X
Did Stacy take the wrong medicine this morning?
The tendrils coiled tightly—no room to move.
Milly felt it: her mind’s defenses cracking open.
A breach.
And through it—something was coming.
The floating letters found their target.
They surged into her consciousness like a flood through a broken dam.
The pain hit harder—and faster—than expected.
An avalanche of information crashed into her brain, threatening to burst it from within.
Milly’s mouth fell open, her expression blank.
Her mind couldn’t process it.
Too much. Too fast.
She shut down.
It would take time for her to absorb it.
And when she did, she’d need help understanding.
The last of the glowing script vanished into her skull.
Stacy released the tendrils.
Milly collapsed onto the edge of the chair—limp, unresponsive.
Her lips hung open.
Like a broken doll.
Stacy brushed a fingertip across her cheek.
No reaction.
No flutter of eyelids.
Just silence.
The foreign language system still raged inside her, tearing at her consciousness.
Her chest barely rose.
Only the thorn sigil on her collarbone—flickering faintly—proved she wasn’t already gone.
Minute by minute, she didn’t wake.
Her arms dangled lifelessly.
Her body—like a flame burned to ash—was now just cold embers.
Time passed.
She should’ve woken by now.
Guess she needed a push.
A tendril brought over a glass of chilled honey nectar—something Milly loved.
She always asked for it as a reward.
Stacy dipped her fingertip into the sweet liquid, then gently traced it along Milly’s lips—like applying invisible gloss.
The nectar melted, sliding down her chin, staining her nightgown with dark droplets.
Milly sucked instinctively—her lips chasing the sweetness.
Like a baby finding milk, her mouth latched onto the lingering fingertip and bit down gently.
“Mmm?”
Stacy blinked—surprised.
But she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she leaned into it.
She could feel Milly’s tiny tongue—warm, soft—licking at the residue.
Delicate. Flexible. Unexpectedly skilled.
She didn’t want to let go.
When Milly tried to release her, Stacy held on.
Her fingertip hooked under Milly’s small, trembling tongue, guiding it to keep licking.
The sensation was… intoxicating.
Too good to stop.
Discomfort flared in Milly’s jaw.
She bit down harder.
Stacy gasped—pain flashing through her finger.
She pulled back.
On her pale fingertip—a clear bite mark.
And a thin, silvery thread—saliva—stretched between them.
Stacy plucked it, breaking it gently.
It should’ve been wiped away.
But instead—
An impulse surged through her.
Slowly… she brought the damp fingertip to her own lips…
And tasted.
Better than expected.
Sweet honey—and something else.
A fresh, floral sweetness—pure, young.
For a moment, Stacy felt… addicted.
She wanted to pull more.
She reached for Milly’s lips again—
But suddenly—
The faint script lingering in Milly’s eyes flared, like an overloaded magic screen sparking with light.
The ashen silver in her irises flickered—then slowly filled with blue.
She was waking.
Stacy withdrew her finger.
There’ll be time later.
Now—there was work to do.
Milly blinked.
Her vision cleared.
Strange words floated in her mind—familiar shapes, but no meaning.
Like letters wrapped in fog.
She knew them… but didn’t understand them.
Her blue eyes shimmered with confusion.
Stacy wasn’t surprised.
She’d forced the knowledge in.
Absorption? That would take help.
But first—a test.
To see how much Milly could grasp on her own.
“Let’s run a simple test.”
Stacy lifted Milly’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.
Behind her, a tendril unrolled a scroll—questions already written.
“Write.”
Milly’s right hand twitched, uncontrolled.
Blood welled from her fingertip, carving burning lines into the floating parchment.
The sand in the crystal hourglass had only fallen one-tenth of the way.
Yet Milly had already answered twenty-three questions.
Stacy lounged in her throne-like chair, tapping a glass filled with deep red liquid.
Every time Milly’s pen trembled—ripples formed in the glass.
The liquid rose, forming floating corrections on the table—showing her mistakes.
“Question seven,” Stacy said, flicking her finger.
A spark ignited Milly’s writing fingertip—brief, stinging, then gone.
“You’re sure that’s the root word?”
Milly’s muffled groan was drowned by the storm of knowledge in her head.
The quill dragged across the parchment, leaving scorched trails.
Blood dripped from her bitten lip—blooming like red flowers at the scroll’s edge.
“Focus.”
A tendril tightened around her waist.
“You know what happens if you make more mistakes.”
The first thirty questions? Manageable.
She made errors—but within Stacy’s tolerance.
But at question thirty-one, the language shifted.
No longer simple phrases.
Now—arcane, twisted glyphs, like crawling insects.
Milly had no idea what they meant.
She guessed.
She fumbled.
She failed—spectacularly.
“Little Milly… you’re making too many mistakes.”
“It’s—too hard—the stuff in my head hasn’t even—”
Her protest died in her throat.
The thorns around her ankles tightened, piercing her skin—sharp, sudden pain.
“It seems I’ll have to… help you understand faster.”
Of course it was too hard!
The test went beyond what was taught!
And she’d just had a whole language system dumped into her brain—no time to breathe, let alone process!
This wasn’t a test.
It was punishment.
She met Stacy’s eyes.
And in them—she saw it.
Clear as day.
Stacy knew.
She wanted Milly to fail.
She was doing it on purpose.
Why?
To justify some “fun” punishment?
No—this pain wasn’t fun.
It was cruel.
Milly’s question went unanswered.
Then—searing pain exploded across her skin.
She looked down.
The thorns were carving into her flesh—writing bloody runes onto her body.
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