The oppressive weight of the forest canopy pressed down on Scout Jones, or Jonesy, as his friends knew him. Each gnarled root and damp patch of moss was a tiny, agonizing hurdle in his journey to the dreaded Demon's house.

  His knees, protesting with every step, felt like they were filled with liquid lead, threatening to buckle beneath him. The dampness clinging to his trousers, a stark testament to his terror, was a cold, clammy reminder of his predicament. He tried to focus on the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, anything to distract from the creeping dread that coiled in his gut.

  His mission, a ludicrous proposition if ever there was one, echoed in his mind: politely ask a dragon too, rumored to be the source of earth-shattering tremors, to cease her activities and explain their cause. "A dragon's den," he muttered under his breath, the phrase a chilling euphemism for the abode of a woman who could likely snap him like a twig.

  The forest finally yielded to a sun-drenched clearing. The golden light, a stark contrast to the shadowy depths he had just traversed, bathed his ginger hair in a warm glow, highlighting the constellation of freckles scattered across his cheeks. The warmth, however, offered no solace to his trembling nerves. He was a moth drawn to a terrifying, beautiful flame.

  The house, a hulking structure of dark wood, stood at the far end of what looked like recently tilled fields. The earth, still bearing the marks of the tremors, was uneven and treacherous. Jonesy, his clothes clinging to him with sweat, navigated the rough terrain like a man walking a tightrope over a chasm. He felt the weight of every bead of perspiration, each one a testament to his mounting fear.

  Reaching the imposing front door, he paused, his hand hovering in mid-air. The scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic, perhaps the lingering scent of Demon, filled his nostrils. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air thick with the promise of his doom, and knocked. The sound, a timid tap against the sturdy wood, seemed to echo through the clearing, amplified by his fear.

  The door swung open, revealing Bathilda. She was even more breathtaking than he had imagined. Her hair, a cascade of shimmering silk, framed a face of stark, almost otherworldly beauty. Her eyes, a striking, vibrant red, held a captivating intensity that froze him in place. All thoughts of fear, of trembling knees and soiled trousers, vanished. He was a statue, a man transfixed.

  Her beauty was a physical force, a tangible presence that stole his breath. Her lips, full and inviting, parted as she spoke, her voice a melodious whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "How can I help you?"

  He couldn't speak. He could only stare, his mouth agape, his mind a blank canvas. She was a vision, a goddess, a creature of myth made flesh. The curve of her hips, the way she placed her hands on them, repeating her question with a hint of impatience, was a symphony of feminine power. Even the slight lift of her eyebrow, a dismissive flick before she began to close the door, was a masterpiece of subtle arrogance.

  The door clicked shut, the sound snapping him out of his reverie. He stood there, a full minute lost in a haze of infatuation, his face a mask of bewildered adoration. He blinked, trying to regain his composure, to remember the reason for his perilous journey.

  He knocked again, this time with a more determined, if still shaky, hand. He would speak, he resolved, he would deliver his message, he would…

  The door flew open, Bathilda’s face a mask of irritation. “I swear to God, if you don’t speak this time, I’m going to… to… beat you up! Do you hear me?” Her voice, sharp and forceful, sliced through his infatuation like a cold blade.

  The threat, delivered with a childish petulance that somehow made her even more captivating, shattered his fragile composure. The color drained from his face, leaving him as pale as the moon. The fear, which had been momentarily banished, returned with a vengeance, a tidal wave of terror that overwhelmed him. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the porch, a limp, unconscious heap at the feet of the woman who had captivated and terrified him in equal measure.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls of Bathilda’s cottage. A low, rhythmic snore punctuated the air, emanating from the unconscious scout sprawled before the hearth. His face, usually a picture of youthful vigilance, was slack and pale, the faint flush of fear still clinging to his cheeks. Bathilda, her hair a stark contrast to the dim interior, knelt beside him, her brow furrowed in concern.

  "Did you kill him?" Hiro's voice, sharp and accusatory, cut through the quiet. He stood beside her, his shadow flickering slightly in the firelight. His eyes, a shade of vibrant amethyst, held a mixture of worry and exasperation.

  Bathilda’s fingers, stained with the earthy hues of herbs and potions, pressed against the scout’s wrist, searching for the telltale thrum of life. “No! I don’t kill people, Hiro. I just… scared him. I think.” A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she felt the faint, steady pulse. “Thank goodness. I really didn’t mean to... petrify him. He just wouldn’t stop staring, and I was… frustrated.”

  "You killed me!" Hiro’s words, though a familiar refrain, struck a nerve. The phantom pain of past deaths, relived countless times, flickered across his face.

  "Yeah, but you're in one of my clones. It's different," Bathilda mumbled, her gaze drifting to the flickering flames. She knew it was a flimsy excuse, a desperate attempt to rationalize her actions.

  "No. It really isn't," Hiro retorted, his voice laced with the weariness of repeated trauma. "Each death is a splinter of pain, a fragment of memory etched into my very essence."

  "Well, it wasn't my fault you didn't have enough magic to use the Illusion skill, was it?" Bathilda countered, her voice rising in defensiveness. She knew she was grasping at straws, but the instinct to deflect blame was strong.

  "Er… Yeah! It actually was! And what about the times you used me as bait? Or a decoy? Or a test subject? Or when you pushed me off the damn ledge?" Hiro's spectral hands gestured wildly, his frustration palpable. "Do you even realize how many times I've died for you?"

  Bathilda’s shoulders slumped. She knew he was right. The litany of her past transgressions echoed in her mind, a chorus of reckless actions and careless disregard. She had treated Hiro as a disposable resource, a tool to be used and discarded.

  "Fuck. Alright, Hiro. I get it. I'm sorry," she said, her voice sincere. "I don't know why I keep trying to justify it. I was wrong." The weight of her guilt settled heavily upon her, a stark contrast to the lightness she usually carried.

  "Do you remember what happened when you died, Bathilda? Do you remember your death?" Hiro asked, his voice softening slightly.

  Bathilda’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Sort of. I remember being in a tornado, thinking of myself as Dorothy before I hit my head. I think? It’s hard to remember. It’s like a hazy dream. I do remember that bitch Florence, though! And that ridiculously muscled god. Seriously, why did he look like that? Was he auditioning for a celestial bodybuilding competition?"

  "I bet your death was very traumatic. Just like they are for me, Every Single Time!" Hiro’s face contorted with the remembered agony.

  "I am sorry, Hiro. Really," Bathilda said, her voice filled with genuine remorse. "I promise, from now on, I’ll do my best to protect you too. At first, I only thought of you as an interloper, a hitchhiker creeping along on my soul, getting a free ride. I was super mad at first, you know? But after a while, after all the fights and living in this house together… I’ve started to see you as family."

  "Family?" A faint smile flickered across Hiro’s spectral lips, a rare expression of warmth. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared when Bathilda added, "Yeah. You’re like my little sister now." A playful glint sparkled in her eyes.

  "God damn it, Bathilda! I’m a man. M. A. N. Man! Why won’t you just make me a man's body?" Hiro’s voice rose in exasperation, his tone simmering with frustration.

  "I can’t alter the clones, unfortunately," Bathilda said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Although, I’m surprised you haven’t just used Illusion to change it yourself. You’ve already done it to the hair and eyes."

  Hiro’s jaw dropped, his amethyst eyes widening in disbelief. He stared at Bathilda, then at his own form, as if seeing it for the first time. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with a mixture of anger and self-reproach. His form began to shimmer and shift, the contours of his body morphing and reshaping.

  The feminine curves softened, the shoulders broadened, the facial features sharpened. A wave of transformative energy washed over him, and when it subsided, a distinctly masculine figure stood in his place, a look of stunned realization on his face. "I… I can't believe I didn't think of that."