The southern courtyard of the Church was a marble garden carved from arrogance. Ivory columns rose like the bones of saints, their surfaces veined with gold and weeping vines. In the center, beneath the watchful gaze of a hundred stained-glass saints, the fountain of Saint Halbrecht burbled endlessly. Today, it was less a place of meditation and more a stage.
I stood there, basking in the holy sun, dressed in high-collared silk and scandalously short robes, savoring the moment. Hollow was inside preparing for another sermon, but I? I was preparing for war. It was time to test the full capabilities of this form.
His name was Father Caldrin.
He had appeared three days ago, a relic from the Eastern Cathedral across the city, sent under the guise of "oversight." But the way he held his chin, the smug smile he gave Hollow during dinner, and the whispered words I overheard in the hall told the truth. Caldrin intended to seize control of the succession.
Tall, handsome in a brittle sort of way, and celibate by choice—which meant he was one well-placed moan away from moral collapse. He had been winning favor with the younger priests, poisoning Hollow's reputation through veiled concerns about his past, his silence, his beauty.
"Brother Hollow is... perhaps too soft to lead," he had said at supper last night.
I nearly stabbed him with a fork.
But instead, I smiled. And plotted.
This morning, I requested an audience in the courtyard. Word spread fast. By noon, over two dozen clergy were lined along the marble balustrades. Caldrin arrived in full ceremonial armor, a small sword at his side.
"You requested a duel?" he asked, tone incredulous.
I tilted my head. "A duel of character, dear Father. You've questioned Hollow's integrity. I question yours. Shall we let the truth be seen?"
The crowd murmured. His lips tightened. I knew he couldn't back down without looking weak. He motioned to a cleric, and the sacred rites of challenge were invoked. A duel weighing one's spiritual discipline. Which was hilarious, because I had none.
We stood five paces apart, willpower in hand. We were to clash with divine intent, draw out our opposing auras, and see who the Heavens favored. What they didn't know was that I had no intention of fighting fair.
Magic shimmered over my skin like dew over firelight as I felt my features soften just a bit more than before, voice lilted just a little higher. The scent of sweet sin clung to me like perfume. I took a step forward and watched Caldrin's throat bob. I was improving.
"Something wrong, Father?" I asked, licking my lips.
He scoffed, raising his hands. "You mock this sacred rite."
"Oh no," I purred, circling him, letting the faintest magic trail from my fingertips. "I revere it. I simply believe divinity can take many forms."
I brushed his shoulder, and he shivered.
"Don't touch me," he growled.
I leaned close, whispering just below his ear. "Then stop wanting it."
His aura flared in holy light, but it wavered as I pressed against him, not with force but with need. My hand slid along his thigh, fingers ghosting over fabric. He jerked away, cheeks flushed, panting.
The crowd stirred.
"What's the matter, Caldrin?" I said aloud with a smug smile. "Losing focus?"
In a sudden flash of motion he struck at me with wide repeating blows far too easy to dodge. He then thrusted his blade forward and I curled around it, making sure to hit a slightly suggestive pose at the end for extra measure.
I moved fast, impossibly fast for his eyes to follow before I swept his feet in one fluid motion. I stepped away from his body. My goal wasn't just to defeat him. It was to break him. When he got up he whispered something under his breath before unleashing a blast of divine energy toward me. I simply stepped through it, the spell bending around me like silk, one of the perks of my Divine Femmeform.
He was unraveling.
I ran a hand down my chest, sighing just loud enough for it to carry. His eyes followed.
In one slick motion I stepped into him and kissed him softly on his neck. Then came the moment. The break.
His knees buckled. He gasped. And then, unmistakably, wetness bloomed down his inner thigh.
Silence.
One of the priests gasped.
Caldrin staggered back, hand covering his mouth. But it was too late. The hiss of urine hitting marble echoed like a funeral bell. He began huffing uncontrollably.
How cute.
I stepped forward, cradling his chin with mock reverence.
He suddenly slapped my hand away and fled, leaving only the scent of shame and a trail of ruined dignity behind him.
I turned back to the crowd and curtsied.
The courtyard erupted into whispers, then laughter. A few clapped. I caught the eyes of several influential clerics and offered a wink.
Later that evening, Hollow's popularity had doubled.
And Caldrin? He'd requested reassignment.
The sun melted into the sky as I led Hollow through the winding cloisters toward the dining hall. It was a lavish place—vaulted ceilings, chandeliers thick with candle wax, long tables that hadn't seen real laughter in decades. I intended to fix that.
I tossed open the door with a flourish and strolled in like I owned the place, which, if all went according to plan, I soon would.
"What are we doing here?" Hollow asked, rubbing his temple. He looked exhausted, his robes misaligned and his hair adorably mussed.
"We're celebrating," I said, gesturing for him to sit as I pulled out two silver goblets. "And before you protest about 'decorum' or 'propriety' or whatever other Church word they beat into you—" I reached into my inner robe pocket and withdrew a flask with a grin "—I brought contraband."
He blinked. "Is that…?"
"Yes," I said, unscrewing the cap with exaggerated reverence. "Real alcohol. Stolen from the Archabbot's private stores. Aged something-or-other with enough burn to peel paint."
"You're insane."
I poured the dark amber liquid into both goblets, sliding one to him. He stared at it like it might sprout wings.
"I'm not supposed to drink."
"You're not supposed to do a lot of things," I said, leaning forward. "And yet, here you are. Living deliciously."
He hesitated.
Then he smiled, just a little. And took a sip.
His reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, he coughed once, then his face lit up with the warmest grin I'd ever seen, cracking that oh so calm expression which he often sported.
"Oh my gods," he wheezed, giggling like a choir boy who'd just said his first swear. "That's horrible."
"That my friend, is the taste of freedom," I said, lifting my own cup and taking a long, satisfying swig.
The alcohol hit fast. Hollow's cheeks turned pink, his shoulders relaxed, and he laughed again—really laughed this time. Not the soft, composed chuckle he gave in public. This one was bubbly, unrestrained, and so full of life it made something ache in my chest.
He leaned on me after a while, giggling at absolutely nothing, his head warm against my shoulder. I reached over and took his hand, threading our fingers together.
"Cecil," he murmured, voice slurred, "I feel... happy. Like, stupid happy. Is that normal?"
I smiled and kissed the top of his head. "It is when you're with me."
Back in our quarters, I threw myself onto the bed, still in Femmeform, giggling uncontrollably. Hollow raised a brow from where he was reading, albeit upside down.
Looks like the effects have yet to wear off.
I described today's duel in intrinsic detail.
"You made him piss himself?"
"Spectacularly."
"…You're terrifying."
"Don't forget beautiful," I added.
He closed his book, rising slowly. "Both. Definitely both." His once shy nature had been completely eradicated.
He crawled over me, robes parting, and I let out a small, teasing gasp. Our lips met, heat blooming fast. Fingers tangled in hair, breaths quickened, and the tension of the day melted into something far more...physical.
We moved together, slowly at first, savoring each touch. Then faster, harsher, until the only sound was skin against skin, lips against neck, the bed creaking beneath us.
When it was over, I lay tangled in him, basking in the afterglow.
"That," I whispered, "was a duel worth fighting."
He laughed.
I had won the day.
And the Church? It was slipping through my fingers like wine. The final ceremony would commence tomorrow and I would be ready.
Brilliant.