The Dragonrider (A Shalma's Destruction Legend): Part VI (Patreon)

by DoctorKowalski

Part V

Ilyse stumbled down Cliffside's winding streets, lungs burning from the unaccustomed exertion. A week ago, she'd barely noticed the steep descent from the Academy. Today, her thighs chafed painfully with each step, and her enlarged breasts bounced uncomfortably despite her desperate attempts to contain them with a makeshift second binding.

"It can't be happening," she muttered, ignoring the curious glances from townspeople. "Not to me."

This morning's final wake-up call had come when she'd attempted to fasten her ceremonial belt. Despite tugging until her fingers ached, the leather refused to meet around her thickened waist. Even worse, Raptor had actually backed away when she'd approached during their scheduled training flight, his copper eyes unreadable but his message clear.

The memory sent fresh panic coursing through her. Dragon riders didn't get fat. It simply wasn't done. Academy dining halls served lean proteins and fresh vegetables, not the heavy stews and sweet pastries she'd suddenly found herself craving at all hours.

The apothecary shop came into view, its twisted sign creaking slightly in the evening breeze. Ilyse quickened her pace, wincing as her academy jacket -once perfectly tailored -pulled tight across her softer midsection. The apothecary would know what to do. She always did.

Ilyse reached for the door handle, already rehearsing her plea. But the door remained firmly shut. A small wooden placard hung in the window: "Closed for Festival Week. Returning Sixthday."

"No," Ilyse whispered, tugging at the door anyway. It didn't budge. "No, no, no."

She pressed her face against the window, cupping her hands around her eyes to peer into the darkened shop. Nothing moved within.

"Come on," she hissed, pounding on the door with a fist that was noticeably plumper than it had been a month ago. "Please!"

Only silence answered. Ilyse slumped against the door, breathing heavily from exertion that once wouldn't have fazed her. She caught her reflection in the shop window -fuller cheeks, a hint of a double chin, her once-defined jawline softening into something rounder and less distinct.

Festival Week. Six days away. Six more days of watching helplessly as her body continued its betrayal, of feeling Raptor's growing confusion and displeasure through their bond, of enduring the sideways glances and poorly concealed whispers.

Ilyse straightened her academy jacket, which immediately rode up to expose the roll of flesh spilling over her waistband. With a frustrated tug that did nothing to improve the situation, she turned away from the shop.

The bakery across the small square had just placed fresh honeycakes in their window display. Ilyse's stomach growled loudly, a traitorous response that made her cheeks burn with humiliation.

Six days. She could survive six days.

But as she trudged across the street to the tavern, her jacket growing tighter with each labored breath, Ilyse wasn't so sure.

***

The Copper Hearth roared with laughter and clinking mugs as Soren and his patrol mates pushed through the door, their copper insignias catching the firelight.

"Three days," Kalder groaned, rolling his shoulders. "Three days of nothing but jerky and hardtack."

"My kingdom for a hot meal," Ash added, scanning the crowded tavern.

Soren froze mid-step, causing Ash to bump into him from behind.

"What the -" Ash started, then followed Soren's gaze to a corner table. "Oh."

Ilyse sat alone, her plate piled high with an assortment that would comfortably feed two hungry riders. The once-athletic second-year had expanded considerably since Soren had last seen her up close. Her stomach strained against her shirt, creating a visible bulge where her belt cut into the soft flesh. The buttons on her Academy jacket seemed to be holding on by sheer willpower.

"Is that...?" Kalder squinted. "Rider's oath, that's Ilyse."

"Former bedmate Ilyse?" Ash nudged Soren, eyebrows raised.

Soren nodded, an amused smirk playing at his lips. "The very same."

They watched as Ilyse dipped a honey roll in gravy, taking a bite that left a shiny streak on her now-plump cheek. Her once-defined jawline had softened into a gentle curve that blended seamlessly into her thickening neck.

"She's certainly... embracing Academy cuisine these days," Kalder snickered.

"And then some," Ash added under his breath.

Soren tilted his head, studying her with detached curiosity. "She used to be able to keep up with a three-hour training flight without breaking a sweat."

"Times change," Kalder said with a pointed glance at Ilyse's widened hips, which now spilled slightly over the edges of her chair.

"Raptor must be thrilled," Ash said. "Nothing dragons love more than... unexpected changes in aerodynamics."

"Haven't seen them flying in weeks," Soren replied. "Last formation drill, she claimed a wing strain."

They watched as Ilyse motioned the server over, pointing to her empty mead mug. Her arm jiggled slightly with the movement, the once-toned muscle now cushioned with a layer of softness.

"Third one since we walked in," Kalder observed.

Ilyse shifted in her seat, the movement causing her Academy pin to slide sideways on her jacket, as if searching for more stable territory on her expanding chest.

"Remember when she beat you in that diving competition?" Ash asked Soren.

"Different person," Soren replied, his voice tinged with amusement rather than malice. "Literally and figuratively."

"Table by the hearth's open," Kalder said, nudging them forward. "Let's eat before I start gnawing on the furniture."

As they settled in with their ales, Soren's gaze drifted back to Ilyse. She was now tackling a pastry with the same determination she'd once applied to combat training, her pudgy fingers breaking apart the flaky crust.

"She still have that... energy... she was famous for?" Ash whispered, waggling his eyebrows.

Soren laughed. "Ancient history, my friend. Last time we met up, she had to pause halfway up the stairs to my quarters. Claimed it was the altitude."

"Tragic," Kalder deadpanned. "All that... talent... going to waste."

They clinked mugs, chorusing: "To flying light!"

Across the room, Ilyse reached for another pastry, her shirt riding up to reveal a pale stripe of belly. She remained unaware of their attention or the bit of gravy clinging to her double chin.

***

Ilyse no longer bothered to check if the corridor was empty before entering Jaren's workshop. At this point, it hardly mattered who saw her. The workshop door was already open when she arrived, lamplight spilling out into the darkened hallway.

Jaren glanced up from his workbench. "Another fitting?"

Ilyse stepped inside, allowing him to close the door behind her. The lock clicked into place with quiet finality.

"The festival tomorrow," she said simply. "I need to know if my ceremonial silks can be salvaged."

Jaren nodded, gesturing for her to remove her cloak. She unfastened it, revealing the ceremonial silks beneath. The garment that had once flowed elegantly over her form now strained against her expanded figure. In the two months since their last fitting, she'd gained another twenty pounds, rendering his previous adjustments nearly useless.

The fabric pulled across her hips, showing stress lines where threads had begun to separate. Fasteners gaped where they could no longer meet, and the once-flowing sleeves now cut into her upper arms.

"The platform," he said, returning to his professional routine.

Ilyse stepped up, the wood creaking beneath her weight. She fixed her gaze on the far wall, a habit formed during these increasingly frequent sessions.

"You'll need to remove it for me to assess properly," he said, the words clinical though his eyes were not.

She reached for the fastenings but struggled with the unfamiliar closures. The ceremonial silks had been designed to be donned with assistance -help she could no longer request without inviting unwanted questions.

"I can't..." she began, frustration evident in her voice.

Jaren moved behind her. "Turn around."

His fingers worked the fastenings efficiently, but there was nothing hurried in their movement against her skin. As the silks loosened, his hands slid beneath the fabric to ease it from her shoulders, lingering just a moment too long to be purely professional.

"There," he said quietly as he helped her step out of the garment.

Standing on the platform in only her underclothes, Ilyse felt acutely exposed. The cotton bands stretched inadequately across her expanded chest. Her stomach curved outward where once it had been flat, marked with red lines where fabric had dug into her skin. Her thighs touched where once there had been space.

Jaren examined the ceremonial silks, turning them in his hands with the practiced assessment of a craftsman. After a moment, he set them aside.

"They can't be altered again," he said, matter-of-fact. "The fabric is too stressed. The seams would split as soon as you moved."

The blunt assessment left no room for argument. Without proper ceremonial attire, her presence at the festival would only underscore how far she had fallen.

"There must be something," she said, unable to keep the edge of desperation from her voice.

Jaren considered her for a moment. "I have some alternatives prepared."

"Alternatives?" She couldn't keep the surprise from her voice.

"I've been working on designs that could accommodate..." he paused, then continued, practical rather than cruel, "your current measurements."

"You anticipated this," she said, the realization settling over her.

He shrugged slightly. "It seemed prudent."

Jaren moved to his measuring cord, but instead of proceeding with the familiar routine, he set it aside on his workbench. When he returned to stand before her, his hands remained empty.

"Some measurements need to be more precise than the cord allows," he said, his tone neutral. "If you want my help."

Ilyse understood what he was asking. The professional distance that had once existed between them had been eroding with each fitting. Now he was suggesting they dispense with it entirely.

"Fine," she said, lifting her chin slightly.

His hands settled at her waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh that had accumulated there. Not measuring, just holding her, a touch that was undeniably personal.

"You've changed significantly since your last fitting," he observed, his voice quieter but not mocking.

Ilyse remained silent, her breathing shallow as his hands moved upward, skimming her ribcage before stopping just beneath her breasts. She should have objected. Should have stepped away. Instead, she remained still, aware of a warmth building within her that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

"I need to check how the fabric would sit," he said, his hands moving to her hips, circling to her lower back. The explanation was flimsy, and they both knew it.

The touch was so far beyond professional boundaries that Ilyse knew she should end it immediately. Yet as his fingertips pressed into the yielding flesh of her hip, a traitorous heat bloomed within her. The same insatiable hunger that drove her to the dining hall at odd hours now manifested in an entirely different appetite.

Jaren must have sensed the change in her, the slight shift in her breathing, the way she didn't pull away from his touch. He stepped closer, his body nearly touching hers.

"The festival is tomorrow," he said, his voice low. "I have something that might work for you." His thumb traced a small circle against her skin. "In my back room."

His words were simple, direct, but the implication was unmistakable. Ilyse understood with perfect clarity the line she was about to cross. If she followed him, she would be acknowledging her fall in the most concrete way possible -not just her body's transformation, but her descent from untouchable dragon rider to a woman who would follow a tailor to his private quarters, dressed only in her underclothes.

She should refuse. Should gather what remained of her dignity and leave.

Instead, she nodded once.

Jaren stepped back, offering his hand to help her down from the platform. His fingers closed around hers as she stepped down, and instead of releasing her, he placed his other hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward a narrow door at the rear of the workshop.

As he opened the door, a slight smile crossed his face -not the exaggerated villain's grin of triumph, but the satisfied expression of a man who had been patient and was now being rewarded. His hand circled her expanded waist, fingers pressing gently into the soft flesh as he guided her through the doorway.

***

The back room was smaller than she expected -a private workroom rather than living quarters. A narrow bed occupied one corner, presumably for nights when work kept him too late to return to Cliffside. The rest of the space contained a second workbench, shelves of fabric samples, and several dress forms of various sizes. One dress form in particular caught her eye -larger than the Academy standard, with proportions that matched her current figure with unsettling accuracy.

"You've been planning this," she said, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Jaren didn't deny it. "I prepare for eventualities." He released her hand but kept his other palm pressed against the small of her back, guiding her further into the room. "Some riders maintain their form. Others don't."

The clinical assessment, delivered without inflection, somehow cut deeper than mockery would have. Ilyse felt her cheeks warm as she stood there in her inadequate undergarments, facing the dress form that documented her failure.

"These might work for the festival," Jaren said, gesturing toward a garment hanging beside the workbench. The design was elegant enough but bore little resemblance to traditional ceremonial attire. It was something new, created specifically to flatter a fuller figure rather than emphasizing rider athleticism.

Ilyse approached it, fingers brushing against the fabric. "This isn't ceremonial. Everyone would know."

"Everyone already knows," Jaren replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "This would at least be flattering."

The simple truth of his statement left her momentarily speechless. The Academy's careful silence about her transformation hadn't been respect -it had been collective avoidance of an uncomfortable reality. As Jaren had said, everyone already knew.

"Try it on," he suggested, moving to stand behind her.

The intimate setting made this fitting different from all previous ones. In the workshop, with its high ceilings and professional atmosphere, she could maintain the fiction that this was simply business. Here, in his private space, with the narrow bed just steps away, that pretense evaporated.

Ilyse hesitated, suddenly aware of how exposed she already was, standing in just her underwear. Jaren's hands settled on her shoulders, a touch that was both steadying and possessive.

"You need something to wear tomorrow," he reminded her, practical even as his thumbs traced small circles at the base of her neck.

She nodded, reaching for the garment. As she lifted it from its hook, she realized it was significantly heavier than she'd expected. The fabric had been reinforced in key areas, structured to provide support where her changed body needed it most.

Jaren didn't step away as she prepared to dress. Instead, he remained close, ostensibly to assist but clearly to observe. Ilyse turned her back to him, a habit from more modest days that now felt pointless given how thoroughly he had already assessed her.

"Arms up," he instructed, the familiar command of a tailor helping a client dress.

She complied, raising her arms as he guided the garment over her head. The fabric slid down her body, settling against her curves. Jaren's hands followed its path, smoothing the material over her hips, across her stomach, up to just beneath her breasts. Each touch was ostensibly about adjusting the fit, but lingered longer than necessary.

"Turn," he said, his voice closer to her ear than she'd expected.

Ilyse turned to face him, now dressed in the festival garment. It fit perfectly -of course it did, he'd been measuring her transformation for months -but it wasn't a rider's ceremonial attire. It was beautiful but ordinary, something any wealthy woman from Cliffside might wear. Wearing it would be an acknowledgment that she no longer belonged among the elite riders.

"Look," Jaren said, guiding her toward a polished metal mirror mounted on the wall.

Her reflection shocked her. The woman staring back was undeniably her, but so changed from the Ilyse who had bonded with Suncrest that they might have been different people. Her face had softened, cheeks fuller, jaw less defined. The garment Jaren had created showcased her new curves rather than disguising them, making it impossible to ignore how dramatically her body had transformed.

"This is what everyone sees," Jaren said quietly, standing close behind her. His hands settled at her waist, fingers spreading to emphasize its new width. "This is what your dragon sees."

The mention of Suncrest sent a pang through her. The copper dragon had grown increasingly distant, resistant to her commands, sometimes refusing to fly altogether. Dragons chose riders partly based on physical compatibility -a rider who could no longer match their dragon's agility in flight became a liability.

"I'm still a rider," she said, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears.

"For now," Jaren agreed, his tone neutral but his implication clear.

His hands moved from her waist to her hips, then up to cup the fullness of her breasts through the fabric. The touch was beyond presumptuous -a tailor touching a dragon rider this way would once have been grounds for severe punishment. Now, Ilyse found herself leaning back against him, her body responding traitorously to his touch.

"What are you doing?" she asked, though the answer was obvious.

"What we both want," Jaren replied simply. His hands continued their exploration, one sliding down to trace the curve of her stomach through the fabric. "You wouldn't be here otherwise."

He was right, and that knowledge was perhaps the most humiliating part of all. She had followed him willingly, had allowed each boundary to dissolve, had responded to his touch despite knowing what it represented -her fall from elite rider to someone who would accept the advances of a Stone Harbor tailor.

"Your body has new hungers," Jaren observed, his palm flat against her stomach. "I've watched you struggle with them for months. Food. Drink." His voice lowered. "Other appetites."

Ilyse closed her eyes, unable to look at her reflection as his hand drifted lower. The worst part was that he was right -the same insatiable hunger that had transformed her body had awakened other cravings, other needs that grew more demanding with each passing day.

"This isn't proper," she said, a final, feeble protest.

Jaren's soft laugh tickled her ear. "Nothing about you is proper anymore." His fingers found the hem of the garment, sliding beneath to touch bare skin. "That's what makes this possible."

The blunt assessment sent a shameful thrill through her. He was acknowledging what everyone else politely ignored -that she was falling, had been falling for months, her body changing, her status slipping, her dragon growing distant. And here, in this private room with a craftsman she would once have barely acknowledged, she had reached a new low.

"You need this," Jaren said, his hand moving higher beneath the garment. "And I've waited a long time to give it to you."

Ilyse opened her eyes, forced herself to look at her reflection -at what she had become, at Jaren's hands on her body, at the evidence of her complete transformation. The rider who had bonded with Suncrest would never have allowed this. But that rider was gone, replaced by someone with new hungers, new weaknesses, new desperation.

"Turn around," Jaren instructed, his voice soft but commanding.

She turned to face him, her decision made. Tomorrow she would wear his creation to the festival, publicly acknowledging what everyone already knew. She would face the whispers, the glances, the pity or satisfaction in the eyes of those who had watched her rise and now witnessed her fall.

But tonight, she would surrender to this new hunger, this new humiliation that somehow fed the insatiable need growing within her. As Jaren's hands guided her toward the narrow bed, she felt the last vestiges of her former self slipping away -not with a dramatic declaration or bitter tears, but with the quiet acceptance that this, too, was part of her transformation.

Part VII