But they didn't work against the horrific multiple skulled monster. The abomination that stood in front of me.
And when we were presented in front of the black king in legendary grade black cuffs. When I looked at him I truly knew we were lost just from his immense size. I knew our freedom was lost.
And after ogling at me for a long time, what came out of his mouth shocked me.
"Use your Eyes of Petrification on me," I commanded.
"This..." I hesitated, glancing nervously at my kin behind me as I was sure we would surely die if there was even a chance of my eyes turning him into stone.
I stared at him in disbelief. Was this mockery? A trap? I glanced behind me—my sisters were barely conscious, held in chains that shimmered with cursed runes. If I hesitated, we would all die.
"Attack," he growled, "Or I will be forced to do something you won't like."
Something inside me shattered. I couldn't risk it. My honor screamed in defiance, but my soul knew—if I didn't try, he would break us. So I did it.
I activated the ancient mechanism on my crown-helm, unfolding the mask that had once been sealed since my coronation. My full gaze, unbound, blazed like twin stars.
And I looked directly into his eyes.
What followed was agony beyond comprehension.
My power surged out—and was swallowed. Not resisted. Consumed. It was as though I had poured my soul into an endless void. A hungry nothingness that swallowed my legacy whole and spat it back as ash. My own magic, my very identity, turned against me. My sight burned with a pain that reached my bones. Blood streamed from my sockets as darkness overtook my vision.
I collapsed, broken.
"How… how is this possible…?"
The words came out as a whisper, more breath than voice. My body trembled. My soul felt great pain from the backlash.
This had never happened. Not even against Ogula, the creature-thing created by the Dragon King's dark will—a monstrosity of souls and sinew that nearly devoured me. At least Ogula resisted me. This King simply overpowered me.
He didn't dodge. He didn't flinch.
He devoured me and kept moving.
And then he turned to my kin. Elyra, my second-eldest sister, still conscious and glaring through bloodshot eyes, was forced to try. Her hair lashed in rage. Her golden eyes flared.
And again—nothing.
She screamed and dropped to the ground.
One by one, he commanded the others. And one by one, we failed. Our powers meant nothing. Centuries of refinement—broken. Our legacy—unmade.
The Black Dragon King spoke then, casually, as if ordering wine at a feast.
"From this moment forth, you will serve as maids in Castle Black. You will obey the Head Maid, Sophia, without question. Disobedience will not be tolerated."
The words landed like thunder. They didn't feel real.
And yet… I bowed. I, Queen Thena Ophionaris, last scion of the Ophionaris Bloodline, the pride of the Medusa, the eye of divinity—I bowed, blood trickling from my lids, heart hollow.
"I obey your command… Master."
The words were ash in my mouth.
Was it cowardice?
No. It was survival. I had 305 sisters left. If I defied him now, we would not die—we would be broken. Rebuilt. Turned into things far worse than corpses. He would not waste our beauty.
My people were dazed and fearful but intact. If I resisted now, he would crush us. Maybe not even kill. From his lecherous eyes he didn't strike me as someone who wasted beauty—he would simply break us until we obeyed.
He would own it.
As I looked up from the dirt, past the veil of blood and the haze of pain, I expected to see a smile. A gloating grin.
Instead, I saw hunger. Not of only flesh. Not even of only conquest.
But mostly of possession.
And that made him far more terrifying.
Because you can fight rage. You can bargain with cruelty.
But how do you resist something that wants to own you completely—mind, body, and soul?
The island winds still carried the scent of blood, of charred stone and scorched pride. Overhead, the skies remained stained in that unnatural violet hue—the color of the Medusas' eyes, the color of their curse, and once, their pride. Now it was a mockery. The heavens themselves seemed to have bowed, surrendering to the terrifying majesty of the Black Dragon King.
Queen Thena Ophionaris had knelt.
And the world had changed.
For a moment, silence reigned.
The place was littered with shattered obsidian crystal shards, twisted remnants of arcane constructs, and fallen Medusan banners. The only thing standing upright was the oppressive weight of despair, thick in the air. The royal sisters—Elyra, Kaelith, Mirania, Saphyne, and Valea—each stood frozen in place, their serpent hair quivering with disbelief.
But blood ties were not so easily shaken.
One by one, the five royal sisters stepped forward. Their golden and silver-scaled armor glittered in the dying sunlight, but the light in their eyes had already dimmed. The glories of their bloodline—their pride, their birthright—lay shattered at their feet.
And so they knelt.
Their movements were synchronized, graceful, but without resistance. No words were spoken. No royal decree given. It was not protocol that guided them—but a solemn recognition of the impossible. If Thena, the strongest of them all, could not resist this being, then what hope did they have?
The other Medusas faltered. Their confusion and disbelief became naked panic. Veterans, once commanders of elite warrior bands, now dropped their pride with trembling hands. Their snake-hair coiled downward in submission. Even the most prideful among them could not withstand the weight of what they had just witnessed: their sacred power—rendered ornamental, obsolete.
A second wave of kneeling swept across the ranks like a silent contagion. Armor clanked. Spears struck soil. And with each bowing head, the last threads of defiance snapped.
They had lost.
All 305 of them.
Barbatos, the Black Dragon King, towered above them all like a dark sun. In his current form—part beast, part void, wholly divine—his smile was a thing of nightmares. Eight horns on his like a crown. Curved fangs glinted behind lips that barely looked mortal. His expression was not cruel in the way tyrants were cruel—it was cruel in the way nature was. Indifferent. Immense. Inevitable.
He turned to the Medusa standing nearest him—Thena—and then shifted his gaze to the muscular figure standing proudly behind her.
Sophia.
The head maid of Castle Black who just walked out.
At 4.5 meters tall, she was a living contradiction—brute strength carved into the form of a seductress. Her broad shoulders and thick thighs hinted at raw, untamable power, yet her hourglass waist and exaggerated curves betrayed the hand of unnatural evolution. Her uniform—a pristine white maid dress hugging her body with maddening precision—was scandalously designed: high heels emphasized her legs; a low neckline left her bust dangerously exposed; fishnet thigh high stockings clung to thick thighs that could crush steel.
Gloves of white silk covered her hands, completing the contradiction. She was elegance incarnate… and utterly obscene.
Barbatos nodded approvingly. "Sophia," he said, voice resonating with dark command, "brief them. They are yours now. Make maids of them."
The moment he vanished—more like a god disappearing into mist than a being walking away—the armies behind him dispersed, as if vanishing into the folds of the island itself. The Conquest had ended. Now comes the occupation.
He left, and the women remained. As soon as the Black King disappeared, the army behind him also dispersed as they all walked towards their own tasks. Most of the operative departments and the elders gathered together to discuss the creation of a new and better Black Wing City, the mother city in their new home here in Dusk Island. Meanwhile, other groups started to build temporary housing and assist the Kobold Dragon Warlocks to speed up the construction of the new Castle Black.
The silence among the Medusas stretched.
Until Sophia stepped forward.
Click. Click. Click.
Her heels struck the stone like hammer blows.
"Stand," she said—not harshly, but with an assertive command that brooked no refusal. "All of you. You are not prisoners."
Some of the Medusas glanced at her, hesitant.
"You are servants now," she continued, voice sultry and full of strange warmth. "You've been spared. That makes you lucky."
Elyra, the most outspoken among the sisters, hissed under her breath. "Lucky...?"
Sophia turned to her with a slow smile.
"Would you prefer death? Or worse?" she asked, eyes gleaming with knowing cruelty. "Because the Black King doesn't waste treasures. And that's what you are now—treasures. Pretty, proud, dangerous treasures to be polished, displayed, and put to work."
Then, as if nothing had happened, she clapped her gloved hands once.
"Everyone strip. Armor off. You'll be fitted for maid uniforms within the hour."
Gasps of protest rose, but none dared speak aloud. Even Thena stayed silent, though her eyes burned.
Sophia's grin deepened. "Oh come now. You think I was always like this? Musclebound and lewd? Hah."
Her voice grew distant, as if reaching into the past.
"I was born Sophia Anwell. Second daughter to a village chief. We lived in Anweil Village, a tiny farming hamlet on the Albit Kingdom border. I wasn't beautiful. I wasn't strong. Just another plain girl waiting to marry a merchant's son."
The Medusas watched, stunned, as the towering woman lifted her robe slightly and revealed the faint brand on her thigh—a slave mark, barely visible now.
"Then the slavers came. One night, they took everything. My family. My village. My name."
She turned slowly, making sure every single Medusa heard her next words.
"I was given to the the lord Black Dragon King. As a gift. A slave with nothing."
Her eyes glowed then, a strange pride welling behind them.
"And he saw something in me. Broke me. Rebuilt me. Bathed me in dragon blood, reforged my flesh, turned my pathetic shell into this."
She gestured to herself proudly—seductive and massive, monstrous and divine.
"I'm not ashamed of what I've become. Because this is power. This is what it means to be chosen."
She walked among them now, inspecting. Judging. Flirting.
"You think you're too good to serve? You think scrubbing floors in Castle Black is humiliation? You'll wear silks instead of armor. Serve wine instead of death. But you'll live. You'll thrive. And maybe—maybe—you'll understand what it means to be desired by a god."
Elyra rose slowly to her feet, fists clenched. "We are not playthings."
Sophia stopped directly in front of her. Leaned in. Her breath was hot, her presence suffocating.
"No, darling. You're not playthings. You're possessions. Learn the difference."
She turned sharply. "Sewing team!" she barked.
Dozens of petite kobold females seamstresses marched forward, each bearing bolts of black-and-white cloth, lace, and embroidered silk. They moved with terrifying efficiency, measuring, stripping armor, and taking sizes without a word.
The Medusas didn't resist. Not because they were convinced—but because there was no point. The Queen had accepted their fate. Resistance would only bring pain. But surrender…
Surrender brought survival.
And Sophia? She reveled in her new role.
As each Medusa was fitted into scandalously tight maid uniforms—each tailored to emphasize their unique beauty and serpentine grace—Sophia felt a strange thrill stir in her core. These weren't enemies. These were sisters now. Fellow maids. Her subordinates.
The castle would be glorious with them.
The sound of construction echoed in the distance—Kobold warlocks shaping stone with chanting voices, wyvern scouts patrolling the skies, engineers erecting the black towers of a new kingdom.
Black Wing City was rising.
And the Medusas? They would rise too. Not as warriors. But as symbols of the Black King's power.
Sophia's voice rang once more.
"You will obey. You will serve. But you will also live like queens—pampered, protected, and powerful. You are now maids of Castle Black. And I am your head."
She gave a sultry wink.
"Call me Sophia or Big sis Sophia."
Sophia covered her mouth with a dainty, gloved hand and smiled, the elegant motion betraying a wicked playfulness glimmering in her crimson eyes. Her lips curled as she addressed the stunned Medusa royals with a voice that carried both authority and unrepentant pride.
"You heard what the Great Dragon Lord, the Disaster of Despair, the Black King, The Strongest Black Dragon in all the Tal Realm and soon to be the Supreme Sovereign of the Star Realms, The Void King, The Lord of the Black Tide, Barbatos Caesar Volaric, has decreed. Follow me."
Sophia's tone was stripped of warmth, sharp as a whip, each honorific spoken with ceremonial gravity. To speak his name in full was rare—something reserved for high ceremonies or absolute displays of power. It was a declaration of status, a reminder of hierarchy. She wielded those titles like a blade, not out of devotion alone, but to keep the newcomers in check. The royal sisters of the Dusk Isles, proud and defiant until now, would learn their place beneath the dragon's shadow.
As the head maid of Castle Black, Sophia's strength didn't lie in brute force—though she was no mere mortal either. She couldn't best the five royal Medusa sisters in direct combat, and she openly admitted she would never dare challenge their queen. But that didn't matter. Her authority came from something far deeper: legacy, prestige, and the iron will of a woman chosen by the Black King himself. Even Skye, the Dragon Lord's battle-hardened first general and longest dependent, had to seek her permission before entering the sanctum of the Dragon Pond.
The Medusas followed in silence. Thena, the imposing Queen of the Dusk Isles, walked at the front, her legs moving along with barely a sound. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes never left Sophia's back.
"So it is true then?" Queen Thena's voice cut through the air like a cold wind. "You were once human, were you not? And yet you walk with strength. Are you of giant blood, perhaps? Or some forgotten highborn lineage?"
Sophia chuckled. Her laugh was like the soft clink of glass and silk brushing skin.
"I was once a girl without a name," she replied, voice laced with nostalgic venom. "A slave in a ruined city the world forgot. My hands scrubbed stone, my knees bled on marble. Until he found me. Until the Black King whispered my name into the world for the first time."
Thena raised a brow. "He made you?"
Sophia turned her head, just enough to let her full figure shimmer in the dim hallway torchlight. Her white maid outfit clung to her curves, high slit showing pale thighs wrapped in silk garters. The plunging neckline framed her ample chest while the corset cinched her waist like an unforgiving lover. Her gloves reached her shoulders, her stockings sparkled with faint draconic scales, and the short skirt barely covered her dignity. It was not merely an outfit—it was an announcement.
"He remade us," she purred. "He taught us to walk with my chin high, even when monsters stared down. He taught me that seduction and control are sisters. And most of all, he let me choose to serve—while the world once forced me to kneel."
Thea and her royal sisters, once proud warriors among the Dusk Isles, looked at each other uneasily, caught between awe and discomfort. Even they, seasoned fighters and nobles, were shaken by Sophia's confidence. Sophia was intoxicating—dangerous not because of brute strength, but the way she could unravel one's sense of pride with nothing more than a sentence and a sway of her hips.
Thena did not speak further as they approached the towering twin golden doors. Sophia pressed both palms against them and pushed. The hinges groaned, and the doors creaked open slowly, revealing a world none of them had prepared for.
Gasps broke the silence.
Thena, her royal sisters, Elyra, Kaelith, Mirania, Saphyne, Valea, and all the 299 Medusas behind them stood frozen, mouths parted in awe.
It wasn't merely a room.
It was a realm unto itself.
The ceiling arched like a cathedral, with floating crystal lanterns casting a soft twilight hue across endless rows of opulent displays. They had entered what looked like the wardrobe of a thousand empires. Rows upon rows of dresses, armors, lingerie, and uniforms shimmered under arcane lighting. Everything meticulously organized by culture, function, or—most scandalously—fetish.
Sophia stepped in and extended her hand theatrically. "Welcome, my new sisters, to the Black King's Wardrobe Sanctuary."
******
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