As I lay there, I smell something delicious, like pancakes mixed with strawberries. My eyes open wide as I quickly sit up and look around, taking in a room I've never seen before. It's beautiful and elegant, lined with vases and paintings, some appearing rather old and worn. I glance down and realize I'm not wearing any clothes. Spotting my clothes folded neatly on the bed next to me, I reach over, grab them, and put them on. "What the hell happened last night? I thought I was at the library, but then I was attacked by Claire. But that's not possible since she died when we were younger. It must have been a nightmare. But if that's the case, then why am I here and where is this place?" I think to myself as I climb out of bed and follow the smell to the kitchen; I notice Caleif standing in front of the stove in a naked apron.
I felt my face flush and quickly looked away. "Caleif, what's going on? Why am I here?" I blurted.
She turned around, apron reading The cook knows best, tip well. Smiling, she set down the spatula she'd used to place a pancake next to a pile of sliced strawberries. Then she crossed the kitchen and hugged me tightly, her perfect breasts pressing against me. I tensed, trying to calm myself. Stay down, damn it. I can't get hard now—what the hell is wrong with me?
"It's good to see you awake," she said, lifting her chin to meet my eyes. "Your wound's healed nicely. These pancakes are for you; the strawberries are mine. I love a good strawberry."
I tried to look away again, but my gaze kept landing on the plate. My stomach growled. My face burned hotter when I caught another glimpse of her cleavage. "Um, Caleif—could you put something else on? Wait—my wound? Are you saying last night really happened? And why was I naked when I woke up?"
She cleared her throat, finished flipping the last pancake, and turned off the stove. With a soft sigh, she faced me. "Yes, last night happened. We have a lot to talk about. You were naked because I had to heal you—and, well, I was curious to see what I was working with." She winked and left the kitchen, leaving me staring at the stack of pancakes.
My hunger won out. I picked up the knife and fork beside the plate—and noted how light they felt. Weird. Cutlery's usually heavier. Maybe I was overthinking. I speared a pancake, sliced it into little squares, and lifted one to my mouth.
The flavor hit me like a tidal wave. "Oh my god, these are amazing," I whispered to myself. "What did she make these with? No, I don't want to know." The pancake melted on my tongue, and a blissful warmth rolled through me. Realizing what she just said at the end, I froze and thought about it over and over again. "What did she mean by wanting to know what she was working with? Does that mean she wants me? No, you idiot; she couldn't have meant that. But on the other hand, if she did, I'd let her take me like a horny bullfrog—wait, that doesn't make sense. Fuck it."
Putting down the pancake, I looked over at the strawberry and picked it up, glancing around to make sure Caleif wasn't nearby, and slowly brought it to my mouth. "I thought I told you that the strawberries were mine, or did you forget already, Kamen?" Caleif spoke up as she walked up beside me, grabbing the strawberries on the plate and the one in my hand. "W-wait, I wanted to try one. Damn it," I said, raising my hand, trying to get one back. Caleif smacked my hand and smiled.
"Ah, Kamen," she chided with a playful smirk, her voice carrying that melodic lilt that seemed to both tease and command. "I did warn you about the strawberries. They're my guilty pleasure." Her eyes caught mine, twinkling impishly as she sauntered toward the living room with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. The sway of her hips was hypnotic, leaving me trailing in her wake like a marionette on invisible strings.
Once inside the living room, a space that exuded warmth and luxurious comfort akin to an aristocrat's drawing room from an era long past, Caleif claimed the regal recliner. The chair itself was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship; its red and gold stitching gleamed under the soft light, weaving intricate patterns that spoke of age-old stories untold. I flopped onto the couch opposite her, though to call it a couch seemed inadequate—it was more like a plush cloud, threatening to engulf me entirely unless I perched precariously on its edge.
Her fingers danced over the plate of strawberries as she placed them on an end table that appeared carved from a single piece of deep mahogany wood, polished to perfection. Her presence was commanding, yet oddly comforting—a strange dichotomy that left me both at ease and on edge simultaneously.
Clearing her throat delicately, she leaned forward, a serious expression overtaking her lighthearted demeanor. "I sense this must be disorienting for you," she began, her voice softening as if she were revealing secrets meant only for our ears. "But I want to assure you—I'm here to shed light on what transpired last night. You deserve honesty."
I managed, with some effort and no small amount of awkwardness, to extricate myself from the couch's clutches and sat up straight. My body buzzed with a mix of anticipation and nerves; it was rare for someone to offer such transparency in my world—a place where trust was a scarce commodity.
"We'll start with why you're here and how things unfolded," she continued thoughtfully, her gaze unwavering yet kind. The air between us felt charged with unspoken possibilities—each word carrying weight as it hung there waiting for the next revelation.
"So," she said firmly but not unkindly, pulling my scattered thoughts back into focus. "The gauntlet only chooses certain people to wield it. The stories say the person who claims the gauntlet has a deep emotion welling inside them; it feeds on that feeling, amplifies your other emotions, and heightens that core emotion all at once. It's contradictory in a way. But it seems to have chosen you. That isn't the real reason I was watching you, though—that's a little different. I spied on you for a few reasons. One, I thought you were cute. Two, you carry this strange aura I can't quite put my finger on—I'm hoping I'll figure it out in time. And three, I feel a weird connection with you."
As she spoke, my mind kept replaying last night—how powerful I'd felt and the intense grief I'd experienced, or almost the absence of it. "Is that why I felt so much grief, but at the same time felt happy about it?" I asked, staring down at my hand where the gauntlet used to be, breathing in the scent of strawberries again.
Caleif lifted another berry to her perfect lips and let it linger before she swallowed. "Yes. The gauntlet made you feel happy about it. It has a mind of its own, but it can't control its master. It's up to you to control the gauntlet and tame its power."
I glanced at my hand—and the gauntlet re-formed in an instant. Shocked, I leaned back as it fully materialized. "This is so strange. I don't understand why it would choose me of all people," I said out loud.
The gauntlet's metal voice rumbled in my head: "I chose you because you have a special feeling about you. When I saw you, I knew you'd be the perfect host—one able to harness my power."
My eyes went wide and I leaped to my feet. Caleif stared at me, her eyes wide too, clearly unsure what to make of any of this. "Wait— it can't be. Is that really you?" she whispered loud enough for me to hear.
In a voice that carried the weight of untold ages, the gauntlet spoke once more, resonating within the very marrow of my bones, "Indeed, it is I, the esteemed Estingoth—though merely a shadow of my former self." A wave of vertigo surged through me, and I found myself collapsing onto the precipice of the couch, clutching its edge as if it were the last vestige of sanity in a world upended. My mind spiraled with disbelief and incredulity. "This is utterly insane, downright impossible," I murmured to myself in a rhythmic mantra, rocking back and forth in a futile attempt to anchor myself to reality. The pressure on my buttocks was inconsequential compared to the maelstrom raging within.
Caleif stood there, an embodiment of collected exasperation wrapped in an aura of ethereal beauty. Her head shook gently as if dislodging cobwebs spun by years of disbelief. "In my wildest imaginings," she mused with a wistful sigh, "I never envisioned Estingoth would return not as flesh and bone but bound within his own gauntlet. Truly, we live in bizarre times."
Pausing my frenetic motion, I pivoted my attention entirely toward her. "How do you come by such knowledge about this gauntlet?" I demanded with narrowed eyes that seared into hers as if trying to extract truths unsaid. "And why did it seem like Claire was somehow familiar with your existence?" Skepticism colored my voice; curiosity sharpened its edges.
Her gaze wavered momentarily, flitting across the room as though seeking an escape hidden within its opulent decor. With a resigned breath, she rubbed the nape of her neck—a gesture not unlike someone preparing to confess a deeply held secret. "Kamen," she began earnestly, meeting my eyes with an unguarded vulnerability that belied her otherworldly aura. "There's something you must know—I'm a demon. I pray this revelation doesn't alter how you perceive me."
The words struck me like a lightning bolt cleaving darkness. My thoughts scrambled for coherence amidst the thunderous revelation. "Hold on—is that why you were aware of my whereabouts? Is that how you knew when the gauntlet had chosen me?" My heart pounded furiously against its cage of ribs as possibilities collided chaotically in my mind.
Her expression softened at my bewilderment, tinged with something akin to remorse or perhaps acceptance of long-held burdens now laid bare. "Not exactly," she replied thoughtfully, choosing her words with care like precious stones handled tenderly. "Truth be told," she added hesitantly yet resolute, "my knowledge stemmed partly from... observing you. Yes—a bit like stalking," she admitted sheepishly, her cheeks tinged with color.
"I stumbled upon you and Claire quite serendipitously," she continued candidly while her fingers traced invisible patterns in air charged with gravity unspoken until now. Relief mingled subtly alongside apprehension threading through each syllable spoken softly yet purposefully—an acknowledgment that fate had intervened at just the right moment through unlikely alignments unknown until now.
"It's fortunate I arrived when I did," Caleif confessed quietly—but there was something else lurking beneath those words—a specter wrapped tightly around feelings unvoiced but powerfully present nonetheless: hope mingled indistinctly amidst layers woven between shadows cast by truth's illumination now revealed brightly under scrutiny shared openly between us both..."
I feel a sense of dread and confusion wash over me as I process everything, looking down at Estingoth, I ask him. "Estingoth, why are you here as a gauntlet, and what are you truly capable of, and why did Claire say that there's a chance I'll kill everyone. Is there something about you that would influence that?" I harden myself not sure if I'm ready to hear what he has to say, whether it's good or bad.