Lysandra stepped into the chamber scented by tapestries, the magical lantern still flickering on the carved wooden door. After bathing in the large copper tub, she wrapped herself in a thick linen robe and slid her tired body to the edge of the imposing canopy bed. The high frame, soft mattress, and crimson velvet curtains betrayed its owners: it was a bed reserved for royalty.
She closed her eyes and let the weight of the night fall upon her shoulders. In a quiet whisper, she murmured to the emptiness:
"I'm going to help you heal, Gruk. Trust me."
A gentle memory invaded her mind: during the last cleaning, Lysandra had felt the immobile limb yield beneath her fingers. The extreme rigidity had given way to a slight flexibility, and Gruk had let out a sigh of relief. In that moment, she knew he could finally be treated for real.
She remembered the warmth — pulsing in her hand — the presence alive beneath her skin. It wasn't just flesh and pain; it was someone. Gruk. Even in silence, even without understanding, he was there. And she liked that.
She liked having company.
In that world of stone, slime, and darkness, the simple fact of not being alone made everything feel a little less impossible.
The sound of the congo echoed through the corridor, vibrating like an ancient call — not just to the ears, but to the soul.
Lysandra lifted her eyes from the book, serious thoughts still weighing on her brow.
But only for a moment.
The rhythmic beat flooded the room like a warm wave, dissolving worries, breaking the silence that wrapped around her like an invisible cloak.
She smiled.
Not just any smile — a smile that came from within, as if her body remembered something her mind had forgotten.
It was time.
Time for what she loved most.
"Time to dance."
"Time to sing."
"Time to be herself."
She rose lightly, her nightgown flowing down her body like water.
Bare feet touched the floor with intimacy, and the melody of the congo guided her movements as if she had been born with it.
"Hmm-mm... laa-laa..." she hummed, spinning with open arms, her face lit by a joy that only that moment could bring.
The princess was no longer a figure of protocol and silence.
In that moment, she was just Lysandra — free, light, and alive.
Her hips began to draw slow circles in the air, as if conversing with the drum.
Each beat seemed to rise from within her, pulsing beneath her skin, guiding muscles with precision and surrender.
Her arms lifted, fluid like golden serpents, and her fingers danced to the rhythm of the invisible melody.
She spun, and her hair — loose, rebellious — followed like a living flame.
Her whole body became an instrument: shoulders that vibrated, back that arched, knees that bent with elegance.
She didn't dance to be seen.
She danced because it was impossible not to.
It was as if the music had invaded every cell, every thought, every memory.
Sweat appeared on her skin, glistening like tiny crystals under the soft light of dusk.
But she didn't stop.
In the middle of a spin, Lysandra halted abruptly.
She felt it.
Not with her eyes, but with her skin — that kind of presence that changes the air around you.
She turned slowly, her heart still dancing in her chest.
There, standing in the shadowed corner of the room, was Gruk.
The goblin stared at her with wide eyes, his head slightly tilted, a strange glimmer of satisfaction in his gaze.
His short fingers clutched the fabric of his tunic, and his breathing was audible, uneven, as if he had run there — or fled from something.
Lysandra smiled.
Not a princess's smile.
A girl's smile.
The kind of smile from someone who, for the first time, wasn't alone.
She walked toward him with light steps, the sound of the congo still vibrating through the floor beneath her feet.
Gruk stepped back half a pace, hesitant — but he didn't run.
Lysandra extended her hands, warm and sweaty, and held his — small, rough, with crooked nails and skin marked by stories she didn't yet know.
"Let's play," she said, her voice as soft as wind through leaves.
Gruk blinked, confused.
The world seemed to pause for a second.
The scent of old wood, the warmth of dusk, the distant sound of the drum — everything blended into a moment that needed no explanation.
She pulled him gently, and he came.
His clumsy feet tried to keep up, his eyes still full of doubt.
But something new was there:
Contact.
Joy.
Belonging.
Lysandra spun with him, and for the first time, the silence inside her broke.
There was no more loneliness.
There was dance.
There was Gruk.
She let out a crystalline laugh — the kind of laughter that escapes without asking permission.
Gruk tried to mimic her steps, but his short feet tangled, and he nearly toppled sideways — arms flailing like propellers trying to keep balance.
"Like this, Gruk!" she said, spinning lightly, her hair flying like a golden curtain.
Gruk tried to spin too.
But instead of elegance, he offered a crooked twirl, tongue out and eyes squinted in concentration.
He looked like a sack of potatoes trying to dance ballet.
Lysandra laughed even harder, clutching her belly, tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.
But it wasn't mockery.
It was pure joy.
She stepped closer, touched his nose with her finger, and said:
"You dance like no one else. And that's perfect."
Lysandra spun once more, pulling Gruk by the hand, laughter still caught in her chest.
But as she drew near him, the smell hit her like an invisible wave — strong, earthy, with notes of mold and... onion?
She kept smiling.
She didn't wrinkle her nose.
She didn't pull away.
But inside, she thought:
'By all the gods... he smells like a forgotten cave.'
Even so, she squeezed his hand tighter.
Because in that moment, the smell was just a detail.
And the joy, greater than any discomfort.
She spun, leapt, arched her body with precision and surrender.
Every muscle worked in harmony, every breath was a note in the melody.
Sweat trickled down her nape, slid along her back in warm trails, pooling at the curve of her shoulders and between her breasts.
The white nightgown, thin and tight, clung to her body like a second skin.
Soaked, it revealed her contours clearly — the belly rising and falling with rapid breath, the hips marked by effort, the thighs firm and trembling from so much movement.
The fabric, once light and loose, now stuck to her curves, transparent in places, revealing more than it concealed.
The hem, just above her knees, swayed with every step, every spin, every burst of energy.
Her bare feet were dirty with earth and sweat, her ankles marked by the intensity of the dance.
Lysandra collapsed onto the floor, breathless, her hair stuck to her forehead and her chest rising and falling as if she had run a marathon of joy.
She laughed loudly, throwing her head back, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath her legs and the heat of the dance still vibrating through her body.
Suddenly, two short, firm arms wrapped around her from behind — tight, unexpected.
Gruk was hugging her with force, as if trying to make sure she wouldn't escape.
"AAH!" Lysandra screamed, the surprise bursting like a spark.
But right after, the scream turned into laughter.
She leaned forward slightly, still with the goblin clinging to her back in a tight hug, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
"Gruk!" she said between giggles. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
He responded with a guttural sound that resembled a choked laugh, and squeezed a little tighter — she felt he was trying to say: 'You're my friend now.'
And she let him.
Because in that strange, tight hug, there was something she had never felt before:
Affection without ceremony.
Without protocol.
Without loneliness.
'Who was I trying to fool?'
Lysandra still felt the weight of Gruk's hug on her back, the persistent smell clinging to the air like a stubborn memory.
Ugly... stinky like a curse...
She smiled inwardly.
It was true.
But it was also true that, from the very first strange look, from the very first clumsy step, she had already been excited.
'I accepted him before I even knew.'
'Before the hug.'
'Before the dance.'
'Before the scare.'
Because there was something in him — raw, sincere, unmasked — that spoke directly to the part of her that had always been alone.
And now, she wasn't anymore.
The embrace was rough.
Gruk didn't know how to measure strength. His short arms closed around Lysandra like claws, squeezing with an intensity that bordered on crushing. His thick fingers dug into the fabric of her tunic, pulling, wrinkling, as if trying to tear away the distance between them. He didn't understand what affection was — he only knew how to grab, hold, keep.
And Lysandra felt everything.
His body was hot, heavy, foul. His bloated belly pressed hard against her back, his short, hard bones awkwardly fitting against her skin. His breath was ragged, almost animalistic, hitting her nape like hot steam. The smell was strong, nearly unbearable — earth, sweat, flesh. But she didn't pull away.
Because there was something there.
She, who had never been touched, never embraced, never desired for more than her appearance, now felt the weight of a being who held her as if she were all he had. The grip was possessive, yes. Almost painful. But it was real. It was physical. It was present.
Gruk squeezed her as if he wanted to fuse her into his own body. As if her warmth were the only thing capable of calming the chaos inside him. He didn't know what he was doing. Didn't know what he was feeling. But his body acted — rough, instinctive, desperate for contact.
Lysandra gasped. The grip was too much. His fingers moved, pressing harder, as if trying to mark territory. It was a gesture without language, without tenderness, without awareness. But she didn't resist.
Because, for the first time, someone held her in her life. With need. With brutality, yes — but also with presence.
And that, to her, was unforgettable.
Gruk held her from behind, and every second was torment for him.
The heat of her body against his was a cruel invitation, a living provocation that stirred the darkest parts of him. The impulse wasn't just hunger — it was carnal, shadowed, instinctive. A raw desire, shapeless, nameless, that pushed him toward possession, toward the act, toward the end.
But he couldn't.
The magic that had summoned him chained him from within. Invisible bonds tightened with every heartbeat, every tremor of desire. He could touch. Squeeze. Feel. But not take. Not possess. Not satisfy.
And that tore him apart.
Gruk trembled. Not from fear. But from restraint. From pain. His whole body was tense, muscles rigid as stone, jaw clenched to the point of cracking. He held her tightly, as if the contact could ease the torment. But it only worsened.
Because he felt.
He felt every small gesture from her. Every deeper breath. Every muscle that stopped resisting. Lysandra was yielding. Slowly. Inevitably. Like a flame bending to the wind, without going out.
She said nothing. But her body spoke.
She was there. Warm. Present. Yielding.
And he… couldn't.
The scent of her skin, the sound of her breath, the heat — it all pushed him to the edge. He was made for this. For the act. For the domination. But now, before her, he was forced to wait. To ask. To restrain.
It was humiliation. It was agony.
He pressed his forehead to her nape, as if the gesture could contain the impulse. But the impulse couldn't be contained. It burned. It screamed. It consumed him.
Gruk didn't know how to speak. Didn't know how to ask. He only knew how to feel. And what he felt now was unbearable.
The embrace tightened. The body burned. The instinct roared.
And all he could do… was wait.