For a fleeting moment, the disgust and terror ebbed, giving way to something fragile—a timid glimmer flickering in Lysandra's eyes.
Even deformed, reeking, grotesque beyond anything she had ever endured, the creature represented something she had never known before: companionship. The thought, absurd yet undeniable, bloomed in her chest like a forbidden secret.
"…I'm not alone anymore." The words slipped past her lips in a whisper, fragile and velvet-soft, as if she feared they would shatter if spoken louder.
She stepped back toward the open window, letting the night wind sweep through her hair and soften the oppressive stench that clung stubbornly to the air. It carried away some of the weight, though not the memory of it—the rancid smell that seemed to burrow inside her.
The creature did not move. It only stared, its small yellow eyes fixed on her, glistening with something she could not name—an emotion teetering between hunger and longing. Its gaze unsettled her, not because it was violent, but because it wasn't. That stare, raw and instinctive, forced her to see something she had no words for. For the first time, revulsion did not stand alone.
A knot twisted inside her—disgust tangled with something quieter, an ache she didn't understand. Was it pity? Was it the weight of her own loneliness? Or was it darker, something born from a lifetime of silks, cold halls, and the absence of touch?
She had been raised to recoil from ugliness, to worship beauty, to trust in order and power. And yet, this thing defied all of it. It was misshapen, hideous, obscene—and still it remained. Not fleeing. Not lunging. Not striking. Simply waiting. For her.
Her pulse throbbed in her temples as she studied its crooked frame: the hunched shoulders, the thin, corded arms, the way the spine bent beneath invisible burdens. It looked fragile. Pathetic. A mockery of life—and yet alive. Something in her chest lurched. Against all she had been taught, against instinct itself, her hand lifted. Hesitant, trembling, she extended her fingers and pressed them lightly against its arm.
The texture nearly broke her.
The skin was damp, clammy, like parchment left to rot in a crypt. Too thin. Too pliant. It sagged under her touch, and something writhed beneath—muscle, or something less natural. The warmth came in patches: lukewarm in one spot, icy in the next, as though the body fought in vain to hold itself together.
Her throat convulsed; bile rose. She nearly retched. It was disgusting. Unholy.
Yet the goblin did not recoil.
Instead, a subtle tremor ran the length of its body, from arm to shoulder, as if her touch had woken an ancient ache buried in its flesh. Under her fingers, she felt ridges of scars—thick, rough, unevenly healed. There was a faint metallic tang, like rust, seeping from the contact, staining the air anew.
Still, she did not pull away. Not yet. Because beneath the revulsion, there was something undeniable in that contact: the reality of another existence. Something beyond herself.
Someone she could touch.
Someone she could speak to.
Someone who, grotesque as he was, might answer back.
The goblin released a low, cracked squeal—gobu…—but did not retreat. His posture shifted, his shoulders uncoiling, the rigid tension melting into a stillness more natural, almost gentle.
Lysandra's chest loosened. The fists clenched against her breast softened; the knees that had trembled with horror steadied her weight. She drew a deeper breath, slower, steadier. Within that fragile, grotesque connection lay the faint promise of not being alone.
A shimmer sparked in her eyes, moonlight caught in a tear. The rancid stench mingled with the cool night air, and though it lingered, it felt—if only for an instant—bearable. Because it was shared.
Her lips curved into something she barely recognized. A smile. Small, uncertain, almost invisible—but carrying more weight than a crown. Her whisper slipped out, tender and quivering:
"At least… I'm not alone anymore."
In the heavy silence that followed, joy stirred. Quiet, trembling, almost painful in its rarity.
With a breath that wavered between dread and surrender, she lowered her hand—the hand that had clutched the grimoire like a shield, the hand that had commanded obedience. Her fingers uncurled, falling loose at her side. A gesture small, but profound: she returned to him the right to move.
The creature blinked. Slowly. As if waking from centuries of stillness. It shifted its weight, cautious, deliberate. Not as a bound beast. Not merely as a familiar.
But as something nearer—a companion.
And in that fragile moment, far away, a sound broke through the night.
Somewhere far away, a manic laugh echoed.
Shrill, piercing, impossible to ignore.
A witch. Someone who had seen too much.
Someone who had been waiting for this very moment.