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Our Father	By : WhiteWinter Category: +A through F > Corruption of Champions Views: 9295 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Corruption of Champions or any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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          “Meek.”

          Crack!

          “Humble.”

          Crack!

          “Obedient.”

          Crack!

          “In my presence, this is how you’ll always be,” you growl.

          Vapula’s big, bare bum is burning from the spanking, with cherry-red handprints shining on her two vast, light-purple fields of flesh. Her wobbling ass has a delightful heart-shaped curve to it, and it’s all too easy to lose yourself in striking it again and again, watching the flesh of her fat ass ripple before your eyes. Your hand is stinging, and you know damn well that Vapula’s feeling it thrice as strong as you are. You have her bent over your bed with her back slightly arched, positioned like a proper bitch, head-down and ass-up. Her face is buried in one of your pillows, and every now and then you can hear a muffled groan come from it after a particularly sharp spank. That pillow has seen some truly awful things these past few months, hasn’t it?

          You smirk as more aggression rushes through you. You clap each of your hands down on her ass and curl your fingers as far into her soft flesh as it’ll give, which is delightfully deep. With your fingers nestled deep into her flesh, you grip her cheeks tightly and shake them up and down in your hands, making her flesh ripple from the motion. This is a wonderful ass right here. It isn’t obscenely large in size, but damn if it isn’t supple and juicy. It might be the best of any of your wives. If it isn’t, it’s close.

          Gods, Vapula truly was your greatest conquest, wasn’t she? The once-great leader of the Demons of the Plains reduced to your servile bitch-wife, your personal fucktoy who busts your nut whenever you command it and takes your seed wherever you please to shoot it. She was the first demon you took into servitude, but she won’t be the last.

          Another rush of horny anger runs through you, and you fling your hands up and out of the deep valleys in the flesh of Vapula’s ass you’d nestled them into. Then you bring them down again from the air, striking each of her cheeks as hard as you can manage.

          To an unaccustomed eye, this here might look and sound like some sort of punishment. But it’s only the opposite. It’s a reward. You know each spank feels to Vapula like nothing less than thunderbolts of agonizing ecstasy. There’s more pleasure than pain, and the latter doesn’t feel much different to her than the former. You can see that with your own eyes. Between the heavy cheeks of her ass, under her tight, crinkled pucker, Vapula’s pink slit of a pussy is obscenely drooling, dripping beads of wetness onto the carpeted floor of your bedroom, hyper-aroused by every swat of your hand.

          Vapula’s a typical demonic painslut, and though her sadism can’t often be satisfied as your submissive bitch, her masochism certainly can be. Being spanked is some of the strongest pleasure you can grant your succubus wife, and as such, it’s a treat you reserve for only when you feel she absolutely deserves it. The words you’re growling at her between spanks are simply a means of attaching the proper emotions to the pleasure you’re gracing her with; you’re being such a good dom to Vapula because she’s a humble sub, because she’s your obedient slut, because she’s sworn off her old life as a leader of her cute little band of demons to instead become your servile, pillow-eating bitch. That reinforcement isn’t truly needed at this point, but it’s still deeply satisfying to give it.

          Vapula’s flesh is dotted with beads of sweat despite the relative coolness of the air of the room. You’ve got her worked up. As you swat her big, blushing-red bum from side to side for what must be the hundredth time, Vapula’s body tenses up, and her white-feathered wings twitch in bliss. Vapula’s cunt visibly contracts, not unlike how it moves whenever you instruct her to push out the river of cum you’ve filled her with after she’s lucky enough to have you give another shot at seeding her.

          Vapula is overdue for you to have knocked her up, isn’t she? It’s a shame you can only so often try to inseminate her. Being the special sort of demoness she is, Vapula has a very real need for your seed, and that need sadly doesn’t involve her cunt. But who knows, your succubus might have an early bun in the oven right at this very moment.

          Now that you see you’ve gotten Vapula close, you decide to finish this reward and bring your succubus bitch to her end. You step closer and reach forward over her back, gathering a fistful of her long locks of smooth, black hair, enjoying the silky feel of it around your fingers. You slip your other hand under her heavy ass, towards her cunt, where you abruptly and violently begin diddling her pussy. That very moment wherein you first pinch and twist her clitoral hood, she cums. Her loudest groan yet reverberates outwards from her pillow, and you watch with a smirk as her wings beat wildly on her back, shedding a few stray feathers and striking your hair-holding arm as they flap and flutter.

          By the time the last of her orgasm works its way through her, you’re achingly hard, and your cock is painfully straining against your pants. You’ve half a mind to shove yourself in Vapula’s sloppy, post-orgasm cunt and fuck her until you’re seeding her . . . but alas, she needs your cum elsewhere. It’s been a while since you last fed her.

          You take your hand from Vapula’s pussy and use it to give her thick ass one last squeeze and spank. Then you yank her head from the pillow with a violent tugging of your fistful of her hair, hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to pull anything from its root. You bring your lips to her ear and ask in a whisper, “Now, what do you say?”

          “Thank you,” she meekly whispers back.

          You tug her hair again. “Thank you who?” you growl.

          “Thank you, husband.”

          Better.

          “Are you hungry?” you ask.

          “Yes.”

          “How do you want it?”

          “However you want,” she answers, not falling for your trap.

          Well-trained bitch. Much meeker in your bedroom than out of it, and that’s perfectly fine with you. It might even make this all the better, come to think of it. Vapula being so thorny and – ultimately futilely – resistant to your authority makes it even more primally satisfying when you bend her over and dominate her. It’d be significantly duller around here if you didn’t have her, that’s for certain. Sweet Kylie eagerly spreading her legs for you at a moment’s notice never gets old . . . but neither does this.

          Hm . . . how should you feed her this time? You usually just recline in your lounge chair and have her suck you off while you close your eyes and relax, but . . . no, that’s too boring for today. You’re in the mood for some excitement. It’s time to switch things up.

          “Flip over, lie on your back, and hang your head over the edge of the bed,” you command her.

          When you step back, Vapula promptly does as you bid and lies on her back with her head over the edge closest to you. She pulls her long hair from beneath her, letting it cascade down your bed in shining, onyx curtains. Her violet eyes lock with yours as you unfasten your belt and tug down your trousers, and when you do the same with your breeches, your manhood springs free, already aching and throbbing with need, eager to be sheathed in any of the warm holes it’s become so accustomed to. Vapula’s upside-down gaze then instantly darts downwards – or upwards, for her – and affixes itself to your stiff cock, where her eyes then flush with unabashed desire and hunger. And do you see a smidgeon of affection, as well? This is the cock that feeds her, after all. The cock that sustains her. And it’s the cock that tamed her. Or, at least, made her as tame as she can be.

          Vapula licks her lips, partly from a reflex of hunger, and partly to moisten them for her coming feeding. She’s eager to get you inside her mouth and work towards her meal. But she’ll have to wait. She needs to pay her respects first.

          You grab your manhood by its base and hold it up and away from Vapula as you step towards her. Your pendulous balls swing just over her lips, and she immediately realizes what she ought to do. She knows the routine by now. She raises her head and takes one of your two orbs into her soft lips, suckling it and flicking her tongue across it. Little tickles of pleasure flare in your body, nothing intense, but pleasant enough to flush even more blood into your iron-hard cock. Once she has that nut polished off, Vapula drops it from her lips and shifts her attention to the other. A few caresses of her lips and laps with her tongue later, she has that one slicked with spit as well, and she then starts quickly alternating between worshipping each of your balls. She pops them in and out of her sucking mouth as she noisily slurps them, completely debasing herself like a properly shameless bitch.

          To think that this woman was once your enemy. Now here she lay, serving you, polishing your balls, firmly in submission. That thought never ceases to thrill you. It’s not as thrilling as the act of deflowering and impregnating your oldest daughter was, but damn if it isn’t nice.

          “That’s good enough,” you say to her.

          Vapula lets her head droop back into its resting position and lets out a satisfied sigh, pleased with her work and pleased that you deemed it sufficient. She’s far past the point of clinging to any pride right now. She’s so close to finally getting your cock in her mouth, and she knows it.

          “Pucker your lips.”

          You give your aching manhood a few prepping tugs as your bitch does as you command, forming a little ‘O’-shape with her plump lips. You lower your cock and bring its thick crown to her mouth. You prod into her and push just far enough to slip the top half of your glans between her tightly suckling lips. Vapula immediately darts her tongue towards your cockhead and slips the tip of it into your crown’s slit, teasing your urethra. The sharp sensation draws a grunt from you and urges a thick bead of pre-seed out of your cock, which is instantly licked away. You reach for Vapula’s chest and use each of her busty, squeezable tits as handholds as you carefully push your crown in and out of her lips, thumbing her dark-purple nipples as you leisurely use only her moist, puckered lips to stimulate yourself. Eager to pleasure you and even more eager to feed, Vapula slides her tongue across your glans each time it pushes past her lips, prompting more warm tendrils of pleasure to swim through your core, as more pre-seed is lapped away by her tongue.

          You finally take your next stroke past Vapula’s lips. You ease your hips forward and slowly push your manhood through her mouth, brushing it over the wet flat of her tongue until you’ve slotted every inch of your member into her. The angle of her head lets your cockhead push smoothly into her warm throat, and Vapula’s total lack of a gag reflex allow you to do so without drawing a single retch or flinch from her, even as your cock visibly bulges her throat. Vapula wraps her plump lips around your cock in a nice, tightly-sealed ring of suction that squeezes you with pleasure without impeding your thrusts. You keep your hips pressed into her lips and your balls draped over her face as you take a moment to savor the snug feeling of having your cock sheathed within your demon-bitch’s throat.

          Ready to get started, you sink your fingers deeper into Vapula’s tit-flesh and squeeze her breasts tight as you ease your length out of her lips. When your crown is all that’s still suckled between her lips, you slam your hips forward again, and a wet, muffled urk comes from Vapula’s throat as your cock shoves back inside it. You repeat that thrust, and then do it again and again in a smooth, leisurely cadence. You fuck her face with long, deep strokes, grunting as the snugness of her suckling lips and the wetness of her salivating mouth prompt pangs of warm pleasure to bloom in your gut. Vapula slathers your member with her tongue with every stroke, and her efforts soon have your cock soaked and shining wet from the sloppy sea of saliva within her mouth. When you bore of squeezing her tits, you take to sharply pinching her pink nipples, occasionally tugging the stiff little nubs, all while the sounds of her cock-sucking grow wetter and lewder.

          As you play with her nipples, it occurs to you that they aren’t quite the shade of pink you remember them to be. They’re . . . darker. Still pink, but . . . definitely darker. It’s a coloration you’ve seen before. It’s the same one you saw in Kylie’s nipples, after you’d impregnated her with Hugo. Could it be? Thankfully, with your abilities, there’s an easy enough way to find out. All while you’re still pumping your hips and thrusting your member through her suckling lips, you reach past Vapula’s breasts and touch your open hand down on her flat belly, just below her navel. Right as you cast out a feeler of your thoughts, sure enough, you sense something: life. You’ve impregnated her.

          That familiar but intense feeling of fatherliness flushes through you. Your cock swells thicker and harder as your heart whose beat pounds in your brow sends south more and more rushes of hot, lustful blood. With that lust comes more anger and aggression, twisting your expression into a lecherous scowl. You release Vapula’s nipple and start roughly slapping her tits, making the supple flesh of the sizable, shapely orbs jiggle in waves as a treat for your eyes. You hasten the pace of your hips and fuck her harder and faster, forcing those muffled unhs and urks to be louder and quicker. Vapula takes quick breaths through her nose, but the speed of your thrusting leaves only small fractions of time where your cock isn’t inside her throat and choking her airflow.

          Fucking her in this fury, it doesn’t take long for your pleasure to build to its boiling point. A molten bliss slowly swirls inside you, brewing your rich seed, preparing your body for yet another explosion of ecstasy. Your lust burns hot beneath your flesh, dotting your body with beads of sweat. You shift your hands down to your crotch and grab ahold of each side of Vapula’s head, and you hold her perfectly still as you start hammering your hips into her mouth, pounding your cock through her plump lips and slamming it into her warm, squeezing throat to the tune of more wet slurps as you skull-fuck her for all she’s worth. You don’t give a fuck that she can hardly breathe, because right now, she’s nothing more to you than a tight, wet hole to unload your seed into, just as all your wives become when you’re in the very hottest of that heat of the moment. Whether it’s Kylie’s tight, wet pussy or Natalia’s warm, snug pucker or this demon-bitch’s plump, puckered lips, in this moment, when you’re about to blow, these women are your playthings, and nothing more.

          You let out a long, loud groan when your gut tightens and contracts, prompting that molten bliss to suddenly shoots upwards through your prick. You thrust your manhood to the hilt inside Vapula’s throat just as it starts twitching and shuddering, firing off huge spurts of sticky cum directly down the depths of her throat, filling her long-empty stomach with the sustaining seed that it hungers for. Vapula tightens her puckered lips and pulls them inwards against the base of your cock, sucking out more of your seed, strengthening the flow of your massive load and drawing more and more thick, rich spurts that no doubt have her stomach swimming with a gooey white.

          When the contractions in your gut finally start lessening and your cock’s twitches become sparser, you regain the presence of mind to make a satisfying show of this. You pull back your hips a short ways, leaving only your cockhead and a few inches of your shaft still sealed between Vapula’s lips and allowing the final few ropes of cum you shoot off to smother her tongue, granting her a good taste of the salty gift that she’s now digesting. When the last of your bliss finally fades into nothing, you pull out the rest of your cock, and you lightly flinch when your sensitive member slips free from your bitch’s snugly-sucking lips to the sound of a soft pop!

          As soon as you’re out of her mouth, Vapula gasps quick, deep lungfuls of breath, taking in as much oxygen as she can. You step away from her and admire your handiwork; the saliva that cakes Vapula’s face, the redness of her slapped-silly tits, and the streaks of runny mascara that gravity took upwards along her forehead. You would note that she’s blue in the face from you choking her with your dick for so long, but with the similar hue of her purple skin, it’s awfully hard to tell. Once she’s breathed enough air to calm the nerves that have been screaming for oxygen, Vapula gives a long, low moan, utterly gratified by the meal you’ve just fed her, which truly felt to you to be the largest meal you’ve ever given your cum-vampire bitch. Knowing from experience exactly what you want her to do with the cum you left on her tongue, Vapula opens her mouth and starts noisily gargling, giving you a show of the sea of whitish bubbles in her mouth as she savors the strong taste of the seed that her tongue is swimming in, all while staying mindful not to drool away a single drop. After she correctly presumes that you’ve had enough of that show, she takes in another long, satisfied breath before finally swallowing one final time, taking down the last of her meal in one big gulp.

          “What do you say?” you ask again with a wide smirk.

          “Thank you, husband,” Vapula whispers, holding her eyes closed as she savors finally again having the feeling of a well-filled stomach.

          You decide to not yet reveal her impending motherhood to her, and so you say nothing of it when Vapula finally rolls out of bed and onto her feet. With much to do today, the two of you begin quickly dressing yourselves, though you do manage one last sharp, ass-jiggling spank to Vapula’s big purple rump before she pulls her pants up, which draws a flustered yet pleasured huff from her. When she unceremoniously turns away and starts towards the bedroom door, you grab her arm and stop her.

          “Forgetting something?” you inquire.

          With her back to you, Vapula falls still. Then, suddenly, she spins towards you and takes you into an embrace, draping her arms over your shoulders and resting her wrists around the nape of your neck as she tilts her head and plants her open lips onto yours. She takes you into a deep, passionate kiss, showering your lips and tongue with affection no different than any adoring housewife would. It’s such delicious humility from a woman who once wished you death. Vapula has already thoroughly gulped her tongue clean of the remnants of her meal, and you don’t get any taste of yourself as you kiss her. Not that you would’ve minded much if you did. You’ve done much worse depravities than tasting your own seed.

          When she feels she’s done her part, Vapula starts to pull away from you, but you reel her back in with your arms and recommence your kiss, asserting your authority over her. You forcefully claim her lips and tongue, and Vapula sighs and lets you have her. It’s only when you’re done and bored of her do you release Vapula and extend her out in your arms, glaring into her eyes.

          “Now you may go,” you tell her. “Go switch shifts with Kylie.”

          You turn Vapula by her shoulder and send her on her way with another swat on her ass.

          You follow her out through the door of your bedroom but pause and let her go on down the hall without you.

          How many pregnant wives is that now? Three, right? Sophie’s belly has finally swollen again, Whitney is carrying her first child of yours – or first children, rather – and now, yes, Vapula’s the fourth. That’ll be at least four or five new little ones running around, or, for some, flying around. It’s a good thing you elected to not yet make your mouse-girls into mothers. Had you done that, this influx of children in the near future would go from ‘hectic’ to ‘absolute insanity.’

          You stride through the hall and into the second door on the left, into the kitchen. You find Kian standing with his back to you as he takes a glass cup from a cupboard and fills it with the tap from the sink.

          “Hey,” you say to him, smiling.

          Kian looks to you over his shoulder as you approach. His eyes strangely bulge a bit with fright when sees you. He hurriedly turns the knob by the faucet and shuts off the tap, but before he can move, you greet him with a pat on his shoulder. He gives a pained, hissing wince, his body tensing and clenching.

          “Are you hurt?” you ask with one eyebrow raised as he turns and faces you, hovering one of his hands over the shoulder you’ve just touched.

          “No,” he says with a grimace, his muzzle twitching in pain. He’s lying.

          Your smile sours into a scowl. “Take off your shirt.”

          “Dad, it’s nothing.”

          “Now!” you bark.

          Kian huffs and rolls his eyes, like any stubborn teenaged son would, but he nonetheless obeys. He sets the glass of water on the countertop, and he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it over the back of the nearby chair. Sure enough, your eyes find that his left pectoral and shoulder are wrapped with white bandages darkened with blotches of red blood. You grimace when you see it. It looks like it smarts something awful. Gods do you hate seeing your children in pain. It always summons a tempest-like swirl of emotions in your chest, the most of prominent of which is always an intense, searing anger.

          “When were you going to tell me?” you ask him, your voice low and furious.

          “It’s no big deal,” he tries to assure you. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

          “Did you tell any of your mothers?”

          “No. They would’ve just gone and told you.”

          Your right hand snaps forward and grabs the underside of his muzzle. “From now on, you will come to me as soon as you get hurt,” you growl at him. “That’s not a suggestion, Kian. That’s an order. And you will obey it. You understand?”

          Shame fills his eyes as he nods.

          You take your hand from his jaw. You begin gently peeling away his bandages, but not with your hands, as they’re now blunter and less precise than your power is. You keep them levitating in the air when they’re off him. Kian winces when the last one starts to come free, as it clings to him with fresh, sticky blood. The wound’s worse than you thought. His short, purple fur is marred with a series of four deep cuts, all bright-red and slowly oozing blood. The result of a swipe from some sharp claw, it seems. Kian didn’t even try to stitch them. They would’ve taken months to heal on their own, and the flesh would’ve probably never been the same.

          “Idiot,” you grumble under your breath.

          You raise your right hand and touch it onto Kian’s chest, prodding a finger into the flesh between each wound. Then, with a simple series of a few commanding thoughts, you direct a warm energy to your fingertips, where it seeps into Kian’s chest. His wounds then begin slowly but surely sewing themselves shut. They’re serious wounds, and it takes a great deal of energy to mend them, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.

          A pair of footsteps tap on the floor through the doorway behind you.

          “What happened?” Whitney asks.

          You and Kian turn your heads. Whitney stands there with wide eyes, stricken with horror. Her massively swollen belly lurches at her midriff beneath her maternity shirt, a swell that houses at least two unborn puppies, and maybe even three.

          “I’m handling it,” you assure her softly. “Give us some privacy.”

          Whitney hesitates.

          “Go on. I’ve got it.”

          Whitney finally nods. She turns away and leaves.

          “Kian, listen,” you begin as you look towards him again, “There’s no shame in getting hurt, alright? It’s part of hunting. Sometimes you bite off more than you can chew. Happens to the best of us.”

          “It was this dragon bitch, in the jungle,” Kian mutters. “Never seen anything like her. She taunted me, and I . . . I fucked up. I lost my cool. And I thought I’d win. But I won’t let it happen again. I just . . . I got used to it being easy, was all. Should’ve kept challenging myself.” He pauses and laughs weakly. “I got lazy. Kept going back to fuck those shark-girls by the lake. Have you felt them, Dad? Inside them, I mean?”

          You smirk as you briefly glance up at him. “Yeah, I have.”

          “Fuckin’ crazy,” he mumbles.

          “Just make sure you let me heal you next time this happens,” you advise him with a fatherly softness. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. You don’t need to suffer through some fucking needless pain. Okay?”

          “Okay. I won’t do it again.”

          “Promise?”

          “Promise.”

          You glance up at him again, meeting his eyes, and give him a comforting smile.

          You aren’t even winded by the time the last of Kian’s broken flesh seals shut and the last of his spilled blood fades away. More of a jog than a sprint. That would’ve exhausted you had you done it when you first came to this farm and made it officially yours. The Lethicites are making you unbelievably strong. There might truly come a time where there’s nothing you can’t do, and with what you have planned, you may be finding out later today if that’s indeed a possibility. And if it is, you’ll be making it happen.

          You give Kian a few firm pats on his freshly healed chest. He doesn’t wince. You grab his shirt and hand it to him. As he pulls it over his chest, you snap your fingers and incinerate the floating, bloodied bandages in a small blaze of white flames, turning them to gray ashes that you then shift and drop into the nearby weaved-wood wastebasket.

          “And Kian,” you begin as you cross your arms, “I wanted to ask you something.”

          “Yeah?”

          “If we had women here for you, would you use them?”

          “You mean, like . . .”

          “To fuck.”

          He pauses and furrows his brow. “You mean like . . . someone in the family?”

          “No. Someone outside of it. If I brought women here and kept them on the farm for you, would you make use of them?”

          “Are they hot?”

          You chuckle. “I’d make sure they were, yes.”

          “Then fuck yeah I would.”

          “So you can get off with a willing woman?” you ask, seeking clarification.

          “Yeah. I’ve done it plenty. There’s this shark-girl by the lake that comes to me every time I show up. Runs up to me as soon as she sees me.”

          Kian has a shark-girl lover? . . . But that’s beside the point. It’s good to hear that Kian could make use of a harem, because a harem is exactly what you’ve been plotting to create.

          “Go get your things from your mother’s house,” you order him. “Wait outside the door for me. I’ve got some things to take care of outside the farm today, and I want you to come with me.”

          “Really?” he asks. His eyes light up with excitement. It’s not often that you have him accompany you when you leave the farm.

          You nod. “Yes. Go on. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

          He turns and darts off.

          You go to the counter and drink the glass of water empty, and a cool rush follows it as it descends inside you. You then set the glass into the sink and leave it there for one of your many wives to scrub. You walk to the far end of the kitchen and leave through the doorway on that side, bringing you back into the main hall. You take a few steps to the doorway on the opposite side of the hall and walk through it, into the living room.

          Kylie’s already swapped with Vapula. She’s sitting on the carpet with crossed legs next to Rebecc and Lillian, with various-colored toys and building blocks strewn out in front of them. Though it takes you a moment to see him with Kylie having her back to you, you soon spot Hugo sitting in her lap.

          With your approval, Kylie keeps Hugo’s head of thick, black curls parted from the side and cut shoulder-length. It’s a good look on him. The jet-black of his hair matches well with the similar black of his feathers, which shine with a brilliant, bluish sheen in the sunlight. He still doesn’t look much older than the seemingly five-year-old he hatched as. His face is more lean and angular than round and chubby, just as his mother’s was at his age, but he’s still very distinct from how Kylie looked. You’re curious to see which parent he’ll take after more in the months to come. And he’s of course an adorable sight, with the kind of cuteness that tempts you to tense your jaw and grit your teeth as you grab him and squeeze the life out of him. His eyes are the same striking gray as yours and as all your children, eyes that can convey immense joy and searing fury equally vividly. Gods above is Hugo going to be an imposing sight when he’s grown. Even more so if he ends up as tall as his mother, or, damn, as tall as you. And he’ll be more than just a ‘sight.’ He’ll be a force.

          Hugo has your gift, and he has it to strong. It was him in his egg that had broken that vase. Thankfully, he hatched with a good handle on his power, and he never uses it by mistake. Occasionally he’ll lash out with it when he throws a tantrum – a nightmarish event when a little boy doesn’t have his gift, and a hellish one when he does – but he’s been throwing tantrums less and less lately. You scold him whenever he does, but you never strike him. You saw firsthand years ago just how badly that kind of punishment can be misused, and you swore to yourself you’d never do the same to your own children.

          But for Hugo to have his power and those great big wings on his back . . . there’ll be nothing he can’t do, and better yet, no one he’ll ever fear. You’ve often wondered how you should go about naming an ‘heir’ to take your place should something ever happen to you, and now Hugo may likely turn out to be that heir. He wouldn’t take your place as the father of your children or as the husband of your wives, but he’d take your place as the man who oversees this family’s safety, the man who ensures its prosperity. And what a fitting heir he would be. A man that could descend upon a woman from a cloudy sky like a black bolt of thunder, or drift from the clear heavens like an angel answering those in need. With his body and his gift, Hugo can be whatever he wants. He can do whatever he wants.

          But how the fuck did you manage to sire a harpy son? Is the corruption really so strong in your blood and Kylie’s that you’d so drastically twist and warp the genes of a child born in an all-female race? But, no, that can’t be it. It’s not that simple. You’ve seen corrupted harpy slaves birth imp sons to their demon masters, but you’ve never once seen a harpy birth a harpy son. That’s a first for your eyes, and as far as you know, it’s a first in the history of Mareth. Your corruption isn’t quite like that of the demons in Mareth. It’s . . . unique. Unique to you and only you. You’ve always said to yourself that you’d change Mareth forever by the time you’re done with it, but . . . holding Hugo in your arms and seeing that change with your own eyes . . . it’s incredible. You’ve got no idea if the second child Kylie births you will be another boy, but you’re going to make her a mother again and again regardless of whether she gives you sons or daughters.

          As for Lillian, your littlest one, she looks to be about three months in age now, growing only slightly quicker than a human infant would in your old village of Ingnam. And that’s of no issue to you. You always wished you had more time with Kylie as a sweet little girl running and flying and laughing, and so you have got no problem with Lillie staying young and innocent for however long she’ll take. Gods know there’s more than enough twisted, freakish things in this world – shit, in a lot of ways, you’re one of them – and Lillie will be a refreshing break from that.

          Lillian’s dressed in onesie pajamas. Hugo is shirtless and wearing trousers. They’re both playing with the same assortment of big, colorful building blocks. Lillian is simply drooling on them and happily raising them up and down. Hugo is smartly stacking them into the shapes of homes, with cube foundations and pyramid rooves. He’s already a sharp mind. But that’s no surprise. Kylie was the same.

          Hugo leaves Kylie’s lap to lay on his belly closer to the box of blocks, happily kicking his legs back and forth in the air. Kylie picks up one of the green cubes and holds it out in front of him.

          “What color is this, Hugo?” she asks.

          “Green!” he swiftly burbles.

          “And how do we spell green?”

          “G-R-E-E-N,” he says as he continues building little homes to his little heart’s content.

          “Very good!” Kylie praises him.

          Unlike how his birthmother was before him, Hugo has no hint of a lisp to his voice, nor any manner of childlike mispronunciations. He speaks sharp and clear. He’ll be a commanding orator when he’s grown. Just like his father.

          You leave the doorway and come closer to them. Rebecc smiles at you when she sees you, but when you hold your forefinger vertical over your lips, she stops herself from vocally greeting you. You want to nab Hugo by surprise.

          Just as you get nearly close enough to grab him, Kylie and Hugo happen to reach out for the same red cube, and right as Kylie’s hand touches it, an unseen force violently flings her arm away.

          “Mine,” Hugo growls as he glares at Kylie.

          Kylie’s eyes widen, astonished. She’s not yet sure how to forcefully assert herself as a mother, but that’s alright, because you know how to forcefully assert yourself as a father.

          “Hugo!” you shout at him.

          Hugo and Kylie whip their heads towards you.

          You lift Hugo from the carpet with that same force he just flung his birthmother’s arm with. You set him onto his feet inches away from you, where you glower down at him. It’s important to remind him that he’s not the only person here with his gift. When he goes too long without remembering that, he gets brazen and insolent towards his mothers. A child who thinks no one has authority over him is bad enough, but a child who thinks that while having powers like Hugo’s is far, far worse.

          “No, Hugo,” you tell him sternly, staring into his gray eyes. “You do not hit. If you don’t want her to take a block, you tell her nicely. You do not hit. You do not hit anyone on this farm. Understand?”

          Shame and sorrow flash in his eyes. He nods. His wings twitch as his mouth begins to quiver, but he holds back his tears, and his eyes don’t water.

          That’s another peculiar thing about Hugo: he does everything he can to stop himself from crying, even though you and Kylie have assured him that there’s no shame in shedding tears every now and then, boy or girl, and that it’s not a good idea to bottle up emotions. He’s a sharp contrast from the crybaby his mother was when she was young, but Hugo has a good reason to hold back his tears. It’s another effort of his to mimic you, one of many. Hugo fastens his belt with exactly the same smooth motion that you do, he eats his meals – his solid meals, that is – exactly as you do, and he walks in your shadow behind you at any chance he gets. He wants to be just like you, in every way he can. And crying isn’t like you.

          “Apologize,” you order him.

          Hugo turns away and walks towards his birthmother with his body deflated in shame, his head hung, his shoulders drooping, his arms limp at his sides. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he says softly. There’s true regret in his voice. But that’s not enough.

          “You’re sorry for what?” you ask, unsatisfied.

          “For hitting,” he clarifies.

          Kylie holds out her arms for him. Hugo readily climbs back into her lap and rests his head under her chin.

          “I forgive you, sweetie,” Kylie assures him with a kiss to the top of his head.

          “He’s probably just hungry,” Rebecc notes as she hands Lillian a block she was reaching for, who then promptly starts mouthing and drooling on as much of the block as she can, which isn’t much, as it’s far too large to be a choking hazard. “He’s been behaving well all day before that,” Rebecc adds. “And it’s been a few hours since he nursed.”

          “Are you hungry, Hugo?” Kylie asks as she lovingly runs her hand along his cheek.

          Hugo looks up at her and nods sweetly.

          Kylie grabs him by his bottom and heaves him up with her as she stands to her feet. Hugo wraps his legs around Kylie’s hips as she goes and sits in the nearby rocking chair. With Hugo in her lap, Kylie pulls off her sweatshirt and unstraps her bra, freeing her breasts to fall with a fleshy bounce. Kylie cradles Hugo’s head as he lay across her, and Hugo of course needs no assistance in finding her teat and taking it between his lips. The chair starts softly creaking as Kylie rocks gently and cups the back of his head.

          That’s still a strange sight, seeing your teenaged daughter breastfeeding your toddler son, the boy whose egg she birthed you, the boy whose egg you put inside her. But it’s not strange in a bad way. It gives you a rush of an odd blend of twisted thrill, primal satisfaction, and fatherly affection; a rush that’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You’re already impatient to start the process anew. You’re eager to have Kylie bear and mother another child for you.

          And, just as she always has, Kylie does you proud in her new role as a mother. You’ve assured her that she’s free to let Sophie take primary breastfeeding duties for Hugo, as she would gladly do it, but Kylie insists on doing it herself. Despite her youth, Kylie is already quickly proving herself to be one of your most genuinely motherly wives. Affectionate, understanding, patient . . . she’s never struggled. Hugo can be a handful at times, especially considering that gift he inherited from you, but Kylie almost never needs your assistance with him. If something were to ever happen to you – which you’ll make damn sure it doesn’t – you’re confident that Kylie would do just fine raising Hugo without you.

          “I’m heading out with Kian,” you announce to the room. “We should be back by dinner, but I can’t promise it. Might be later tonight.”

          Rebecc and Kylie nod.

          “Alright,” Rebecc says.

          “Where’re you going?” Kylie asks with a curious tilt of her head. She affectionately scratches the soft feathers between Hugo’s wings as he nurses.

          “To that old rat on the lakeside,” you answer with a pointing gesture behind yourself, in the direction you’re speaking of. “Going to have that chat with him that I’ve been meaning to have. And I’m also going to see if I can’t get a certain someone for that new barn Whitney finished the other day.”

          You approach Kylie and gently grab her chin, directing her eyes upwards to meet yours.

          “Take a bath in the tub downstairs while I’m gone,” you instruct her firmly. “I want you fresh for tonight. And if we’re not home for dinner, be in bed, and be ready for me.”

          “Yes, Daddy,” she says meekly, speaking with that tone of sweet obedience that she knows you love to hear.

          Hugo looks from Kylie to you with curious eyes as he busily feeds from the teat between his lips, his cheeks swiftly and repeatedly hollowing as he voraciously guzzles his birthmother’s milk. He’s none the wiser to the meaning of your words. You chuckle as you cup his soft, feathered cheek. You turn away from them and start towards the doorway, and as you near it, you hear an unusually loud creak come from the rocking chair.

          “Daddy?” Hugo chirps.

          You turn around. Hugo stands in front of you, looking up at you with dewy eyes and a dribble of milk on the feathers of his chin.

          “Will you hug me goodbye?” he asks sweetly as he raises his arms.

          You chuckle and use your thumb to wipe the milk from his chin. You lean down and pluck him from the floor with one hand under his bum and the other against his back, and he wraps his arms around you and nuzzles his head against your jaw as you take him into a firm, snug hug.

          “I love you, boy,” you mutter as you squeeze him tight.

          “I love you too, Daddy.”

          Gods . . . to think that you’ll be able to feel this fatherly joy endlessly for the rest of your days, with child after child. What a life this is. This is worth every suffering you’ve ever weathered. It’s worth every cruelty you endured from that man in your old world, and every hardship you’ve fought through in this new one. Without a fucking doubt. And you’ll die before you let this family fall. Without a fucking doubt.

          . . .

          The warm afternoon sun shines down on you and Kian from the cloudless sky. The vast, motionless lake is on your right, and green, grassy fields are on your left. The two of you pass a pack of tiger-girls basking nude in the sun on the sand of the lake’s beach, but when one spots you, it informs the others, and they all hurriedly flee into the water and swim away. Kian watches them as they go.

          “How do you manage to get anyone when you hunt?” he asks, glancing at you. “They all run away when they see you.”

          “I catch them by surprise,” you answer plainly. “Like I did with that goblin girl. And I don’t have to get them in arm’s reach to grab them.”

          Kian nods. He looks towards the lake again, where the shark-girls were basking. There’s a wistful look in his eyes.

          The old rat’s tent soon comes into view. It’s a large tent, not anywhere the size of a home, but big enough to make up a sort of bedroom with a decent amount of shelf and storage space. It likely took the old coot the better part of a day to put together.

          When you’re only about thirty yards from the tent, you stop where you stand and grab Kian’s shoulder and turn him to face you.

          “Listen, when we’re in there, let me do the talking,” you tell him. “Alright?”

          “Should I wait outside?”

          “No, you’ll follow me in. I want you behind me. Be intimidating.”

          Kian grins and nods. “Nice. Right away? Or when should I start?”

          “When I say the words ‘my Lord.’ Got it?”

          “Got it.”

          You pat his shoulder and start forward again.

          Unfamiliar smells waft in the air as you near the tent. Smells of potent potions and heady herbs. You soon hear the sound of something boiling as well. When you and Kian push open the flaps of the tent and walk through them, you see that that tent has the same furnishing of a large workspace that it had when you last visited long ago. The walls are lined with bookshelves filled with thick tomes, curious artifacts, rolled scrolls, and small pots with soil housing various mushrooms and flowers. There’s a small bed-nest of straw and blankets in the far corner, but almost every other inch of floor space is a maze of low-standing tables adorned with tools and utensils and pots and pans and yet more knickknacks and curiosities. At the far table is the old rat standing with his back to you, looking over a pot of boiling water as he mashes something with a mortar and pestle. He’s very evidently a man of great, advanced age, and he damn near looks a cripple. His back is markedly hunched, bringing his head near his center of gravity. His fur is a dusky gray mottled with white, and he has no hair atop the fur of his scalp. He wears a tattered, patchwork robe, an unsightly hodgepodge of fabrics not unlike what your family used to wear not too long ago.

          “Razul,” you call to him, speaking loud enough for him to hear you over the furiously-boiling water.

          He looks over his shoulder, and when his eyes find you, he spins around and faces you, still holding the mortar and pestle in his hands. “Erm, yes?” he calls back tentatively. His voice is scratchy and raspy – as always – and you can hardly hear him over the water.

          “Put a lid on the pot,” you instruct him as you add a matching gesture with your hands.

          “Oh, yes,” he mumbles.

          Razul hurriedly silences the boiling with a lid and sets the mortar and pestle on the counter. He turns to you and Kian again and takes a few steps closer, to the next table that stands between you and him.

          “Been a while, hasn’t it?” you muse.

          He nods. “Yes, it has. I feared you may have fallen victim to some hooligan and become a . . . servant. And you . . . you look different.”

          “Fatherhood changes men.”

          He nods again. “So it does. Yes, I’ve heard you go by ‘the Father’ now.”

          “You heard right,” you confirm as you start leisurely walking through the maze of tables towards him. You suddenly and sharply raise your forefinger as you near him. “But that’s not how you’ll address me,” you add. As you draw nearer and nearer, his gaze is forced to turn higher and higher to be able to meet yours. “From here on out,” you begin once you’re finally standing before him, towering over him, “You’ll address me as ‘my Lord.’”

          A sharp, repeated hissing of metal fills the tent from behind you. You glance over your shoulder and see Kian sharpening one of his two daggers with a rod of honing steel. Well done.

          When you look to Razul again, you see him watching Kian nervously, and his throat shifts as he gulps. Such a fearful little man. “As you wish,” he says.

          “That’s my son Kian,” you note as you watch your boy with the rat. “My oldest son.”

          “He . . . he looks like—”

          “—Amily. She’s his mother. If you were wondering where she’d vanished to, that’s where. Amily is my wife. One of my wives. She was my second. Or was she my third? Fourth? I can never remember,” you muse with a low chuckle. “I’m losing track.”

          Razul’s nose twitches.

          You put two fingers to the side of his muzzle and firmly turn his head, returning his eyes up to yours. “But don’t make assumptions of me, Razul,” you tell him as you glare into his gaze. “I am no demon. I am not of any kind. There is no one walking this world that’s like me, so you’ll do best to not try to pigeonhole me into some little category of men.” The last few words left you with a tone of blatant disgust. There’s very few things more offensive to you than the thought that you could be compared to any other man. There’s no one else like you. You’ve made damn sure of that.

          “Whatever you’re assuming right now that I came here to do, discard it,” you continue, still glaring at the old rat. “I did not come to hurt you, though I certainly could. I did not come to rob you, though that was certainly enticing. And I absolutely did not come to fuck you, of which I assure you there was zero temptation. Now, Kian is my oldest son, but he is not my only child. He’s one of many. I believe that when we last spoke, I only had Sophie and my little darling Kylie, isn’t that right?”

          Razul nods.

          “Well, I’ve sired quite the family since then. I have a family of fifteen now, with more little ones on the way and more wives I’ve yet to take. But there are wrinkles that come with having a large family. When one of my children fall ill, others fall after them. All three of my mouse-girls are sick in bed today with a fever. I don’t believe it’s life-threatening, but they’re suffering all the same, and that’s reason enough for me to act.”

          You turn away from the rat and walk towards the nearest bookshelf. You grab the pot housing a blooming, violet flower with a white inner stem – a nightshade by the looks of it, maybe? – and rotate it in your hands.

          “I know how to heal wounds,” you muse. “It’s a simple affair. I simply direct the torn flesh to sew itself whole, and just like that, it heals itself. But . . . I cannot heal sickness. I’ve tried. And I’ve failed. I don’t know what to direct. I don’t know how to tell the flesh to cast off what ails it. Maybe I’ll never know. Or maybe it’ll always be beyond me.”

          You set the flowerpot down and turn towards Razul again. At the opposite side of the tent, Kian has now switched to sharpening his other dagger.

          “That’s why I’ve come here,” you explain as you return to the rat and again tower over him. “You’re going to come live on my farm. I need someone like you. You’ll be more for me than a medicine man. I need a man with booksmarts. A learned man. A scholar. Someone who can help me devise plots that I wouldn’t other otherwise think of. You’ll be of great service of me. And this life won’t be without its rewards. You’ll be safe on my land. Never again will you be forced to hand over a large amount of your items to some wandering bandit or demon. Never again will you fear for your life or your body when you’re awaken in the night by a burglar. That’ll all forever be in the past. And Razul, I greatly respect men of value. You won’t be mistreated. You’ll be appreciated. I’ll have you live in great wealth, if that’s what you desire. And I’ll have you sated by gorgeous women, if you desire that. I plan to very soon acquire women for my farm to entertain those who aren’t me, and you’ll be entitled to them as well.”

          Razul looks from you to Kian and back again. “Do I have any say in this?” he asks quietly.

          “Funny you ask that,” you say with a smile as you raise and lightly shake your hand. “I was just about to explain that to you. Razul, I’m giving you two choices here. They’re not fair choices, but they’re the only ones you’ll be given, so you ought to listen closely.”

          You glance towards Kian and give him a wordless nod. He gets the message and ceases his sharpening and sheaths his dagger. You lower your head closer to Razul’s level and stare into his eyes.

          “Here are your choices,” you utter. “You will either agree to my proposal and move to my farm on the lakeside and become our resident man of science, at which point you will start packing your things immediately and be ready for my son Cain to come help you with the move at hour-past-dawn tomorrow, or . . .” You pause and prod your forefinger between his eyes. “I will twist you and warp you until you’re the perfect little servant, at which point you will do everything I just said, and you will do it completely devoid of your original free will, with your old mind snuffed from existence.”

          Silence.

          “Hour-past-dawn, was it?” Razul asks.

          You grin and nod. “That’s right.”

          “I’ll be ready.”

          “Great!” you say cheerily. You give Razul a friendly pat to his shoulder and stand straight again. “And don’t worry, you’ll still be free to do everything you do here. You can run experiments to your heart’s content. I encourage you to. But if one of my children so much as sneeze, you’ll be whipping up a cure for them moments later. Or at least something to ease their suffering.”

          “Very well.”

          “Very well . . .?”

          “Very well, my Lord,” he corrects himself.

          “That’s better.”

          You nod again and make your way through the maze of tables back towards Kian. When you’re standing at your son’s side, you glance towards the old rat one more time.

          “Oh, and one last thing,” you call out to him. “Don’t try to flee tonight. I’ll find you if you do. And then the old you dies.”

          You grab Kian’s shoulder and guide him out of the tent with you.

          . . .

          It takes you longer to find your way to the ruins than you’d hoped, and it’s already sunset by the time you and Kian are taking your first steps through it. Kian looks from side to side with wide eyes as you both walk through this wasteland that was once a village. The cold, half-standing ruins of home after home go by as you stride down a cobblestone road that’s partly overturned. The village’s old signposts have been plucked from the earth and lay on their sides. You never got the chance to see what this village looked like when it was still standing. It was destroyed well before you stepped through the portal into this world.

          “The fuck happened here?” Kian asks in awe.

          “Lethice happened.”

          He turns his head towards you. “Why?”

          “They stood up to her. She made an example of them.”

          He falls silent for a moment. “What if she wants to make an example of us?”

          You look towards him and meet his eyes. “Let her try. In a few minutes here, I won’t fear anyone ever again.”

          “What’s happening in a few minutes?”

          You don’t answer that, because you don’t know the exact answer yourself.

          “Do you remember when I told you that there’s always someone stronger than you in this world?” you ask him.

          Kian nods.

          “Well, I’ve got a feeling that, by the end of the day, that won’t be true for me any longer.”

          You let him ponder that thought as you turn your head forward again.

          A moment later, you and Kian are approaching the one thing that still stands in this village, the one thing Lethice and her army couldn’t tear down: the village’s cathedral. It’s a building of white marble that shines in the sunlight, almost untouched in appearance, weathered only with age.

          “Why didn’t she tear this down?” Kian asks.

          “She can’t touch it. Can’t even go inside. No demons can. I don’t think Vapula would be able to go in either.”

          It seems to have been a long time since anyone has entered it, because the rusted hinges of the right of the cathedral’s large double doors stick shut as you push your forearm into it, and it takes an extra bit of force to swing it open and get inside. Kian follows close behind you. The massive hall inside is at least a hundred feet tall, and yours and Kian’s footsteps echo eerily in the deathly quiet as you walk the long aisle. The wooden pews on each side of you two are abound with cobwebs, and there’s a faint but unmistakable stale scent in the air from the layers of dust.

          At the center of the end of the aisle just in front of the podium and lectern is what you came here for. There kneels a nude, gargoyle angel, a winged woman of blackish stone with her head bowed and her long, solid hair cascaded over her face, completely obscuring it. Her wings are folded tightly behind her curvaceous figure, her knees are together, and her arms are crossed over her substantial bust, a pose of total submission that still affords herself decency. Her body is youthful in appearance, not as young as a teenager, but a young woman all the same. Were she a villager in Ingnam, you’d guess that she’s in her early twenties.

          The angel’s left ankle is cuffed with a thick, steel shackle that, by the works of the strong magic it’s enchanted with, remains stubbornly free of the dust that covers everything else in this hall, including the gargoyle it’s coiled around. Her shackle is linked to a long chain that’s firmly rooted into the marble tile right at the base of the lectern behind her.

          “What’s this statue?” Kian inquires as he walks closer to it.

          “She’s a gargoyle.”

          He briefly glances at you, giving you a confused look. “It’s a person?”

          “Sort of. Her name’s Valerie.”

          “She looks like she’s made of stone.”

          “She is, right now. She’s in a slumber.”

          Kian reaches for Valerie’s head and runs his fingers over her smooth, stone hair. “How do we wake her up?”

          “Used to be that you would’ve just done it right there. When I last came here, any touch would awaken her. But with her approval, I managed to put a charm on her that made it so only my touch would. To make sure nobody that came here could hurt her or abuse her.”

          “‘With her approval?’” Kian quotes you with a smirk and a look of disbelief. “Since when do you care about getting someone’s approval for something?”

          You chuckle. “I was a very different man when I was last here. Kylie wasn’t born. I don’t think I’d even met Sophie yet. I wasn’t ‘the Father’ then. I was ‘the Champion.’ And I had a name. I held different morals than I do now. I was ‘pure’ . . . for all the good that ever did me.”

          Kian paces around Valerie, and his eyes soon naturally fall to her backside as he gets a good look at her shapely rump. “So you’ve talked to her? What’s she like?”

          “Humble. Selfless. Submissive. She’s a servant. I don’t know if it was Marae herself who made her, but she seems to have been made to be the embodiment of virtue. She’s the walking, talking example of the kind of person the people who once lived here aspired to be . . . until Lethice destroyed their homes and took them as slaves.”

          You pause and nod thoughtfully as the rest of the memory of your long talk with Valerie returns to you.

          “And Valerie was mournful of that when I met her,” you muse somberly. “She told me that some of the villagers had managed to flee into here when Lethice’s army descended on them, but after days passed and they needed water to drink, some of the men had went out to see if the demons had left. They hadn’t. Those still in here heard those men cry out as they were taken. After that happened, the remaining villagers considered simply dying of thirst, but with Valerie’s encouragement, they decided to take their chances and run for it. Valerie doesn’t know if they made it to safety, but she does know that none of them ever returned to her.”

          Kian looks up from Valerie and swallows audibly, his lust snuffed out by the horrors he’s just heard.

          “Valerie is a chaste servant, mind you,” you remark. “Virginity is one of Marae’s virtues, after all . . . but that chasteness is going to change when we bring her back with us. And we’ll be keeping that a secret from her until we get home, if you hadn’t figured.”

          “But she’s chained to the floor,” Kian says. “How are we gonna take her? And why’s she even chained down anyway, if she’s a selfless servant?”

          You shrug. “That, I truly don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe it’s some metaphor for holy shackles of servitude? Your guess is as good as mine. I didn’t make her, I didn’t put her here. And Valerie doesn’t know the answer either. She doesn’t know any more about herself that I haven’t just told you. She wasn’t created with any pool of knowledge, nor with any memories.”

          “Can you break the chain?”

          “I couldn’t last time. It’s enchanted with the strongest magic I’ve ever encountered. But this time, I’m gonna put everything I’ve got into it. Should be interesting.”

          You stride forward and stop when you’re standing over the gargoyle. “Come stand behind me,” you instruct Kian as you point your thumb over your shoulder. “Five paces behind, one pace to the side.”

          He does as you say.

          You reach down and, at last, rest the palm of your hand on Valerie’s forehead.

          At your touch, the angel’s body shifts with a single, visible wave. As that wave moves outwards from the center of her chest, the hard, blackish stone of her form shifts into soft, whitish-gray flesh, only a few shades grayer than the flesh of a mortal woman who had never stood in the sun. A pinkish-peach color comes to the nails on her fingers and toes, and though you can’t see it with her arms held as they are, you know from before that her nipples are given that same color. When that wave of life flushes through her hair, her locks regain their lively silken texture, and instead of taking on the whitish-gray of her living flesh, they shimmer into a reddish strawberry-blonde. When the wave finally goes through her angelic wings, they flush into their natural white as the appendages reflexively spread and their feathers splay, briefly stretching to their full, massive extent before returning to their resting state.

          After a long breath audibly fills and then leaves her lungs, Valerie raises one of her arms and gently brushes her hair from her face. She peers up at you with eyes of irises as clear and white as fresh snow. Her face is gorgeous and lean, with sunken cheeks and prominent cheekbones, and with a straight nose and thin but girlish lips. Those lips curl into a warm, relieved smile as her raising cheeks narrow her eyes with affection.

          “My champion,” she whispers. “How long have I slept?”

          “A long time,” you answer as you cup her cheek and give her a smile of your own. “Much has happened since I was last here, Valerie. I am so much more than I once was. And my title is no longer ‘Champion.’”

          “What is it now?”

          “‘Father.’ ‘The Father.’”

          “You have children?”

          “I do,” you say with a nod. “And I’ve even brought one to meet you.”

          You take your hand from her cheek and slowly pace three steps backwards from her, widening her vision, allowing to see Kian, who stands at your side and a little behind you.

          “This is my son, Kian,” you explain. “He’s one of my nine children, and I’ve got even more on the way.”

          Valerie stands up from her knees. She’s about six feet tall or so, roughly the same height as Kian. She lets both of her arms rest at her sides, feeling no need to hide her sizable breasts nor their peach nipples in your company. And with her on her feet, you and Kian can plainly see the reddish, ungroomed bush at Valerie’s crotch, something that won’t remain as it is when you return home with her.

          “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Valerie greets Kian softly, still smiling.

          “The pleasure’s mine,” Kian says with a courteous nod and elegant bow. Smooth.

          Valerie’s smile only brightens. “I’m so happy for you,” she says as she looks to you again, her words dripping with honeyed kindness. “There’s no greater joy for a man than fatherhood.”

          “Believe me, I know,” you say to her. “But I didn’t come here just to tell you that. I’ve come to do what I said I’d do so long ago. I’m going to free you, Valerie. And best of all, I now have a new family for you, new souls that you can attend to and new children that you can care for. I can return you to what you were meant to be.”

          Valerie’s eyes light up. “Can you truly do it?” she asks. “Can you truly free me?”

          “We’re about to find out.”

          You reach for the satchel strapped to your belt and withdraw what you seek into one of your hands. You can only just barely fit the three brilliant, purple crystals between your fingers, and so you wield your thoughts and gently lift them from your palm and into the air. Valerie gazes curiously at the crystals as they float before you.

          Kian tilts his head. “Are those . . .?”

          “Your sisters,” you confirm with a slow nod. “Alaya . . . Averie . . . Natalia. Such beautiful souls.” You briefly glance towards Kian. “Just as beautiful as yours. I’ve never tried consuming three at once, and I didn’t want to try it at home. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I’m a little nervous, honestly. And if I’m going to destroy whatever walls are standing around me, I’d rather them be the walls of this cathedral than those of my house.”

          “Destroy the . . .? Dad, maybe you should do this out in an empty fuckin’ field or something?”

          “Don’t worry. I’m warding the three of us right now. You’ll be fine.”

          Truthfully, there may indeed be some danger in this, but what you don’t mention to them is that the small nervousness twitching inside you is dwarfed by a massive, giddy excitement.

          But eating these things isn’t too enjoyable, and there’s three crystals here that you’d have to quaff. Thankfully, you’ve already thought of a better way to do this.

          With a snap of your fingers, the three crystals are each simultaneously pounded into a burst of fine, glittering powder, which you then gather into one joined cloud of what you can only describe as stardust. You then make a wafting gesture with your hand and direct that stardust to flow through your nostrils as you draw a deep breath, inhaling the powder to the very bottom of your lungs. You hold that breath there for no fewer than five seconds.

          Very suddenly, a pure, unbridled agony is set ablaze in every nerve in every inch of your flesh, and every last one of your muscles contracts as tightly as they can manage. Your stiff-as-a-board body starts slowly but surely falling backwards, but you manage to regain control of your limbs and turn just in time to catch yourself with your hands right as you hit the floor, stopping your face from smacking into the marble by just inches. The fire in your body only burns hotter and hotter, searing your flesh from within, and you can’t stop yourself from crying out in pain.

          You ball up your fists and pound them on the marble floor. Right after they hit it, every pew in the hall loudly shatters into a thousand little splinters of wood that fling outwards in all directions, and the splinters flung at you and Valerie and Kian are deflected away only by the imperceptible ward that you hold firmly around you all.

          The fire still burns in your veins, and it forces a long and loud groan up and out of your lungs. As that breath leaves you, a sharp fissure bursts from the marble of the floor beneath you to the sound of a hollow, thundering crack, and it spirals outwards in a dozen different directions, stopping only when each crack travels five or so feet up the walls.

          Then just as suddenly as it began, the agony vanishes from your flesh. You’re flat on your belly, breathing deeply and dripping with sweat. You plant the palms of your hands into the floor and slowly push yourself upwards, first onto one knee, and then onto your feet. You wipe the spittle from your lip as you turn and face the others.

          “Well then,” you mumble with a scratchy voice before deeply clearing your throat. “That was . . . an experience.”

          Kian stares at you with bulging eyes. “Dad . . . that . . . that was fuckin’ awesome!” he cries out with a wide grin as his boyish excitement boils over. “You’re like a fuckin’ demigod!”

          “I feel like one too,” you admit with a nod, grinning with him.

          “That was incredible,” Valerie utters, watching you wide, awed eyes.

          “Could you tell that your eyes were glowing?” Kian asks.

          “They were?”

          “Uh, yeah!”

          “What color?”

          “The same color they always are. Just a lot fuckin’ brighter.”

          You look to Valerie and gesture for her with a raising motion. “Come to me,” you instruct her.

          She does as you bid and steps closer, and you put your hand to her breastbone and stop her right as her chain is about to be lifted from the floor by her growing distance from its root.

          “Stay there,” you say as you walk past her.

          You get onto one knee by the root of her chain. It’s a steel bolt that looks impressively thick, but the metal isn’t the strongest force that’s keeping it there. There’s something else. A strong magic, of what origin you aren’t sure. Its origin matters little now. Whether the spell was weaved with good intentions or not, you intend to overpower it.

          You grab the chain link closest to the belt and tightly wrap your fingers around it. You take a quick breath, and then, with much more strength coming from your mind than from your arms, you yank upwards with every ounce of energy you can muster and fully exert everything all those Lethicites have ever given you.

          The chain sticks for a moment as you pull it taut, until it then breaks with a deafening snap. You keep the presence of mind to use more energy to keep your feet planted on the ground to resist the blowback of your own force. As soon as the chain comes free, the cathedral deafeningly detonates around you into large, numerous chunks of marble that are flung high into the air and make craters in the surrounding earth when they plummet and crash down, all while plumes of kicked-up dust mist the air almost too thickly for you to see the extraordinary destruction you’ve sowed . . . but no, you can see it, and it’s not even close to being like anything you’ve ever seen in all your days living.

          The last chunk of marble falls to the earth just to the left of where the cathedral’s east wall once stood. Feeling suddenly winded – no less exhausted than you’d feel if you had just sprinted around the world – you stand to your feet and wipe that trickle of blood from your nose. You snap your fingers in what you hope is the final time tonight, instantly clearing the air, distantly scattering the dust. When it’s all gone, you see the last of the sun slipping away on the horizon as it ducks below the world. You turn on your heel and find expressions of both awe and terror on Kian and Valerie’s faces.

          You burst into an almost manic fit of laughter.

          “Our family is going to be something special,” you muse with the widest grin of your life.
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Our Father