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

by DoctorKowalski

Part VI

Cliffside's rain-slicked streets glistened in the darkness as Ilyse approached the textile shop, hood drawn over her changed form. The shop's windows glowed despite the late hour, as if the apothecary had been expecting her.

The bell chimed softly as she entered. Familiar scents of herbs enveloped her immediately.

"I wondered when you would return." A figure emerged from behind a display of imported silks, her dark eyes assessing Ilyse's cloaked figure.

"Winterbloom," Ilyse said, voice barely above a whisper. "I need something to counter it."

"The flower does what it promises," the older woman replied, moving behind the counter. "For a season, your deepest wishes found form in flesh. And now that season changes."

"I didn't wish for this," Ilyse said, desperation evident.

"Didn't you? You wished for beauty, for power, for the strongest dragon. The flower gave you exactly that."

"And now it's taking it all away!"

The apothecary nodded slightly. "Everything arises and passes."

"There must be something you can give me," Ilyse said, stepping closer, panic rising in her chest. "I'll do anything. Pay anything."

Interest flickered across the apothecary’s face. She turned to a locked cabinet, extracting a small key from a chain around her neck. From inside, she removed a wooden box inlaid with copper wire patterns.

"I need a document," she said simply. "The ceremonial preparation guide for dragonroot. The complete text that details the cultivation, preparation, and ritual usage for the bonding ceremonies."

Ilyse's breath caught. "That's one of the Academy's most guarded texts."

"Is it? Yet there are at least six copies in the masters' quarters. Security isn't what it once was."

"Why do you want this?"

"My reasons are my own."

She opened the wooden box, revealing a small vial containing a liquid that shimmered copper and gold in the lamplight.

"This can restore you," the apothecary said, her voice measured. "It can halt that transformation and begin to reverse it. But my price is the document. How you obtain it is your concern."

"If I bring you this document, you promise this will restore me? Completely?"

Ilyse stared, transfixed. "It will give you the body you deserve," Madame Winter replied.

Ilyse could almost feel it - her former body, strong and perfect. Could sense the respect of her peers, their desire and envy, the eager compliance of her dragon.

"The choice is yours," the apothecary continued, closing the box. "Return with the document, and this vial is yours. Continue as you are... well, we both know where that path leads."

Ilyse found herself calculating how to access the masters' quarters undetected.

"How long do I have?" she asked, decision already made.

"Three days," the Apothecary replied. "After that, even this won't be able to fully restore you."

"Remember," she added as Ilyse turned to leave, "when you return, bring only the document. No Academy guards, no attempts at heroics."

As she walked back toward the High Aerie, her mind was already formulating plans -which master might be careless with their copy, which rooms were least guarded, how she might explain her presence if discovered.

The humiliation of this fattening body would be over, and she would be restored -beautiful, powerful, sexy. She could feel the bliss of it already.

***

The Northern Tower stood silhouetted against the evening sky. Unlike the bustling Academy grounds, this section remained quiet -the domain of the masters. Tonight, even that minimal activity had ceased. The Summer Solstice ceremony had drawn everyone to the Grand Terrace.

Everyone except Master Torvid.

Ilyse paused to listen at the base of the spiral staircase. Only the distant sound of ceremonial drums broke the silence. She adjusted the messenger's satchel at her hip - a perfect excuse if questioned.

Three more days before the changes become irreversible. The woman's knowing smile as she'd traced a finger along Ilyse's jawline, noting the wobble there, had chilled her. I can still help you, but my assistance requires... compensation.

The formulations. The ancient bonding rituals. The texts kept under Master Torvid's supervision.

Ilyse reached the landing. Five doors, all closed. Master Torvid's quarters at the far end -the largest chambers, with the most comprehensive private library. The man was ancient, his bones too brittle for the ceremonies.

She wiped her damp palms on her uniform trousers. Her skin felt clammy, feverish with anxiety. The changes had accelerated this past week -her uniforms tighter each morning, the mirror reflecting a face growing fuller by the day. Madame Winter's catalyst, once the source of her transformation to perfection, was now betraying her, turning glory to shame with each passing hour.

She approached with measured steps, removed a ceremonial vial from her satchel, and knocked lightly.

The door creaked open. Kern, the elderly servant, peered out through rheumy eyes.

"Rider Ilyse," he whispered. "The master is resting."

She offered the vial with a bow. "Ceremonial blessings from Instructor Marren. I'm to deliver texts as well. For tomorrow's council."

Kern studied her face before nodding once. "The master is sleeping deeply. Healer's medicine. Place the texts on his study table."

Ilyse entered the dimly lit antechamber. Kern shuffled ahead, gesturing toward a door.

"His study. I must return to his bedside. You know the way out."

"Of course."

She waited until his footsteps faded before entering the study. Circular, lined with shelves, a massive oak table covered in scrolls. A single oil lamp cast wavering shadows across ancient texts.

Once, such a room would have been guarded day and night. The texts had shaped the empire for a thousand years. But ten generations had passed since the last uprising. Complacency had settled over the Academy like dust.

Ilyse moved to the eastern wall where a recessed cabinet stood half-hidden behind a tapestry. The lock was simple - designed to keep out curious students, not thieves. Three careful manipulations with Madame Winter's tool, and it clicked open.

Inside lay the most sacred texts of the dragon rider tradition. Scrolls sealed with wax. Leather-bound volumes with gold-stamped titles. Diagrams of ceremonial formations.

Madame Winter's instructions had been explicit. The slender black journal with no markings. Three folded parchments secured with twine. Six copies of each exist, the shopkeeper had assured her. One set in each master's library. They won't miss these for months, if ever.

Ilyse's fingers hovered. Every instinct screamed this was wrong. These weren't just academic exercises -they were the foundation of everything she had once held sacred.

But then a wave of nausea washed over her, pure anxiety turning her stomach. She needed to believe in Madame Winter's promise of a remedy. The shopkeeper had been right about the catalyst's transformative powers before -first granting Ilyse the perfect body, the status, everything she'd dreamed of. It made a twisted kind of sense that she might know how to reverse its effects too. The alternative was unthinkable -watching helplessly as her body continued expanding, as everything she'd worked for slipped away.

But then she caught her reflection in a polished metal bookend. Even in the distorted image, she could see it -the fullness in her cheeks. The heaviness beneath her chin. Her uniform, once perfectly tailored, now pressed uncomfortably against her flesh.

She grabbed the journal and parchments, shoving them into her satchel. Her hands shook with nerves and the desperate hope that this theft wouldn't be for nothing. Madame Winter's promise of a remedy was flimsy at best -some vague explanation about needing the original formulations to create a counteragent. Part of Ilyse knew it was likely a lie, but she clung to it anyway. What choice did she have? Her hand brushed against something else -a small crystal vial filled with iridescent powder. On impulse, she took that too.

The cabinet closed with a soft click. She rearranged the remaining texts, let the tapestry fall back into place, and slipped into the antechamber.

No sound came from the master's bedchamber. She moved toward the exit, each step bringing both relief and shame.

The corridor beyond was empty. She made her way back to the spiral staircase, the stolen texts heavy against her hip.

***

Three nights later, Ilyse slipped into the apothecary's shop through the back entrance as instructed. Rain pelted against her, soaking through her clothes and making the fabric cling uncomfortably to her swollen body. She paused to catch her breath, the short walk from the town center leaving her winded. Her thighs, now constantly touching, had chafed painfully during the descent from the High Aerie. Her fingers, plumper than she still expected them to be, clutched the oilcloth-wrapped package secured inside her jacket.

The back room was dimly lit by a single lamp. The apothecary waited, seated behind a small desk, hands folded patiently before her.

"You have it?" she asked simply.

Ilyse withdrew the wrapped bundle and extended it across the desk. Her fingertips lingered on the package a moment too long before she released it.

The apothecary unwrapped the oilcloth, revealing the leather-bound manuscript within. She examined several pages with methodical attention, then closed the book and secured it in a drawer of her desk.

"The remedy," Ilyse said, unable to contain herself any longer. "You promised me the remedy."

The apothecary's eyes lifted to meet hers.

"My dear," she said, her voice almost gentle, "there is no remedy."

The words hung in the air between them. Ilyse felt suddenly numb.

"What?" Ilyse's voice cracked. She gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles whitening against the flesh that had dimpled and thickened around her once-slender fingers. "But you showed me the vial..."

The apothecary's laugh was soft, bordering on pitying. "There's nothing to be done. The die is cast." Her eyes traveled slowly down Ilyse's body, lingering pointedly on the soft, rounded stomach that now protruded noticeably. "Though I must say, I've never seen anyone bloom quite so... enthusiastically. Most girls get a little softer, but you -" she gestured to where Ilyse's ceremonial belt disappeared beneath the substantial fold of her belly, " -you've really committed to the process."

Rage flared hot in Ilyse's chest. "You did this to me!" she snarled, her voice breaking with fury and humiliation.

"The flower does exactly what it was designed to do," the apothecary replied calmly.

Ilyse's vision blurred. Not from tears -she was too stunned for tears. Her body seemed to swell even further under the apothecary's appraising gaze, the ceremonial belt at her waist cutting painfully into the soft roll of flesh that spilled over it. A drop of sweat traced a path between her breasts, now heavy and pendulous where they had once been high and firm. This couldn't be happening. Not after everything.

"You're lying," she whispered, though she already knew it was true.

"You wanted so badly to believe there was a way back." The apothecary's voice held no malice, which somehow made it worse. "There isn't. There never was."

The reality crashed down upon her. She was trapped in this body. This was her future. This was her forever.

"Why?" The question escaped before she could stop it. Not why the deception -she understood that now -but why this cruelty, this finality.

"Stormhaven has its own path," the apothecary replied simply. She tapped the drawer containing the manuscript. "As does Windcrest."

Rage flared suddenly through Ilyse's numbness.

"You used me," she hissed.

"Yes," the apothecary agreed without inflection.

Ilyse's hand moved instinctively to the copper dragon pin on her jacket -a symbol that meant less with each passing day.

"Go," the apothecary said, her tone dismissive now. "Your path is your own to walk."

Ilyse stood frozen, anger and shame warring within her. Not shame for her betrayal -that seemed almost trivial now -but for her desperation, her willingness to believe, her new reality. Her breathing came in heavy, labored pants that strained the fabric across her chest. The ceremonial leggings that had once showcased toned muscle now creaked in protest around her thickened thighs, the seams threatening to split with each small movement. She could feel the unfamiliar weight of her double chin against her throat as she swallowed hard.

As she turned toward the door, the apothecary spoke once more.

"You have the body you deserve now, dragon rider. We all pay for our choices in the end."

Ilyse's fingers curled into fists, nails biting into soft palms. She pushed through the door into the rain, immediately feeling her ankles -now puffy and swollen -protest at the slick descent down the shop steps. Her wet clothes clung to the curves and bulges of her transformed body, outlining every humiliating change for anyone who might see her. The cold drops mixed with the tears that finally came, rolling down cheeks that had grown round and full.

***

The raw dragonroot felt rough against Ilyse's fingertips as she shaved thin curls from its surface. The familiar ritual -one she'd performed countless times before discovering Madame Winter's catalyst -brought no comfort tonight. She worked methodically in her chambers, shaving once, twice, three times the amount she would normally use. Even in her desperation, some small part of her mind registered the danger, but she silenced it with practiced ease.

Danger meant nothing now.

She'd harvested this particular root herself months ago from the northern slopes, where the most potent varieties grew wild. Academy tradition frowned on using raw dragonroot outside ceremonial contexts, but she'd developed the habit during her early years at Cliffside, finding that it calmed her nerves before examinations.

The small brass brazier on her nightstand glowed as she sprinkled the freshly shaved root onto the coals. The scent was sharper, earthier than the processed version used in Academy rituals -wild and untamed, like the dragons themselves.

Ilyse closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, drawing the acrid smoke into her lungs. The effect was almost immediate -a rushing warmth spreading outward from her chest, blurring the edges of her consciousness. She inhaled again, greedily this time, willing the dragonroot to obliterate thought, memory, awareness.

Her chambers dissolved around her, the walls breathing with each beat of her heart. Colors intensified, then melted into swirling patterns that made no sense yet felt profoundly significant. But the oblivion she sought remained frustratingly elusive. Even through the haze, she could feel every hateful curve of her body pressing against the mattress. Could feel the way her thighs spread wider than they once had, the unfamiliar weight of her breasts as they shifted with each breath.

With sudden decision, Ilyse forced herself up from the bed. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet as she made her way to the door. The High Aerie's corridors stretched and contracted with her breathing, torchlight creating patterns that danced along the stone walls. A part of her knew she shouldn't be wandering the Academy in this state, but that caution belonged to a different Ilyse -one who still had something to lose.

The tailoring workshop was located in the east wing, close enough to the dragon riders' quarters for convenience but isolated enough to contain the noise and mess of the craft. At this late hour, most of the Academy slept, but a thin line of light showed beneath Jaren's door. He often worked late, preparing ceremonial garments for upcoming rituals or making adjustments for the ever-changing bodies of young riders.

Ilyse's fist connected with the wooden door three times, the sound oddly distant to her own ears. When it opened, Jaren's expression shifted rapidly from surprise to understanding. He'd seen her like this before, though never quite this far gone.

"Dragonroot," he observed, noting her dilated pupils, the slight tremor in her hands.

"Not enough," Ilyse replied, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. "Never enough."

Jaren glanced quickly down the corridor before pulling her inside, securing the lock behind her. The workshop was warm, heated by the small forge used for metal fittings and copper accents. Half-completed ceremonial garments hung from wooden forms -reminders of what she once was, what she could never be again.

"Madame Winter," she said, the words spilling out unbidden. "She lied. There's no remedy. Nothing can fix this." She gestured vaguely at her body, the movement expansive and uncoordinated.

"I know," Jaren replied simply.

Of course he knew. Everyone knew. Everyone except her had accepted the reality she had fought so desperately to deny.

"Make me forget," she whispered, stepping closer to him. "Just for tonight. Make me forget what I am."

The old Ilyse would have died before begging a tailor for anything, let alone this. But the old Ilyse was gone, as thoroughly as if she had never existed.

Jaren's workshop contained a small alcove in the back where a narrow bed stood -for those nights when work continued too late for the journey back to Cliffside. Beside it hung a full-length mirror, used for final fittings, its polished surface catching the wavering lamplight.

His hands settled at her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with familiar possessiveness as he guided her toward the alcove. As they passed the mirror, Ilyse caught her reflection and froze. The dragonroot heightened every visual detail -the way her academy robe strained across her hips, the unfamiliar fullness of her face, the heavy curve of her breasts pressing against fabric that had once hung loosely.

Jaren noticed her gaze and turned her fully toward the mirror. "Look," he commanded softly, his hands moving to the fastenings of her robe.

She couldn't look away as he slowly undressed her, each layer revealing more of what she had become. The lamplight was unforgiving, casting shadows that emphasized every curve, every roll, every place where her once-athletic body had softened and expanded. Her stomach protruded where it had once been flat, marked with angry red stretch marks. Her thighs touched from top to bottom, no longer the toned limbs that had once gripped Suncrest's sides with easy strength.

The dragonroot made every sensation more intense -the pressure of Jaren's grip, the texture of his palms against her bare skin, the heat building within her at his touch. But it also made the visual reality of her transformation impossible to escape, the mirror reflecting both her changed form and Jaren's obvious appreciation of it.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice low as they reached the bed. "Dragon rider turned beggar."

The words should have stung, but the dragonroot transformed them into nothing more than truth. She was a beggar now -for his touch, for the momentary escape it provided, for any distraction from the crushing reality that had been revealed in Madame Winter's shop.

As Jaren's weight pressed her into the mattress, the dragonroot visions intensified. The workshop ceiling dissolved into endless sky. She was no longer herself -no longer trapped in flesh that betrayed her.

She was a dragon in flight, copper scales gleaming in sunlight, wings catching thermal currents. Power surged through her as she banked sharply, the world tilting beneath her. Everything acute, magnificent, free.

The vision shifted. Now she was Leonor, perfect and beautiful, striding confidently into Brasswing's cave. Her body lithe yet curved in all the right places, draped in silks that accentuated rather than concealed. The great copper dragon watched her approach, ancient eyes assessing her worth.

She could feel the heat radiating from Brasswing's massive form, could sense the connection forming between them -power meeting power. In this vision, there was no doubt, no humiliation, no loss. Only the perfect communion between rider and dragon.

Ilyse surrendered completely, clinging to these visions as Jaren pushed into her. For these moments, suspended in dragonroot dreams, she was everything she had ever wished to be -soaring on wings of her own, beautiful and fearless like Leonor of legend.

Only when the visions began to fade did she feel tears sliding down her cheeks.