and relative comfort, and many lower-ranking nobles often sent their scions to study combat or theology within the Order’s walls. In some rare cases, it had been known to send some of its warriors to fight on behalf of a neighboring king or baron, provided said nobleman was a member of the Order’s own faith. In short, the Order was a respectable local institution, but not an overly-ambitious one.

Although she wouldn’t quite agree with the above assessment, having a much higher opinion of the Order than may have been warranted by circumstances, the warrior known only as Marcella did have to admit that her summons by the Priest Ezekiel seemed a bit odd on its face. As she crossed the courtyard, the young woman reflected on the brief message she’d received, advising her to prepare for a few days’ travel. She didn’t know of any particularly nasty squabbles in the region; she couldn’t think of any reason for the Order to send its finest warrior out into the countryside.

‘Ah. Pride,’ she chided herself mentally. ‘Mustn’t fall to that.’ This particular bit of self-remonstration had become so common to her that Marcella only half-heartedly felt remorse. Yes, Pride was a Deadly Sin, and certainly the one she was most vulnerable to, but at a certain point, humility became deception. Marcella was, without question, the finest warrior in the Order, and had been since she first joined over ten years ago. Admittedly, she held some distinct physical advantages when it came to combat: she was a tall girl, six feet when not in armor, and her lithe frame was nonetheless fairly muscular from over two decades of training with swords, equestrianism, and generally superb self-discipline.

This same self-discipline translated into everything Marcella did. She studied the canon texts of the Order with a profound passion, and not merely as a shallow, intellectually-lazy drone. No, Marcella had a profound, intellectual appreciation for the tenants of her faith, and could argue them with a logically-consistent conviction. Alternately, she could enforce them at the point of a sword, if the situation called for it. Although Marcella wouldn’t consider herself a violent person, per se, she certainly never shied away from combat, either. Indeed, she greatly enjoyed the release battle provided, finding physical combat an excellent companion to rhetorical or theological combat. Her self-confidence in her own righteousness was such that she never had reason to question herself or her beliefs.

This self-confidence, although being a source of much personal strength, was also Marcella’s most annoying character flaw. It was one thing to be proud of her own convictions and devotions, but it was quite another to expect all those around her to adhere to the same creeds. She was so devoted to her calling as to ignore all else, having no time (or patience) for social niceties, hobbies, or even romantic relationships.

With such an attitude, it wasn’t a surprise that she didn’t bother to keep up with appearances, at least not in the way typically expected for women of her age. This wasn’t to say that she was unattractive; far from it. Her clear complexion, evenly tanned from years of working outdoors, complimented her short, dirty-blondhair, and made her deep blue eyes appear all the more striking. But she didn’t style her hair, or indulge in make-up or fashionable clothing; her gray and brown garments were completely utilitarian, and even her combat armor was unremarkable in design.

Indeed, even the only modification she made to her appearance was done in the name of pragmatism. What Marcella considered an unfortunate accident of maturity had gifted her with a rather generous bosom, which was a constant source of embarrassment and frustration. She’d become so irritated with the undesired attention from the opposite sex, (and on one occasion that had led to a string of rumors, the same sex), that she’d begun to actively wrap her upper body in order to compress and conceal them as much as possible beneath her clothes.

As she strode across the courtyard to the central tower that served as the hub of the Order’s monastery, the source of one of those irritating rumors was lounging in the seating area by the tower’s entrance. Marcella tried to mask her obvious dislike for the other woman, and hoped to just move past her. But, of course, life is never so easy. The woman, a tall, raven-haired young lady with an ample bust of her own, moved into Marcella’s path, smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

“Going somewhere, Marcy?” she teased, already starting things off on the wrong foot. Marcella absolutely hated that nickname.

“I’ve been summoned, Jezebel,” Marcella snapped with barely-disguised contempt. Supposedly an academic for the Order, Jezebel had joined the same year as Marcella, and the two had never gotten along. Jezebel was a naturally catty socialite, who, despite her somewhat-pious position, clearly enjoyed the sins of the flesh a bit too much, particularly in the eyes of someone like Marcella. In fact, Marcella suspected that the seeds Jezebel’s dislike of her stemmed from Marcella’s natural endowments being larger than hers.

Speaking of, Marcella’s cheeks turned bright red when she glanced down to see how prominently Jezebel was displaying said endowments this morning. Her rival caught her gaze, and smiled wickedly. “Stealing a peak, Marcy? Are the rumors true?”

“Stand aside,” Marcella muttered, pushing past the alpha-bitch and heading up the tower stairs. After climbing the extensive rows of stairs to the highest point of the tower, Marcella opened the heavy wooden doors to Priest Ezekiel’s personal library. A triangular room with a windowed view of the entire Order complex, the library was absolutely filled with texts. Many were standard religious canon, but there was also an impressive selection of appendices on magic and other arcane arts. The Order may frown upon such arts, but it wasn’t stupid; powerful magics existed in their world, and Ezekiel believed in having that knowledge available should the need for it arise.

Ezekiel himself was a fairly unimpressive man; thin, tall, bald, and wearing a featureless black robe, with a small, stylized white cross on the right shoulder as befitted his rank. Marcella knew the design well; she had a complimentary one tattooed onto her own right shoulder. “Good morning, sir,” she replied, bowing slightly. “I came as soon as I received your summons.”

Ezekiel nodded with approval. “…I’m not going to mince words, Marcella,” he began, his tone making it clear that this situation was as strange to him as it was to her. “What I’m about to ask of you is rather…unusual. In fact, it’s unprecedented in my time as the lead Priest of the Order. As such, if you at all feel unsure of this mission, I want you to decline it. I won’t think any less of you, and the knowledge will never leave this room.”

“…Sir?”

“I received a report from a travelling merchant who stayed with us late last week. He tells me that something is deathly wrong in the small principality of Starling. Are you familiar with it?”

Marcella frowned briefly. “I’m familiar enough with it to know that something is always wrong with Starling, mostly due to its prince.”

“Yes, well. Prince Benito may be an unpleasant person-“

“He’s a womanizer, a lout, and a thoroughgoing brute,” Marcella corrected.

“But,” Ezekiel said firmly, cutting her off. “He cooperates with his neighboring principalities, serves his lords when called upon, and pays tribute to the community when required. Beyond that, it’s not to us to judge.”

This clearly didn’t sit well with Marcella, who didn’t appreciate having to turn a blind eye to this Prince’s vile behavior, particularly on such weak pretense. The Order didn’t believe in retailing indulgences; why should a brute like Benito be able to buy the leave of his neighbors with monetary tribute? Ignoring her obvious indignation, Ezekiel continued.

“The merchant told me that something odd had happened within Starling. Benito’s castle did not appear to be fully occupied, and the people of Starling seemed frightened. Of what, no one would say. When he asked, my merchant friend was rebuffed at every opportunity. It disturbed him so much that he only stayed in the town a single night, not bothering to sell his wares. I thought this a very odd story, so I sent a pair of pages to search for more information. And what they discovered, if true, is rather alarming.

“It seems that the Prince’s foul behavior may have finally come back to haunt him. He offended some wizard or sorcerer or other manner of mystic, who has imprisoned him and taken control of the entire town. Its people now live in fear of their lives. We’ve been asked to free thePrince, if possible. More importantly, we’ve been asked to slay the wizard who’s done this thing.”

Marcella was quiet for several moments before she responded. “I accept the quest, my Priest,” she replied slowly. “But I must register an objection. The people of Starling already lived in fear of their Prince, and we were satisfied to turn a blind eye for years. Now, because someone of influence has asked us to intervene, we’re to do so? I can’t accept that. I’ll act to save these people, but the Prince’s safety is decidedly secondary.”

Ezekiel eyed her sharply for a bit, before responding. “Your mission is two-fold: rescue the Prince, and slay the wizard. That is the entirety of your mission. That the people of Starling will be saved from mystical tyranny is a happy consequence, but not the mission itself.” His tone allowed no invitation for further discussion.

This did not sit well with Marcella, at all. But she’d already accepted the mission, and was bound upon her honor to complete the quest. Bowing again, she left without another word. As she exited the tower and came back into the courtyard, she pretended not to notice Jezebel and her gang of flunkies. When Jezebel whispered something, and gestured rudely towards Marcella, she was forced to shoot the other woman a deathly glare even as the assembled gaggle laughed at Jezebel’s wit and innuendo.

With this thoroughly sour inception, Marcella gathered her supplies and started her journey.

§

It had taken two days by horseback to reach Starling, and the sun was already low in the sky by the time Marcella reached the modestly-sized township. She immediately understood how the disappearance of the Prince could have passed unnoticed; Starling was barely a spot on her map. The only notable landmark was the Prince’s castle, which was itself fairly small considering some of the larger villages she’d passed through on her way here. Starling couldn’t have held more than one hundred and fifty people, if it held two.

Complimenting this feeling of insignificance was the disturbing feeling of isolation she felt upon entering the town proper. It wasn’t just the knowledge that the nearest neighboring village was a day’s ride away; it was something more abstract that Marcella couldn’t initially put her finger on. And in a moment of clarity, she realized exactly what was wrong: there was no one visible in the streets of the town. The town wasn’t empty; she could smell the burning wood fires from the individual homes, hear the hushed sounds from behind closed doors and latched windows. This was a town that was actively hiding from something.

Intellectually, she’d been prepared for this type of environment, but there was a difference between hearing about it from a third-hand source, and actually experiencing it. With such a palpable feeling of fear and unease, she completely understood why the Priest’s merchant friend had fled. Marcella had once slain a dragon, and even she was getting a terrible case of the creeps.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Marcella identified the local tavern and tied her horse outside. She was surprised, upon entering, to see a sizeable mass of people inside, sitting close and speaking low. As soon as she entered, every eye in the building turned towards her, initially with terror, then with suspicion.

No one volunteered any greeting, however, so Marcella continued on to the bar, where the barkeep, a tall man with a glass eye in the left side of his face, grunted to acknowledge her presence. “What’ll ya have?” he asked curtly.

“I’m not here to drink,” she said calmly; it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who knew her that Marcella never imbibed. “I am Marcella, High Paladin of the Order of the Radiant Warriors. I’ve come to free your people.”

The barkeep immediately frowned at her, glaring with such intensity that Marcella thought his glass eye might possibly pop from his socket. “What in the Seven Blazes is wrong with you, girl?” he snapped. “Are you trying to cause trouble?”

This wasn’t the anticipated response, and Marcella’s confusion was obvious.

“Isn’t it true that a powerful mystic has-“

“Yes, yes,” the barkeep snapped. “It’s not exactly the best time we’ve ever had of it, here in Starling. But only a few people have been pressed into service, and as long as we keep our heads down and our mouths shut, we won’t bring any more badness on ourselves.”

A quick glance around the room confirmed to Marcella that the barkeep was expressing the sentiments of the rest of the town, which she found both inconceivable and unacceptable. “You’d let your own countrymen to slavery if it meant saving your own skins?” she demanded, obviously disgusted. “Perhaps my zeal was misplaced. I’d come to recruit as many able-bodied men as possible to lay siege to the castle, but clearly, your spirits are already so sickly as to make you worthless.”

And now the crowd was getting irritable. Marcella judged it wise to show herself out. As she left, she heard the barkeep behind her. “We got enough problems without an Amazon with a rod up her arse stirring the pot. Stay out of Starling!”
Marcella slammed the door behind her, initially so enraged by her cold reception that she failed to notice her horse was no longer where she’d tied it. For a brief second, she’d thought it had slipped loose and wandered off, until she saw the telltale trail of her belongings strewn into the mud along the main path.

“Very well,” she whispered to herself, picking up the individual pieces of her armor to clean and assemble. “I shall proceed alone. Someone in this wretched hive must stand for righteousness, after all.”

§

It was an hour later, when the sun finally disappeared over the horizon, that Marcella emerged from the small collection of trees that surrounded the castle. While she’d been waiting for the cover of darkness to make her initial assault, it turned out to have been perplexingly unnecessary. Although she continued to make her approach with experienced and silent caution, there simply didn’t seem to be any sentries, barriers, or guards of any kind. Marcella realized, as she slid into the main entrance, that she could probably have just casually strolled into the main hall and still not met any resistance.

Aside from some Spartan application of candlelight, there didn’t seem to be any signs of habitation, at least until she approached the dining hall. As she neared, she saw lights, smelled food, and heard an indistinct voice. Well, it was supper time, after all. Drawing her sword, Marcella raced into the room in a single fluid motion, but was so surprised by what she found that she momentarily froze in an attempt to make sense of it all.

In the center of the room was a moderately-sized dining table, capable of seating between seven to ten people along its rectangular sides. The table was covered with an incredibly elaborate spread, each dish painstakingly prepared despite the obvious fact that most of the food was going to waste. At the end of the table closest to Marcella stood a young woman in an ill-fitting servant’s uniform, clearly as surprised to see Marcella as Marcella was to see the rest of this.

At the opposite end of the table, an older, barrel-chested man stood off to the side, also in a servant’s uniform clearly too tight in the shoulders and too short in the legs to have been tailored for him. He held a serving tray with the awkward handling of a man who’d never done so, before. He, too, was shocked into silence.

As odd as this mismatched pair were, they weren’t what gave Marcella such pause. Sitting at the head of the table, clearly the only person completely comfortable with this outlandish scene, was an unassuming young woman who had to have been a few years younger than Marcella herself. She had pale skin that spoke of aristocracy, flowing silver hair that continued to the small of her back, and disturbingly-serene brown eyes. She was wearing a black dress with violet highlights, which served to prop up her modest bosom. It was the eyes that bothered Marcella the most; they were so calm it was unnerving, particularly when paired with the half-smirk that tugged the corners of her mouth.

At that moment, Marcella realized she’d made two false assumptions. She’d presumed, with no real evidence, that a mage powerful enough to hold a whole town in terror would be much older and more experienced. She’d also assumed that the mage would be male, an ironic misconception considering Marcella herself.

Her momentary hesitation was all the time the girl at the head of the table needed to take stock of Marcella’s intrusion. “Oh, how lovely,” she noted calmly. “I haven’t had company for dinner since my arrival in Starling.”

The broken silence brought Marcella back to full alert. “You, witch,” she said firmly. “I am Marcella, High Paladin of the Order of the-“

To Marcella’s surprise, the young woman waved her hand dismissively, as if sending away an undercooked dish. “Yes, yes, dear. You’re here to avenge the priests or the princes or the unwanted puppies, or whatever particular dolt has you throwing away your life so recklessly.”

Marcella was incensed. “You dare!” she snapped, rushing at the girl with her sword raised.

“I do,” the young mage replied calmly. With a gesture, she sent Marcella’s sword flying from the surprised warrior’s hands; a second gesture wretched the armor plating from her body. To her credit, Marcella was undaunted; she continued to advance, fully prepared to tackle the girl bodily. Her target gave her a deep look that seemed to pierce Marcella’s very soul, before making a more precise gesture. Marcella suddenly stopped short, gasping as she felt the wind get knocked out of her by some invisible force. At the same time, one of the chairs at the table seemed to move of its own accord, sliding to where Marcella stood in order to accommodate her falling backwards into it.
Before she could regain herself, a series of leather straps appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, binding Marcella fast to the chair. With a final gesture from the mage, the chair slid back into place, seating Marcella at the girl’s right hand.

The girl smiled as if an anticipated party guest had just seated herself. “Much better, don’t you think? Now, let’s start again. I’m Ranavalona, and I’m the current Lady of this manor. And what did you say your name was? I missed it during your laughable attempt to assassinate me.”

After straining against the straps and confirming they were, in fact, not going to budge in the slightest, Marcella consented to answer. “My name is Marcella, Paladin of-“

Ranavalona cut her off once again, not even offering her the courtesy of a dismissive gesture this time. “You see, Marcy, you’re not the first misguided fool to arm up with lord and sword and come to slay me. Oh, credit where it’s due, you did take the precaution of a white magic charm on your sword and armor. That would probably have delayed a lesser mage long enough for you to defenestrate their head, but you’re not dealing with a lesser mage at all.”

Rana paused, enjoying another bite of the poultry dish before her. “Although I suppose you’ve deduced that already.”

It was the tone of casual conversation that enraged Marcella the most. Seeing this spoiled woman sit in absolute control of the situation, radiating control and power, caused Marcella’s heart rate to speed and her cheeks to flush with what she assumed was rage. “I won’t pay you a compliment, witch,” she hissed. “No matter what ways you disguise it, you’re nothing more than a common thug.”

Rana smiled. “Oh, you’re fun. I enjoy your spirit. You’re still going to die, of course, but at least you can die with the knowledge that you’re a step above the normal idiots that I have to dispose of.”

She gestured to the room around them. “Like this lot, for example. Do you think that I woke up one morning and decided to waste time playing with a useless spat of land like Starling? Hardly. I was merely passing through on a completely unrelated matter, when that fool prince decided he was ‘owed’ certain things in exchange for allowing me to enter his sad little realm.”

Rana paused her story, tilting her head slightly to study Marcella. After a moment, her eyes lit up with realization, and she snapped her fingers. In response, the cloth bindings holding down Marcella’s chest tore clean in half, allowing the warrior’s generous endowments to bounce upwards and breathe a bit.

“Hm, it seems you’re no stranger to those types of impositions, are you, Marcy?”

Marcella felt a warm sensation in the center of her being as she was casually toyed with by this woman. She brushed it from her mind, trying to focus on what it was Ranavalona was saying. She hoped the witch would reveal a weakness or opening that could be exploited.

“So, the Prince…” Marcella began.

“Is quite dead, yes,” Rana nodded, taking a sip of wine. “And most of his court. Carlisle and Ashleigh here are the last two remaining. Carlisle was Starling’s sheriff, while Ashleigh was one of the Prince’s mistresses. But since the house servants had the good sense to abandon their masters, I decided to improvise. It just seemed easier than going after them, particularly when I’ve still got an entire town of people waiting, should I need anything during my stay.”

“But why?” Marcella demanded. “Why torment and kill all of these people for the sins of a man you’ve already slain?”

Rana sat down her glass and looked directly into Marcella’s eyes, which felt to the paladin not unlike staring into an abyss. “Because I can.”

Smiling with satisfaction at Marcella’s obvious astonishment, Rana gestured to Carlisle. “Get my guest anything she likes,” she ordered. “Marcy, what can he fetch for you?”

Marcella considered. “I’m quite parched,” she allowed. “Wine?” Rana nodded to Carlisle, who moved with the swiftness of a man terrified of failing in his task. Marcella briefly wondered what horrors he and the woman Ashleigh had seen in these past weeks to inspire such a level of fear.

With some small delay, Carlisle returned with a fresh bottle of red wine, which he quickly poured into the glass sitting at Marcella’s side. He briefly hesitated, turning to Ranavalona. She nodded her consent, and the impressed servant lifted the glass to Marcella’s lips. The bound warrior took a generous drink, then paused to allow Carlisle to lower the glass.

At which point Marcella turned her head to the right and spit the entirety of her drink into Ranavalona’s face.

You could have heard a pin drop. Carlisle and Ashleigh were ghastly pale, terrified at what their tyrannical mistress’s reaction would be. With supreme satisfaction, Marcella noted that Rana’s mask of casual confidence, (if it was a mask), had finally slipped. The witch looked at Marcella with astonishment, as if she couldn’t process what had just happened. And just like that, the moment passed, and Rana reacted in perhaps the most terrifying way possible: she started laughing.

It was a genuine laugh, as if this was the funniest thing Rana had ever seen. “Oh, Marcy, I absolutely adore you,” she said cheerfully, still chuckling as she stood and wiped her face. “Of course, now you’re all going to die, but your sheer nerve is commendable.”

With this casual death sentence tossed out, Carlisle decided to press his luck, trying to make a break for the secondary hall that led to the kitchen. It wasn’t to be; with a single gesture, Rana brought him hurling backwards through the air, landing with a resounding thud onto the very table he’d spent hours setting. He moaned in pain as he wondered what piece of cutlery it was that currently pained his spine.

Ashleigh took a more pragmatic approach, immediately dropping to her knees and pleading. “Mistress, please, I did everything you asked, please please don’t kill me please…”

Rana sighed with annoyance, rolling her eyes. She’d have thought Ashleigh was paying attention when her fellows had been killed; begging did little but irritate the cruel mage. She stopped out from behind the table, allowing Marcella to see that she’d misjudge the girl’s attire.

She’d assumed the dress Ranavalona wore continued to the floor; in fact, it was barely a dress at all, stopping midway down the thigh. That isn’t to say that Rana’s legs were completely exposed; rather, the short skirt was almost met halfway by the longest pair of boots Marcella had ever seen. They were black leather, with a series of laces running up the entire front of the shoe. What’s more, they each had a thick rubber sole that elevated Rana several inches. Without the boots, Marcella judged the girl to be about five foot six, but she rose to five nine with those heels.

For some reason, Ashleigh stared at those boots, seeming more terrified of them than the girl wearing them. Marcella wasn’t sure what to make of this.
Still, she couldn’t just let this happen. “Let these people go, witch!” she snapped. “I’m the one who insulted you!”

“But they witnessed it,” Rana replied in a cheerful, almost sing-song voice. “You need to consider the consequences of your actions, Marcy.”

“They’re innocent, you harlot!”

Rana laughed again. “’Innocent’?” she repeated. “No one’s innocent, dear. Especially not these riffraff.” She turned to the table, and, using her magic to temporarily augment her physical strength, hefted Carlisle off of the table and slammed him to the ground in a single motion.

“This man, for example, has been extorting the citizens of Starling for years, taking anything of value that catches his eye. Food, money, women…”
She turned to where Ashleigh was still cowering, and pulled the woman towards herself with another gesture. “And this one, the Prince’s mistress? She gained her position by murdering her predecessor.” Rana let Ashleigh fall to the ground next to Carlisle.

“And these two are the least offensive of the lot,” the witch went on, taking a moment to turn Marcella’s chair towards her captives. She leaned over the warrior’s shoulder.

“You really have to wonder,” she whispered into Marcella’s ear. “What your Order really thinks of you, that they’d send you to risk your life to rescue such foul creatures.”

“As if you’re any better!” Marcella snapped, trying to pull away from Rana as much as her bonds would allow.

“Perhaps I’m not,” Rana noted casually, making a point to steal a glance down into Marcella’s generous cleavage. “But the blush in your cheeks says that you find me much more interesting.”

“It’s called ‘rage’, murderer!”

“If you say so, dear,” Ranavalona replied in the most condescending tone possible. “Now, you sit tight and let me deal with these two, okay?”
Ignoring the string of (admittedly creative) curses that followed, Rana went back to the remains of Starling’s court, making a ‘tsk’ing sound with her tongue. “Oh, Carlisle. Really, trying to run? Whatever am I going to do with you? Well, aside from the obvious…”

It took Marcella a moment to realize what, exactly, she was watching. It looked as if the large man was moving, crouching lower and lower to the ground, but that wasn’t it…no. No! He was actively shrinking, dwindling in size before the astonished paladin’s gaze. He voiced a terrified wail of protest which became less and less pronounced as he grew smaller and smaller. Rana, too, was looking with extreme intent, flushing at the sight. She did, however, take a moment to steal a glance at Marcella, noting with satisfaction that her ‘guest’ was enjoying the show almost as much as she.

When the process ended, the former bull of a man was a mere two inches tall, barely high enough to see over the heels of Rana’s elaborate footwear. With an icy chill, Marcella realized exactly why the young witch enjoyed such impractical shoes. She held her breath in anticipation of the inevitable.

“You can try running again, if you like,” Rana noted coolly to her miniaturized prey, her casual pronouncement sounding to him like the voice of God. “For all the good it will do.”

Carlisle certainly tried his damndest, not turning to either of the comparatively skyscraper-sized women on either side of him. He knew full well they couldn’t help him; in fact, they were next. He just ran, with a sense of primal, animalistic panic that he’d never felt before. For a brief, joyous instant, he began to think he might actually escape, before the shadow descended on him.

He’d never have the chance to realize this, but his impossibly mad dash hadn’t even taken him outside one of Ranavalona’s strides. Once she vaguely felt the vibration that indicated he had stumbled beneath her juggernaut of a boot, she slowed her step. A low moan escaped her lips as her eyes fluttered, enjoying the knowledge of what her prey was experiencing.

“You see, Marcy,” she whispered huskily. “You waste time praying to a god. But to this man, right now…I am God. That’s no theology. That’s cold, hard-“ Squish. “…reality.”

Marcella finally released her breath, shocked at the perverse cruelty this girl held. Before she could react, Ranavalona had already turned her attention to Ashleigh. The witch roughly grabbed the murdering socialite by the neck, starting to shrink her as she did so. Rather than leave her to the floor, Rana ensured that she was holding her terrified hostage in her hand when the process was complete. Ashleigh was openly weeping now, shivering despite the wash of Rana’s warm, sweet breath over her reduced form.

“Now, because you were a good girl and didn’t try to run,” Rana said with a false sweetness, keeping Ashleigh grasped firmly in her hand. “You get a special treat. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Not expecting or waiting for a response, the mage strolled to Marcella, smiling seductively as she straddled the other woman on the chair. Marcella tried her best to back further away, but there was simply nowhere to go. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Helping you lighten up, dear,” Rana teased, holding her shrunken captive above the canyon created by Marcella’s breasts. Her intention was immediately obvious, and Ashleigh’s screaming commenced again.

Marcella watched, captivated, horrified, and…something else? She managed a single, whispered, “No,” before Rana, chuckling, dropped the tiny woman. Marcella was briefly elated to see (and feel) that the small creature had survived impact, and was nestled firmly between the paladin’s titanic tits.

And then Ranavalona took one of Marcella’s breasts in each hand, and began to kneed them together.

Rana was purring as she did so, but Marcella was positively moaning. No one had ever touched her like that, before…a fraction of a moment later, a realization of what had just happened sank in. Ashleigh was no longer thrashing. Marcella screamed.

“Monster!” she spat, thrashing and squirming in rage and disgust. “Perverted monster!”

Rana laughed at her plight. “Slow down there, Marcy,” she teased. “You’re far too eager on your first time.”

But the smile dropped from Rana’s face when Marcella pulled her head back, and Rana immediately recognized the gesture: her unwilling partner was about to spit in her face.

“No.” Rana practically snarled, letting a concentrated bolt of dark magic pass through her hands. Marcella cried out in pain before blacking out. Irritated, Rana crawled off of her toy, considering the situation.

She’d initially expected to just toy with the warrior’s mind for a bit before shrinking and killing her like all the other attempted heroes with the misfortune of crossing her path. But Rana was genuinely interested in this one. She’d never come across someone so willing to stand up to her; she would normally have potential prey begging for their inconsequential lives by this point. Marcy was clearly made of sterner stuff, and that alone was noteworthy.

The fact that she was so obviously repressed also made her incredibly amusing, and was a bit of a turn on. It was fun, in a prurient fashion, to molest the overbearing, self-righteous prude. But therein lied the problem: Ranavalona wouldn’t ever quite get satisfaction as long as Marcy kept resisting her will. The control was as much of an aphrodisiac as anything else, and not being able to control this one woman was becoming a sore point. True, Rana could easily use a spell to cloud the older girl’s mind, and to all outside appearances, it would appear that Marcella had broken of her own accord. Rana would be the only one who would realize it was a lie.

This was, of course, another way of saying that everyone who mattered would know it was a lie.

“No,” Rana said aloud, finally deciding on a path. “We’re going to do something a bit different for you, dear Marcy…”

“I was around when Jesus Christ
Had His moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands, and sealed His fate”
-The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil”

To borrow the common phrase, Ranavalona strolled into Starling like she owned the place. Of course, for all intents and purposes, she did. Her name wasn’t on any documentation, naturally, but real power was rarely contained within legal parameters. On a certain level, Rana knew there was a hypothetical limit to her power. But she hadn’t met it, yet, and didn’t foresee it happening anytime soon.

So she’d continue to do as she liked, which brought her to the Starling tavern in the late evening. To be honest, she was slightly disgusted to even be approaching this pathetic little hovel, but it was a necessary step for her game to move forward. First, obviously, the board had to be properly set up.

She used a slight bit of magic to put the doors open, not deigning to touch them herself. (She may have been willing to go slumming for a bit, but she still had standards.) Just as before, the assembled crowd looked up in fear. Unlike before, the fear never left.

The barkeep briefly flinched, as if considering whether or not he should dive behind the counter, but as this was his establishment, that wasn’t a viable option. “…what can we do for you, ma’am?” he asked quietly.

Rana didn’t answer right away, taking a moment to look around at the unwashed masses before her. Animals. Finally, she spoke, maintaining the same calm, casual tone that irritated Marcella so.

“I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of trouble, everyone,” she said. “A madwoman attacked our principality, today. She invaded the castle, and tried to kill me, personally.”

“I…yeah, yeah,” the barkeep replied. “She stopped in here, an’ we showed her the door, my lady! Didn’t want anything she was sellin’!”

“So, no one offered her any aid? At all?”

“Hells no! I, uh, pardon my language, but of course not.”

Rana smiled slightly. “I’m so happy to hear that,” she replied. “After I went through the trouble to free you all from that beastly prince, I’d thought we were all on good terms.”

“Absolutely. The best.”

Rana had to work to hide her immense enjoyment of their groveling. Normally, she wouldn’t bother, (especially not for these apes), but for her game to work out in her favor, they couldn’t become too aware of her manipulations. At least, not until it was too late for them to alter the outcome.

“So, we’re in agreement that this woman needs to be dealt with. Obviously, I survived her attempt on my life. But she still lives. I need a team of five men to accompany me back to the castle and ensure the situation is resolved.”

There was a cold silence in the room. No one at all thought that the royal court was still alive, and they didn’t have high hopes for whoever was fool enough to volunteer for this…disturbingly vague mission.

Rana spread her hands in a gesture of openness. “I’m not a fool, you know,” she said. “I can tell you all fear me. And I know I was a bit…extreme with my response to Benito’s little shenanigans. But I have no quarrel with any of you. All I want is to leave Starling in a better condition than I found it.”

Leave. That was the magic word, and Rana knew it would be. These small-minded people couldn’t conceive that she would ever get bored of toying with their sad little town, and the thought that she would move on was enough to motivate some of their more reckless denizens to action. One by one, a half-dozen men slowly stood, offering their services to…whatever she needed.

Ranavalona smiled with a warmth that many of her previous victims would immediately identify as signaling trouble. “Wonderful! Gather some weapons and armor; we’ve work to do.”

§

Marcella was back in the dining hall, completely oblivious to the dead and mutilated victims of Ranavalona’s wicked passions, whose bodies littered the room. No, all she could focus on was the mage in front of her, still clad in an elegant violet and black dress, and…those boots. Those damnable, dominating boots, one of which was currently braced on the front of Marcella’s chair, rocking back and forth in a teasing motion.

Marcella thought she was still strapped in place, but it probably didn’t matter; she didn’t think she wanted to move, at least not without Ranavalona’s consent.

The younger girl was staring down at her with those endlessly deep brown eyes, a flicker of amusement playing upon them as she continued to rock her foot.

“Oh, my dear little Marcy,” Rana purred, licking her lips ever so slightly. “You’ve been such a bad girl. Did you think you could just barge in here and bully me around? Well…”

She suddenly pushed her foot forward, letting the chair, and Marcella, tumble back. With slow, alluring strides, Rana walked around to where the paladin lay prone, and lifting a booted foot above her face, pausing to allow her fallen foe a titillating glimpse of black velvet underthings beneath her skirt.

“You need to be reminded of who’s truly in control, pet. You’re nothing. My toy. And to you, I’m God…”

The boot lowered onto Marcella’s face until it completely obscured her vision, drowning her in an abyss of infinite blackness. With a startled cry, she awoke, the intense eroticism of her dream dissipating as her full consciousness returned.

Marcella reflexively tried to sit up, but was stopped short before she could complete her arc of motion. Confused, she tried again, only to feel the same weight upon her wrists. Squinting in the low light, Marcella realized that a pair of shackles was clamped around her wrists, securing her to the wall of her cell with a three-foot chain.

The cell itself appeared to be nothing more than an empty stone room, about ten foot by ten, barely enough room for a single occupant. There was no window, and the only source of light was from a lantern outside the thick wooden door.

The door had a six by twelve opening at about eye-level, perfect for any sentries on the outside to get a good look at the prisoner within.

Taking stock of the situation, Marcella was simultaneously relieved and terrified.

On the one hand, she hadn’t been killed by the insane sorceress. On the other…what possible reason could Ranavalona have for keeping her alive, particularly when she’d kept no other prisoners that Marcella could see? She highly doubted the girl was going to bargain with the Order for Marcella’s release, so what was she still here for?

Because of the low light, it took several moments for the captive warrior to realize that she wasn’t quite alone. There was a figure standing outside the door, not paying her any heed. Her jailer, perhaps? Whoever it was, he clearly didn’t realize she was now awake.

“You, there!” Marcella called, with a tone of command that surprised even her. “Where am I?”

The startled man turned, allowing more light to flood into the room. Marcella estimated him to be in his late twenties, and what she could see of his face suggested a farmer or laborer. “’M not at liberty ta’ say,” he allowed, eyeing her cautiously.

“You serve Ranavalona, then?” she demanded.

“In a sort, yeah,” he replied curtly.

“Whatever that witch has told you or offered you, you certainly know you can’t trust her. You’ll end up dead like her other peons. She doesn’t care for human life in the slightest.”

“Says you,” the guard snapped. “She’s offered me a share of this here estate if I helps her hold you.”

Marcella frowned. Idiot. And what’s worse, an idiot with banally mercenary pursuits. “So, you’d be a party to murder, for a share of the spoils of a different murder?”

“What’re you on about?”

“Prince Benito and his court may have been foul people, but even they didn’t deserve the torment your supposed benefactor dealt them. I’ve seen her murder with her magic. Do you really think someone so dangerous is trustworthy?”

“Listen,” the guard snapped. “I don’t have to explain myself to a stuck-up tart that got her arse handed to her by a wee girl half her size. No one asked for your ‘help’, an’ we’d just as soon see ya dead than to get involved in this mess.”

He paused, as if seeing her for the first time. Back in the tavern, he hadn’t gotten a good look at Marcella, and certainly hadn’t noticed the truly luscious dimensions of her figure. He adjusted the lantern to shine more light into the cell.

“’Course, you might have other uses,” he leered.

Marcella shot him a glare that could shatter glass. “I’d sooner die, you wretch,” she hissed.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, turning away. “You coulda’ had a bit of fun before Lady Ranavalona puts ya’ to death.”

“So,” Marcella allowed. “She’s going to kill me, after all.”

“Near as we can figure. Don’t know what she’s waiting for.”

“She wants me to beg,” the prisoner deduced calmly. “Like her other prey. She’s a fool. I won’t break, and certainly not for the likes of her.”

§

Those were, of course, truly brave and heartfelt sentiments. But Time has a way of changing things, and Marcella soon began to deal with a great deal more Time than she could have imagined. She was left in that cell for a period that had to have been at least two, possibly three days. With no windows, it was very difficult for her to accurately judge the passage of time, a problem made worse by the seemingly-random periods wherein her jailer would leave her. If there was a pattern or schedule to his comings or goings, Marcella couldn’t sense it.

Three times, he slid open the door, took a generous view of her body, and slid in a tray with a cup of water, and some gray, paste-like substance that Marcella couldn’t identify. It had no taste to speak of, but it wasn’t as if she had many options. She suspected it was an unnatural substance, considering she’d not had the urge to relieve herself since her imprisonment. At least one part of her dignity was intact.

She didn’t sleep willfully, and only drifted off twice in the course of her confinement. Both times, she dreamed of her encounter with Ranavalona, and both times, she awoke covered in sweat. She absolutely despised her body’s rebellion against her better judgment. For what was her training or discipline, if she couldn’t maintain composure in the face of some spoiled witch girl?

The solution to the problem was obvious: she must complete her mission. She must break free, and slay the sorceress, thus regaining her honor and banishing this unsightly and sinful temptation from her mind, forever. And if Ranavalona was too preoccupied with other matters to give Marcella any attention, then the warrior woman would take advantage of that distraction.

Matching skills against the witch would be a challenge. But outwitting this guard? Simplicity itself.

She waited until she was certain he was just outside the door, in his usual post. Then, in a low, shamed whisper, asked, “…were you sincere, before?”

The man hesitated, not certain he’d heard anything, at first. “Sincere? Towards what?”

Marcella looked aside, as if embarrassed. “About…fun,” she allowed.

Her guard raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed your mind on the subject?” he asked, obviously pleased.

“…it’s been days,” she said. “And...a woman has needs.”

There were no words to describe how much she hated this deception. Not only was requiring deception at all an unaccountable admission of weakness, but this particular ruse made her skin crawl. ‘A woman has needs’, indeed! What sort of half-witted mongrel would fall for such tripe?

This kind, apparently. The lock on her cell door began to turn, and the heavy wooden barrier swung open. “See, now, was that so hard, poppet?” he asked, in a supremely self-satisfied voice. “Who knows how long you got till the Lady decides to take yer head? Why not enjoy yourself?”

Marcella forced herself up as he approached. “I will,” she whispered in a clumsy imitation of sultriness. “Believe me, sir…”

The guard moved to embrace her lustfully, and at first, it seemed she was reciprocating. But with a deftness born from years of intense training, Marcella quickly slipped out of his grasp, using the chains on her manacles to form a makeshift noose with which to encircle his neck. The man, shocked and appalled, struggled mightily, but it was no use; the chains were too tight to his throat, pressing on his jugular and cutting off blood flow. His motions began to slow as his vision blurred.

Marcella smiled grimly with satisfaction. In a few moments, her jailer would be unconscious, and she’d be free. She’d take his keys, imprison him in her place, and find and kill that viciously evil girl. Just as planned.

However, as her captive’s movements slowed, Marcella thought of the humiliating, disrespectful leering she’d endured from this man, and her heart burned with rage. She was alone here, with him. No one knew the circumstances of their struggle. No one ever would…

Without any further hesitation, she pulled sharply on the chains, until the telltale crack echoed through the small space. Taking a moment to fetch the keys from his belt, the warrior let the dead body fall to the ground, and undid her bonds. As she rubbed her sore wrists in relief, she decided that the slain man before her was actually quite a dangerous opponent, despite how obviously stupid and easily overpowered he’d been. He simply had to be, because while killing a powerful foe in the heat of combat was a (sometimes) regrettable necessity, killing a man you’d already subdued and rendered harmless was pure murder.

She was Marcella, High Paladin of the Order of the Radiant Warriors. She was no murderer.

Besides, any compromise was worthwhile to put that sneering witch girl in her place. Marcella would make Ranavalona deeply regret what she’d done to the paladin’s body, infecting it with such…feelings.

Cravings. Urges.

Deep, dark, desires.

Marcella took hold of the lantern, close enough to the lit flame to allow the heat to sear her skin. She focused on the pain, driving everything else out of her mind until she was certain it was her own, again. She wouldn’t let the mage win.

She’d complete the mission, and bring Ranavalona’s head back to the Order as a trophy.

With extreme caution, Marcella slid along the walls of the dungeon hallway, eventually making her way up a curving staircase. Once she reached the ground floor, she began to look for any point by which to orient herself. It was actually somewhat irritating; she couldn’t find a single window in the walkway. She hadn’t expected any in the dungeon, obviously, but now that she’d returned to the castle proper, why wasn’t she finding any exit? What sort of deranged architecture was this?

Just before a sense of desperation could set in, Marcella finally found a door in a desolate corner of the castle, with light peering from beneath its seal. The warrior had thought it to be night time, but clearly, she’d been mistaken. It was a pleasant surprise, however. Looking forward to seeing the sun after her time in her stone-covered pit, she pushed it open with a bit more force than stealth should have allowed.

And she had to suppress a scream.

The light source, which she’d presumed to be the sun, was in actuality a single candle. A candle that was well over five times Marcella’s height, atop a sparkling candelabra that could have crushed the terrified warrior under its weight. Rather than cobblestones, or soft soil, or even manicured grass, she found herself standing on a surface of polished wood, extending what seemed to be hundreds of yards in every direction. And rather than a blue sky above her, she saw an impossibly high vaulted ceiling, with an elaborate mural painted into it.

Marcella hadn’t escaped Starling’s only castle. She’d escaped a perversely elaborate toy, sitting atop a table. The further implications of this startling fact being, she herself was perversely small.

“And what do we have here, hmm?”

The voice should have been soft, but to Marcella’s scale, it echoed like a sensual thunder, shaking her to the very core of her being. She didn’t want to turn around, because she knew what she would see. At the same time, she very desperately wanted to turn around, because she knew what she would see.
She didn’t have to wait for the internal conflict to resolve itself; the unimaginable titan was already moving towards her. Soft footfalls were still incredibly loud at Marcella’s scale, and she could easily tell her captor was rounding the table, and getting closer.

“I knew you were a naughty one, Marcy. Spying on a poor girl in her nightgown; what has the world come to, I ask you?” the cruel giantess giggled as she completed her one-eighty around the table. Marcella could barely grasp the significance of the words before they became overwhelming reality before her eyes.

Ranavalona stood before her, a goddess made flesh. To Marcella, the girl was a titan of unimaginable proportions, with the ability to snuff the pint-sized paladin with a single motion of her gigantic, perfect form. But the situation was worse than that. She wasn’t wearing the elaborate dress as before, or anything similar. Rather, she was wearing a bright red, flowing silk robe, which hung lazily over her form. Complimentary lace black undergarments peeked out and disappeared as the robe moved along with her motions.

The sorceress supreme placed her hand atop the table, rhythmically drumming her fingers. The vibrations, insignificant to Rana herself, almost threw Marcella off of her feet. The warrior struggled to keep her balance, thankful for the distraction from the enormous enemy before her. She simply couldn’t see any way out of this trap, now. She’d fought dragons, assassins, ogres, and even a lich upon one occasion, and none of them were even remotely as overwhelming as the woman before her.

“So…” Rana drawled, smiling darkly at the tiny woman before her. “You escaped. In a manner of speaking. Tell me, what of your jailer?”

“I…I…” Marcella managed, not quite up to the task of having a conversation with the monolith before her.

“Speak up, Marcy,” the witch sneered. “You don’t want to make me impatient.” She increased her rhythmic tempo against the table, moving slightly closer to her shrunken guest.

“I was forced to kill him,” she managed, fearing this might anger the witch. But Rana seemed completely unimpressed.

“Really?” she asked. “’Forced’ to kill him? I’d have thought he was no match for a High Paladin of the Order of the Radiant Warriors. But I’m entirely certain you acted up to your own standards.”

Marcella was beginning to acclimate herself to the situation; even though she was obviously in terrible danger, she was starting to assess the situation from a tactical perspective. Clearly, the witch was playing some sort of terrible game, and was unlikely to kill Marcella, yet. If Rana had wanted Marcella dead, she’d be dead, and that’s all there was to it.

Ranavalona’s complete control of the situation didn’t sit well with Marcella, but it clearly delighted Rana herself.

“…what was the point of all this?” Marcella finally demanded.

Rana smiled. “Why, my dear little Marcy, I just wanted to give you an opportunity to calm down, and get past all that ‘trying to kill me’ nonsense. Clearly you see how useless all that is. Now that you’re feeling more level-headed, we can talk rationally. Girl to girl, and all that.”

She paused, as if considering something. This was a farce, of course; Rana had already planned every move of this conversation days ago. Acting as if it was spontaneous was just another part of her game. “But this is no way to have a conversation. Let’s get someplace more comfortable.”

For a brief moment, Marcella turned as if to race back into the model castle. But the experience with Carlisle reminded her that it was useless; she was far too small to escape Rana, and only risked angering her, or injuring herself, in the process. Assenting to the inevitable, she allowed the mage to gingerly lift her from the table, being surprisingly gentle for…well, Ranavalona.

Marcella had to close her eyes to avoid being completely disoriented by the extreme vertigo she was experiencing by Rana’s casual movements. At least the motion sickness was allowing her to suppress the intense feelings coursing through her from the moment she was caught in Rana’s grasp. Marcella was totally at her mercy, and the thought made her feel completely powerless, but…this was attractive, in a way.

She finally opened her eyes when she felt herself start to descend, realizing she was being placed on a soft, cream-colored surface. Looking around, she saw that Rana was setting her on a large, king-sized bed. This must have been the Prince’s bedchambers, before his untimely deposition. Once she was fully released from Rana’s grasp, it was very difficult for Marcella to gain her footing on the soft, yielding surface. This problem was raised to nearly catastrophic proportions when Rana climbed onto the bed herself.

The surface of the bed where Marcella unsteadily stood seemed to rotate almost forty-five degrees to accommodate the girl’s weight, which sent the small soldier entirely off of her feet. Indeed, she was careening to the center of the displacement, which happened to be where Rana’s rear met the bed. To Marcella’s great relief, the giantess casually caught her before she could slide further, and moved her a safe distance away.

“There we go,” Rana noted. “Much better, don’t you think?”

Marcella was on her hands and knees, looking unsteadily at the bed/ground. She was shaking slightly, just glad not to be in motion anymore. “I…yes,” she gasped. “…better.”

“Excellent,” Rana went on, pausing for a moment to allow her audience to catch her breath. “Now, Marcy, as I was saying, I hope you’ve come to understand that you won’t be killing me any time soon. Or ever, frankly. It’s just too far beyond you, and I don’t know why you’d want to try, in the first place. To avenge a vile and corrupt court of aristocrats? To protect the brutish citizens of Starling? To please your Order, which only gave you the mission for political reasons? Perhaps I’m missing something, but what, exactly, possessed you to do this?”

Marcella finally stood up, her vertigo having passed. Ranavalona sat before her, legs crossed and pulled up to her chin, a living, breathing mountain of femininity and power. At thatmoment, Marcella fully comprehended exactly how small she was, and how useless it would be to fight this woman.

Ignoring the other feelings once again stirring within her, she decided to answer the giant girl’s question. “Your actions are evil,” she allowed. “They must be stopped.”

“Oh, yes,” Rana sighed, rolling her eyes. “This, again. You just love to throw that word around, as if it has some sort of value.”

“It does,” Marcella objected, with more force than she thought she possessed. “You act only for yourself, regardless of the consequences to others. You treat human lives as if they’re nothing. It cannot be allowed to continue.”

The mage smiled, still impressed by her new toy’s level of will and determination. Even now, completely at Rana’s mercy, this woman was still defiant. Horribly, horribly misguided and deluded, but certainly admirable in her dedication.

“Do you remember what I told you, at our dinner the other day? Nobody is ‘innocent’, Marcy. All people meet the definition of what you call ‘evil’, ‘selfish’, and all those other words that you say having important meaning. What you call ‘evil’, I call natural. And I don’t apologize for being more skillful at this natural law than others. Survival of the fittest wins out, dear.”

This was a complete rejection of everything Marcella stood for, and she wouldn’t even deign to acknowledge it. This entire conversation was deeply unsettling. “Just…what do you want from me?”

Rana’s eyes lit up. “And here we come to the heart of the matter. As I’ve said before, I admire your strength of will. It seems such a waste to just kill someone so extraordinarily driven, and I meet so few interesting people nowadays. So, I’m going to let you go.”

The statement hung in the air for a few moments, until Marcella offered a hesitant, “You’re going to let me go? Just…just like that?”

“Well, not just like that,” Ranavalona admitted, giggling slightly. “There’s still the matter of your incredibly disrespectful display at dinner. I do require some sort of contrition on your part.”

“You…you want an apology?”

“Not even that. Just a simple acknowledgment of my superiority will suffice. And then I’ll return you to normal and let you on your way. You’ve already proven you’re not a threat to me, so I’ve nothing to fear in the way of retaliation.”

Marcella still didn’t understand what she was driving at. “What sort of acknowledgment?”

Ranavalona couldn’t suppress an absolutely chilling grin. “My feet, dear. Kiss them.”

The simplicity of this request both shocked and horrified Marcella. She didn’t want to lower herself to such a level, nor did she want to risk getting so close to the mountainous mage. She didn’t trust Ranavalona, and more importantly, she didn’t trust herself.

Seeing Marcella’s indecision, Rana went on. “No one but the two of us will ever know, dear. And it’s the only logical thing to do. Your alternative is to go back to my little dollhouse, and spend the rest of your days as a completely insignificant insect.”

There was logic to this… “And…you aren’t going to step on me?”

The witch sighed. “If I wanted that, you’d already be under my boots with the rest of the maggots. Now, the clock is ticking, because I have other matters to attend to. If you’re not going to accept my supremely generous offer-“

“Wait!” Marcella insisted, starting to move forward. Rana seemed to loom higher in the air as the shrunken paladin moved to her. She felt warmer as she moved closer, both from Rana’s body heat, and her own apprehension. A great deal of the mage’s smooth, pale flesh was visible between the folds of her robe, and it took every ounce of Marcella’s self-control to keep her eyes averted.

Instead, she focused on her goal, the matching protrusions of the girl’s well-manicured feet. Ranavalona obviously took very good care of them, as they played such a prominent role in her favorite pastimes. The skin was smooth and flawless, and the glossy polish on the nails was the same bright red as her sleepwear. As Marcella drew close enough to touch them, she stole a glance up the twin pillars of Rana’s calves. Her peep wasn’t quick enough, and Rana caught her gaze, smiling seductively with what had to be, by definition, bedroom eyes. She curled her toes slightly in anticipation of Marcella’s prostrations.

“Go ahead, Marcy,” she whispered.

Marcella knelt, in front of a big toe half the size of her own body. With far less hesitation than she’d have expected, she kissed the top of the toe, eliciting a low moan of approval from its enormous owner. “Again,” Rana purred.

Marcella repeated the motion, a bit more eager this time. Thankfully for her pride, Rana was satisfied with the second offering, and pulled away suddenly. Marcella felt a violent retching motion, as she was ungracefully and unceremoniously returned to her full size. She convulsed a bit, while Rana moved off the bed, seemingly done with her. Marcella rolled over, once more disoriented. She looked up slowly, seeing Rana in front of a large wardrobe.

“You’re free to leave now, sweetie,” Rana noted casually, beginning to slip the robe off. “…if you want.”

Marcella didn’t answer her. Rather, she moved unsteadily to her feet, before bolting from the room.

“Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners, saints
As heads is tails, just call me Lucifer
Because I’m in need of some restraint”
-The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil”

Ranavalona hadn’t just dropped her robe to entice Marcella, although she certainly might have been willing to acquiesce if the paladin had decided to stay. Rather, the mage needed to change to more appropriate attire before the game could play to its ultimate conclusion. As she paused for a moment to let the cool night air wash over her exposed skin, she considered how, up to this point, every move had fallen exactly as she’d anticipated. As fun as it may have been if Marcella had fallen to her seduction in the bedroom, it would ultimately have been a disappointment.

As twisted as it was, Rana held a legitimate respect for her opposite number, and knew she was too strong-willed to betray her ideals, even under these circumstances. No, the final maneuver had to be dramatic, just as much as it had to be rooted in a firm rejection of the girl’s puritanical notions. Rana ultimately decided on a blood-red gown with a black corset, before she recalled one more act to be done.

“Mustn’t forget to bait the trap,” she mused, performing a small incantation. Two days prior, before shrinking and imprisoning Marcella, Rana had gathered a half-dozen men from Starling tavern. One, now dead, had served as Marcella’s jailer. The other five were sent on a half-day’s ride to secure an item in Rana’s possession, and bring it back to the castle. They’d returned before Marcella had escaped confinement, so Rana had simply use a spell to freeze the men in time, ensuring they’d still be in the courtyard, unpacking her prize, when Marcella fled the castle. Now, Rana simply broke the time-lock, freeing them to move once more. To their perspective, nothing had happened, and they’d move as normal.

Only now, they’d move right into Marcella’s path.

And with that, Ranavalona had played her last move. It wasn’t a particularly complex game, once she’d figured out the trick to it. Still, there were so many variables, particularly when her opponent didn’t realize they were playing at all. With anticipation, the mage took a place by the window as she dressed herself, eager to see the events below her unfold. As she pulled her dress over herself, she paused to summon one of her favorite pairs of boots to be pulled on last.

Mustn’t ever forget the boots.

§

Marcella was still running before she realized she had no real plan, and that wasn’t at all acceptable. She slowed to a stop, still in the main hall of the castle. She’d been so disturbed by the entire conversation with Ranavalona that she’d temporarily panicked, and chided herself for doing so. She knew full damn well she was better than this. The mage thought her beneath notice, and Marcella would do whatever it took to prove that was a mistake.

Obviously, though, she was currently outmatched. She needed some sort of white magical charm to protect her from further attack by the depraved girl, and she knew of a few select locations to procure such an item. She’d be forced to leave Starling, and that was incredibly risky; her target may move on before the warrior was able to return.

Marcella started walking again, calmly, for the main entrance. She didn’t even realize that the safety of the citizens trapped under Ranavalona’s rule hadn’t even entered her head; only the possibility of further failure and humiliation spurned her onwards. However, they quickly returned to her thoughts as she reached the main courtyard. To her surprise, she saw a stagecoach backing into the castle gate, manned by four men. As the rear of the coach opened, she saw a fifth man inside, standing watch over a large iron chest. The chest had a single rune inscribed upon the heavy iron lock, which took Marcella a second to place. It was a pagan symbol, (Marcella couldn’t recall which language, off the top of her head), generally associated with dangerous magics.

It didn’t take much to guess that whatever these men were bringing to the castle, it was to aid Ranavalona in…whatever in the Seventh Circle she was plotting. This realization made it supremely simple: Marcella had to intercept whatever was in that chest, and destroy it utterly.

Or…what if she could turn it against its master?

The thought froze Marcella in place. Strategically, it was completely sound. Marcella did know some very basic casting, and if that artifact was powerful enough to warrant such precautions, it could very likely give her the added edge she needed to claim Ranavalona’s head. Further, she wouldn’t run the risk of her prey fleeing Starling while she went to find some additional white magic talisman.

But the use of dark magic artifacts was expressly forbidden by the Order, even with the best of intentions. Their power tended to corrupt, and even those who could resist being tainted themselves found that the very usage of such things had unanticipated consequences for the world around them. If the Order found out she’d used such a relic, she’d be cast out in disgrace.

Marcella shook her head. She’d already decided, back in that cell, that any sacrifice was worth stopping Ranavalona’s evil. And she was still the High Paladin of the Order of the Radiant Warriors. She was better than those other weaklings who’d allowed themselves to be consumed by mere trinkets. And this was her opportunity to prove it, once and for all. To Priest Ezekiel. To Jezebel. To the people of Starling. To Ranavalona.

But not to herself. Marcella was far past the point of doubting herself.

Her course set, she advanced stealthily upon the stagecoach and its passengers, immediately picking the weak link from the pack. He was tall, but fat and slovenly, making it simple for her to slide up behind him. In a single motion, she slid his own sword from its sheath, and forced it into his back. He let out a frightened cry of pain, which was cut off by a bloody vomit that dribbled down his front. Frowning in disgust, Marcella retracted the sword and left the man to die in the dirt.

Unfortunately, that attracted the attention of his comrades, three of whom immediately abandoned the stagecoach to avenge their fellow. The first to reach her was small and lithe, but incredibly agile, dancing around her with a wicked glare. He pulled a rapier upon her, but Marcella quickly gained the advantage by slinging his fallen friend’s blood through the air; a large glob of it caught the man in the eyes, slowing him for a moment. This turned out to be his last moment, for it was all the opportunity Marcella needed to end his life.

The other two assailants elected to charge her simultaneously, forcing Marcella’s back to the wall. One man tried to run her through, but found his sword caught in the masonry of the castle instead. The other, a great bear of a fellow, realized swordplay wasn’t in his favor, and instead charged Marcella full-on.

Marcella knew that a man of his girth would be able to survive a stab wound from her present position, and instead opted to roll aside, quickly coming up behind him. Before he could turn, she brutally stabbed her blade upward, through the base of his exposed neck, and twisted until she felt the tip of the blade emerge through his face. He dropped with an inhuman moan.

His companion had finally freed his sword from between the heavy stones of the castle wall, but it was far too late. Marcella was already behind him. Her sword was left in her last opponent, so she satisfied herself by captured this one in a headlock.

“Sorry, ‘dear’,” she hissed, mimicking Rana’s casual diction before she twisted his head back sharply. She claimed his sword as he fell. One to go.
She approached the back of the coach, prepared for an ambush that never came. Flinging open the rear doors, she saw the chest, and its guard sitting just beyond it. He was armed, but his hands were nowhere near his dagger; they were high in the air, in the universal gesture of surrender.

“Lords below, lady! Just take the cursed thing!” he practically screamed.

Marcella frowned. “You. You serve Ranavalona, don’t you?” It was a question, but not really.

“Not for this, I don’t! Not no more! Here,” he moved to take the key, which hung from a loop around his neck. He tossed it at Marcella’s feet. “You want this thing, it’s yours! No pay is worth this!”

Marcella glanced down at it, then back to the prisoner, considering.

The man saw her indecision, and tried to press his case. “Please, just lemme go,” he insisted. “I won’t tell no one what I saw.”

What he saw. That certainly made the decision easy for her.

She made a swift motion with her sword, and the man fell forward roughly, gasping and clutching at the red gash that now ran from side to side along his neck. Blood freely pulsed from said gash, sliding with terrifying ease between his fingers.

Marcella roughly kicked him out of her path. “I don’t think you will, either,” she agreed, as she pulled the chest out of the stagecoach.

Sliding the key into the lock, Marcella wasn’t sure what she expected to find in such a large chest. She was a bit disappointed when she opened the lid, only to find the majority of the space inside filled with straw. Among that straw, however, she pulled a single, exquisitely beautiful necklace. The chain and backing were solid gold, and the centerpiece itself was a perfect black diamond, almost the side of a tangerine. Upon inspection, Marcella though she could feel a small series of runes cared into the backing of the piece, but they didn’t appear visible in this light. Unsure of what to do with the thing, she slipped it onto her own neck, where the jewel snuggled comfortably between her generous bosom.

Marcella paused, taking stock of the situation. She didn’t feel any differently with this supposedly dark object around her neck. Perhaps she’d been mistaken in its purpose? If so, she’d exerted herself a great deal for nothing…well, not nothing. These worthless followers of Ranavalona were dead, at least.

Still, after days in captivity, being shrunken, and the ensuing battle, she had to admit that she was sore, hungry, and exhausted. She’d be no use to anyone without some rest. She decided to trek back to Starling, find a room for the night, and then finish matters tomorrow, when she awoke fresh and rejuvenated.

And she would certainly finish matters.

§

The full moon was high in the night sky as Marcella returned to Starling, and the cool air was a welcome relief for the woman. She’d been incredibly warm since dispatching Ranavalona’s thugs outside the castle, a warmth that went beyond mere exertion. She kept replaying the battle in her mind, noting the ease with which she’d slaughtered them, and felt her pulse quicken. She’d always felt good after a proper battle, but this was something else. The complete abandon with which she’d attacked, secure in the knowledge that no one else knew of her brutality, gave her a thrill almost as deep as Ranavalona’s attempted seductions. Marcella had never confronted this part of her nature, before, and decided this was absolutely the worst time to do so.

Instead, she made her way to where she’d hidden her belongings by the path into town, and took a small satchel of coins she’d brought with her. Sighing in anticipation of the hassle she knew was to come, she made her way back to the tavern. This time, she didn’t stand on ceremony; she already knew these people were selfish, hostile brutes, clearly little better than the Prince she’d once hoped to save them from. The warrior flung open the doors, advancing directly to the barkeep.

“I’ll have a room for the night, and some supper,” she said firmly, throwing a handful of silver coins on the bar in front of her. “And spare me any of your lip. I’ve no tolerance for it this night.”

The one-eyed barkeep looked at her money with the same disgust as if she’d just vomited on the bar in front of him. “We told you to get out of town,” he snarled. “And we meant it.”

“Ranavalona won’t trouble you,” she insisted. “Just let me have a room, and I’ll be out of your hair by dawn.”

“We know she won’t trouble us,” a man in the crowd noted. “We made peace with her. The Mordecai brothers went to help her take care of you.”

“So you sold me out,” Marcella muttered. “Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

“Now, to that,” the barkeep demanded. “Where are the Mordecai brothers? She said they was going to track you down.”

Marcella was starting to realize that the situation was a great deal more perilous than she’d imagined. Her initial assumption was that she’d just have to deal with poor reception as a guest. But these people were actively hostile, and potentially dangerous.

And what’s worse, she was surrounded.

“You got blood on yer shirt,” the barkeep noted. “Where did that come from?”

“I was attacked,” she objected, glancing behind her. Someone had already moved to block the exit, and she counted at least a dozen men in this establishment, and almost as many women. Most were armed.

“An’ whadja’ do to yer attacker, huh?” someone in the crowd shouted, angry.

“Calm yourself!” Marcella snapped. “Don’t you see? Ranavalona is using you to do her dirty work!”

“You say you were attacked,” the barkeep snarled. “But I don’t see any wounds on ya’. You killed one of them boys, didn’t you? Didn’t you!”

With an icy sensation, Marcella realized she was about to die. This crowd was hostile, ready for blood, and there were far too many of them for even someone of her strength and skill to escape. That wicked, sexy little mage had clearly outwitted her; Marcella had never considered that Ranavalona would do something as banal as turn a mob against her. It was such an…ignoble fate.

But it doesn’t have to be, an all-too-familiar voice seemed to whisper into Marcella’s ear.

For a moment, the crowd encircling her seemed to completely vanish, as the paladin had to question whether or not she’d actually heard something, there.

Oh, you certainly did, Marcy, the voice continued to whisper. And the question you have to ask is, do you want to survive this night? Are you willing to do what it takes? Even if it means embracing the darkness?

As the first blows rained down upon her, Marcella made her decision, without anyhesitation. “Yes,” she whispered.

There was a brief hesitation in the crowd, as the otherworldly necklace Marcella wore began to glow and pulse, seeming to electrify her very being. Her eyes opened, the deep blues practically glowing. “Yes,” she repeated, more in a hiss than a whisper. “Oh, yes…”

To Marcella, it was if her body was alight with wonderful, amazing sensation. And what’s more, it seemed to be increasing with each passing moment. She stopped cowering, standing to her full height…and more. With a confusion that was soon followed by complete elation, she realized she stood half a foot taller than she had prior. What’s more, her vantage point continued to climb, her clothing growing tighter with each additional inch.

She was not about to let this go to waste.

“You stupid, worthless people,” she snarled, advancing on the mob that now had the good sense to try to flee the tavern. “I came to protect you. I can’t believe I wasted such time for you maggots!”

With an inhuman snarl, she spun back, striking the barkeep dead in the face. With satisfaction, she forced her expanding fist against his good eye, purring sensually as she felt it submit to her blow. Giving a second thrust with her expanding arm, she snapped his neck. She retracted her hand, taking a moment to lick some of the blood off.

“Now,” she hissed. “Who’s next?”

There were no volunteers. Indeed, the tavern was vacating even faster than before, if that were possible. “Oh, come on!” the expanding paladin called, moving to pursue her prey. “You were all ready to rip me apart a moment ago! Don’t go now!”

By this point, her clothing was practically skin tight, and it ripped and frayed as she leaned over to grab the nearest straggler. She laughed coldly at his attempts to escape; blows that would have felled a full-grown man did nothing but irritate her. She threw him to the ground in disgust, taking a moment to stomp down on his spine, ending him instantly.

The last of the crowd was escaping, now, but Marcella found she couldn’t pursue them; her growing frame was now too large to navigate through the building. She looked down, as the ground seemed to sink further and further away, and noted that the necklace was continuing to glow, and feed her extreme growth. The stylized cross tattooed on her shoulder had completely vanished…

Good. Meanwhile, if this building was a problem, it would have to go.

§

To those outside the tavern, the scene was completely surreal. The building seemed to explode, but the explosion wasn’t propelled by smoke or flames. Rather, it was fueled by an inhumanly large mass of feminine flesh. The growing giantess, formerly the mortal paladin Marcella, stood to her new height of over twenty five feet, now completely nude save for the radiant necklace almost completely hidden by her titanic cleavage. As she burst through the remains of the tavern, she erupted with a moan normally reserved for the most extreme of bedroom activities.

Looking at the small village beneath her feet, Marcella took a moment to enjoy how it continued to get even smaller before her, as if acknowledging her superiority by becoming less in comparison to her powerful form. But a moment’s reflection was all she allowed herself. Her new body continued to expand, and it ached for her to act.

Slowly, but deliberately, she slid a hand between her burning thighs. “I need you,” she whispered. “All of you. You insects are about to be useful, for one time in your miserable lives…”

And then Marcella went to work.

She enjoyed the violence, and the bloodshed, and made certain there was plenty to be had. At first, she took her time to kill individual villagers, getting more and more sensual pleasure from each bloody death at her hands and feet. But as her size continued to increase, and normal human beings became too tiny to stand up to sustained interaction, she moved on to the much more simple route of simply stamping them out beneath her feet. Each footfall became a source of indescribable tactile pleasure, eliciting low, albeit unsatisfied, moans.

Marcella felt as if she was getting close to something, but she didn’t know what. All she knew is, she wanted to be closer. She wanted more. And she’d find it at the town chapel, where the last remaining survivors of her massacre had fled, seeking divine protection. Without any thoughts to the blasphemy she was about to commit, the now hundred-foot tall Marcella straddled in front of the small spire, clutching her mountainous breasts with lusty anticipation.

The godlike warrior fell to her knees, practically demolishing the small building with the impact, alone.

But that wasn’t her plan. No, Marcella had decided to finally embrace her generous endowments in the most destructive fashion possible. She leaned forward, allowing those trapped inside the church to fully comprehend their fate.

Their screams of terror and mindless pleading only brought the enormous woman closer to her elusive goal, a goal she finally reached when she allowed the tonnage of titflesh to land on the church spire, crushing it and its occupants into an unrecognizable pile of debris.

In this final act of seductive destruction, Marcella climaxed for the first time in her life, spasms of pleasure wracking her gigantic body and flattening any remaining outposts of human settlement let undisturbed in Starling. Her cries of absolute joy and pleasure reverberated throughout the region, continuing until, physically and emotionally drained by the exertion, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

§

Marcella would sleep through the entire next day, the warm sun incredibly pleasant on her naked body. It wasn’t until the sun began setting, and the cool evening began to set in, that she would awake, first to confusion. As fragmented memories of the prior night fell into place, however, that confusion turned to complete horror.

“No…” she whispered, eyes wide and skin pale with terror. At some point during her hibernation, she’d returned to normal size, and now awoke to a scene of absolute desolation. Nothing lived, anymore. Between the loss of its citizens and the ridiculously thorough flattening of its structures, the small town of Starling had completely ceased to exist. Because of Marcella.

She was a monster, a deviant, hideous thing, exactly as horrible as Ranavalona. She couldn’t ever return to the Order, after this. She couldn’t…

“I shouldn’t be alive,” she whispered, shaking in horror and shame. Looking about, she found a large sliver of broken glass on the ground. She lifted it, catching its reflection in the setting sun. Closing her eyes, she lifted it to her throat. She didn’t bother asking forgiveness. She didn’t deserve it…

“Oh, and what nonsense is this?”

By this time, Marcella knew Ranavalona’s voice all too well. She lowered the glass shard, as well as her own head. She didn’t even want her enemy to see her in this state.

Rana strolled up behind the shamed woman, her demeanor entirely pleasant. She was absently using her magic to peel an apple as she surveyed the damage left in Marcella’s wake.

She whistled approvingly. “You know, I had high hopes for you, Marcy, but even I didn’t expect you capable of all this. It’s a pleasant surprise.”

Marcella shivered. “…just shut up,” she muttered. “You won, all right? You tricked me into destroying this place, for you. You made me a monster.”

Rana took a bite of her apple, only to find it had lost its flavor while being stored in the Prince’s kitchen. Irritated, she tossed it aside before kneeling next to Marcella. She placed her hand on the paladin’s shoulder, in a surprisingly comforting gesture.

“Marcella, my dear,” Rana said calmly. “I didn’t make you do anything. I set up the obstacles. You chose how to deal with them. Every step of the way, you were in control. All I did was provide you the opportunity to act. Everything you did, you wanted to do.”

“…and you don’t see how that’s worse?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Rana insisted. “And there’s nothing wrong with you. Do you think you were the only one who had a choice in this game? The citizens of Starling did, as well. And they constantly acted like the grubby little animals I already told you they were. You need to understand: they’re not the exception. They’re the rule. But people like you and me, we’re the exceptional ones. We can do as we like. Your problem is, you’ve allowed yourself to be fooled by false, hypocritical definitions of ‘good’ and ‘evil’.”

Marcella cautiously raised her eyes to meet the other woman. “I still don’t understand…why you did all of this.”

Rana sighed slightly. “Oh, dear Marcy. I already told you: I like you. You’re an extraordinarily interesting woman, and it was so terribly depressing to see you trapped in a slave morality that held back your full potential. I’ve always been entirely honest with you. Who else can say that?”

Marcella was still terribly shaken. “I…I don’t know…”

“As I see it, you have two options. You can either carry out your first plan, and kill yourself. But in that case, you’d best prepare to die alone, because I won’t stand around and watch such a tragedy. It would be far too upsetting. Or, you can admit that you’ve been misguided for far too long, and you require someone to educate you in the true paths of power, and darkness.”

Rana gave a small, but genuine, smile as she stood up. “I think I might know someone interested in doing so. If that’s your decision.”

Still in a crouched position, Marcella looked up at Ranavalona. The mage stood tall, proud and powerful, exuding confidence in herself and the teachings she offered. Marcella felt insignificant at her feet.

And she was completely at peace with that.

Rather than answer verbally, Marcella began to slowly unlace the mage’s extravagant boots, slipping each one off with the utmost care. She kneeled again, tenderly kissing Rana’s feet in a sign of submission that earned a purr of approval. Encouraged, Marcella’s displays of prostration moved higher up her new mistress’s legs, until moans of approval were all that could be heard in what remained of Starling.

A comfortable sofa materialized along the hillside of the Radiant Valley, hilariously out of place in such a pristine wilderness. As Ranavalona took her seat upon it, she noted with satisfaction that no one would spare a second to examine the sudden appearance of home furnishings. Not compared to the hundred foot woman currently bearing down upon the Order of the Radiant Warriors.

As Rana watch her dear Marcy advance upon her former home, she reflected on the paladin’s progress during the past two weeks. The girl followed Rana with a devotion that bordered upon religious, and despite her lack of experience with the dark arts, studied her lessons with a passion and reverence that the more experienced witch found invigorating.

That wasn’t the only subject that Marcy approached with passion and reverence, but a lady doesn’t tell.

Rana watched with interest as the head priest of the Order launched a magical attack at the titanic Marcella, having an excellent vantage point from the central spire of the Order. The witch girl recognized the attack as a spell tailored to lift any sort of hypnosis or mind control from its target. She could only chuckle to herself as she pictured the old priest’s reaction once he realized Marcella wasn’t under any sort of control. Perhaps then he’d realize how doomed they were.

Or, considering how quickly Marcella demolished the spire, perhaps he’d never have the chance.

Destroying the Order had been Marcella’s idea; indeed, she had practically begged for the opportunity. The fact that they had tried to have Ranavalona killed was an unforgivable offense in Marcella’s eyes. The warrior was so protective of Rana and her honor that the mage had begun employing her as an enforcer and bodyguard when she wasn’t studying her magics. Of course, someone as powerful as Rana didn’t need a bodyguard, but she absolutely adored the aesthetics of having one. It was another status symbol, and she got no end of amusement from watching supposedly-powerful men meet Marcella’s cold eyes with intimidated glances of their own.

Those cold eyes clearly spotted something, or someone, useful on the ground at her feet. Smiling deviously, the giant Marcella quickly grabbed a statuesque, raven-haired woman from the panicking crowd below, holding her close.

Rana strained to hear the conversation. “Jezebel…” Marcella purred. “Remember all those rumors you started about me?”

Rana couldn’t hear the terrified woman’s reply, but she didn’t care. “Guess what?” Marcy went on. “You were right.”

With that, the amorous titaness quickly put the tiny woman to…use. Ranavalona watched with interest, impressed by her apprentice’s creativity. As she continued to watch the show, (and made a note to remember that particular maneuver for a shrunken victim), a melody came to her mind. She couldn’t remember where she’d heard it; probably picked it up traveling among the Nexus at some point. But after a few moments, she was absently singing it to herself, already planning where to play with her new pet next.

“So if you meet me, have some courtesy, have some sympathy, and some taste… use all your well-learned politesse, or I’ll lay your soul to waste…”