The Monster in the Prince (Drider Maid Tg)

This is a 2am Story, that means the quality might not be as high as you are used to from me. Full info about 2am Stories here.

---

The Grand Hall of Aeloria was alive with music and laughter, a cacophony of noble indulgence that echoed off the marble walls. Golden chandeliers bathed the hall in warm light, casting a glow over the opulent feast that stretched across the center of the room. Exotic fruits, roasted game, and ornate cakes adorned the tables, a testament to the wealth and power of the kingdom.

At the head of it all sat Prince Alaric, the guest of honor and heir to the throne. He wore a finely tailored suit of dark blue velvet, trimmed with silver embroidery that shimmered in the light. A golden crown rested upon his head, a gift from his father for his twenty-second birthday. Alaric leaned back in his chair, a goblet of wine in one hand, surveying the crowd with a faint smirk.

The nobles adored him. Toasts were raised in his honor, and the air buzzed with whispered praise for the young prince who had recently enacted sweeping reforms to "strengthen the kingdom." Taxes had increased, and the wealth now flowed freely into the royal court, funding grand projects and lavish celebrations like this one. To Alaric, it was proof of his leadership, a sign that the kingdom was prospering under his hand.

Not everyone agreed.

The heavy doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, and the music faltered. A figure stepped inside, his tattered cloak a stark contrast to the finery around him. The man’s presence was unsettling—his frame was wiry, his face weathered and angular, and his eyes burned with an intensity that silenced the room. A hush fell over the crowd as all eyes turned to him.

"Master Orlin," someone murmured, the name carrying a weight that made even the bravest noble shrink back.

The mage walked forward with deliberate steps, the hem of his cloak brushing the polished floor. Behind him trailed a younger man, no older than twenty-five, with a clean-shaven face and a nervous energy about him.

"Alaric," Orlin said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He did not bow. "What a splendid celebration. I see the kingdom’s coffers have been well-spent."

Alaric arched an eyebrow, unbothered by the mage’s audacity. "Orlin. How kind of you to grace us with your presence. Though I don’t recall inviting you."

"I invited myself," Orlin replied, his tone cold. "After all, it seems you’ve been busy reshaping the kingdom. I thought it appropriate to see the man behind these… reforms."

A ripple of unease spread through the room. The nobles exchanged glances, but no one dared to speak.

"Ah, yes, the reforms," Alaric said, raising his goblet as if in toast. "A necessary step for the good of the kingdom. Progress requires sacrifice, does it not?"

"Progress," Orlin repeated, his voice laced with venom. "Do you know what I’ve seen, Alaric? Villages starving. Families torn apart. Your ‘sacrifices’ have cost them everything."

Alaric’s smirk faltered for a moment before returning, sharper this time. "A temporary hardship. The kingdom must grow strong, and strength requires—"

"Inhumanity," Orlin interrupted, his voice rising. His assistant, Luke, tugged at his sleeve, whispering urgently, but the mage ignored him. "You speak of strength, yet you have no idea of the suffering you’ve caused. The blood on your hands cannot be washed away with gold and wine."

The tension in the room was palpable now, a charged silence waiting to explode. Alaric leaned forward in his chair, his expression hardening. "Enough, Orlin. If you came to lecture me, save your breath. The kingdom prospers because of my decisions. Your theatrics won’t change that."

For a moment, Orlin said nothing. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile. "Very well," he said, his tone soft but heavy with menace. "If you cannot see the monster you’ve become, then I will help you see it."

Luke’s eyes widened. "Master, no! This isn’t—"

Orlin raised a hand, silencing him. He stepped forward, his gaze locked on Alaric. The prince stood, his pride refusing to let him be intimidated, even as the air seemed to grow heavier with each step the mage took.

"I must congratulate you on your birthday, Your Highness," Orlin said, extending his hand. "It is a momentous occasion, after all."

Alaric hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking the mage’s hand. The moment their palms touched, the room changed.

—

The room fell silent—not the uneasy quiet of the nobles before, but an unnatural, suffocating stillness. The air froze in place, every flickering candle and rustling gown halted as if caught in a suspended moment of time. The music stopped mid-note, and the musicians sat frozen, bows hovering above strings. Every guest in the hall was locked in place, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

Everyone except for Prince Alaric, the mage Orlin, and Luke.

"What is this?" Alaric demanded, his voice echoing in the oppressive silence. He tried to step back, but his legs refused to obey. He glanced down, realizing his boots were rooted to the floor. His eyes darted around the room, the frozen faces of his guests staring back in eerie stillness.

Orlin didn’t answer immediately. He turned his gaze to the throne, the empty seat where Alaric’s father, the king, should have been. His absence made the mage’s presence loom even larger. Orlin’s hand still gripped the prince’s, his knuckles pale, as he finally spoke.

"You call yourself a ruler," Orlin said softly, "but you’ve never tasted fear. You’ve never felt powerless. Tonight, you will."

A chill ran down Alaric’s spine. He opened his mouth to retort, but Orlin’s other hand shot forward, fingers like talons, and grasped his arm just above the elbow.

The pain was immediate and excruciating. Alaric barely had time to gasp before Orlin grabbed both of his arms and wrenched them forward, forcing the prince to stretch them straight ahead.

"Let everyone see what you’ve done with these hands," Orlin hissed, his voice low but seething with disdain. Alaric struggled, but the mage’s grip was unyielding, his long fingers digging into the prince’s shoulders.

Before Alaric could protest further, Orlin began to massage his shoulders, his hands moving in slow, deliberate circles. The change began immediately. A searing heat spread through Alaric’s flesh, and he screamed as the skin under Orlin’s fingers darkened, turning a glossy, oily black. The sensation was as though molten iron coursed beneath his skin, reshaping him from the inside out.

Orlin’s hands moved downward, kneading Alaric’s upper arms with a perverse sense of care. Wherever the mage’s fingers pressed, the flesh beneath hardened into sleek, chitinous plates. Alaric’s bones cracked and splintered, reforming into thin, jointed segments, and he could do nothing but howl in agony as his arms began to lose all resemblance to human limbs.

"Stop this!" Alaric choked, his voice cracking. He tried to pull away, but Orlin tightened his grip, his expression cold and clinical.

"You’ve taken so much with these arms," Orlin said, his tone eerily calm. "So now I’ll take them from you."

His hands slid down to Alaric’s forearms, massaging firmly as though molding clay. The transformation continued, the flesh twisting and contorting under Orlin’s touch. The black exoskeleton spread like ink, encasing Alaric’s arms in a hard, unyielding shell. The sharp ridges and segments of the spider-like limbs began to take shape, the smooth surface gleaming faintly in the frozen light of the hall.

Alaric sobbed, his breaths ragged, but Orlin showed no mercy. He moved to Alaric’s hands, gripping them firmly as the prince flinched in terror.

"Not the hands!" Alaric cried, his voice a desperate wail.

But Orlin didn’t stop. He began to massage the base of Alaric’s palms, his thumbs digging in with relentless precision. The flesh rippled and collapsed beneath his touch, the fingers slowly eroding away as though dissolving into the black chitin. Alaric watched in horror as his fingers fused together, their structure breaking apart, only to be compressed into a single, sharp, lance-like point.

Orlin tilted his head, his expression almost curious, as he pressed and squeezed the ends of Alaric’s hands, reshaping them into deadly, elongated tips. The sleek black spider limbs twitched involuntarily, sharp enough now to pierce through flesh and bone with ease.

Alaric screamed again, his voice hoarse from the strain. "No! Please, stop!"

Orlin released the first arm, allowing it to fall limply to Alaric’s side, where it twitched unnervingly. He moved to the second arm, gripping it without hesitation.

"You’ve signed away lives with these hands," Orlin murmured as he began the process again, massaging the shoulder and working his way down with the same slow, deliberate care. "It’s only fitting that they take on the shape of your sins."

The transformation was no less agonizing the second time. Alaric sobbed as the exoskeleton consumed his flesh, the pain of his fingers eroding and reshaping into lances almost unbearable.

When Orlin finally stepped back, both of Alaric’s arms had been replaced entirely. The prince could only stare in disbelief at the long, sleek spider legs that twitched at his sides. The smooth, black chitin gleamed under the light, and the pointed tips of his new limbs dug into the marble floor with a faint, chilling scrape.

"Look at them," Orlin said, his voice a whisper filled with contempt. "No more hands to hold a goblet. No more fingers to sign decrees. These arms are your punishment, a reflection of what you’ve become."

Alaric’s breaths came in shallow gasps as he stared at the inhuman appendages, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. He looked up at Orlin, his tear-streaked face a mask of horror.

"Please…" Alaric whimpered, but Orlin only tilted his head, his expression devoid of pity.

"We’re not done yet," the mage said, his voice cold and unyielding.

Luke turned away, his stomach twisting with dread. "Master," he whispered, his voice shaky, "this isn’t the way—please stop this madness!"

Orlin ignored him entirely. His cold, calculating gaze swept over Alaric, who was staggering, his monstrous new arms twitching unnervingly at his sides. The prince’s breaths were shallow and ragged as he tried to balance on his unfamiliar limbs, but Orlin stepped forward, unmoved by his suffering.

"I’ve only just begun," Orlin said, his tone sharp and iron-clad, carrying the weight of unshakable purpose.

Alaric barely had time to flinch before Orlin placed both hands firmly against his chest. The prince gasped at the contact, but the mage paid no attention to his protests. He began kneading the prince’s flesh with slow, deliberate precision, as though molding clay.

At first, there was only an unsettling warmth under Orlin’s palms. Then, the changes began.

Orlin’s fingers pressed deeply into Alaric’s pectoral muscles, which had once been strong and defined. With every rhythmic motion of the mage’s hands, the muscles softened and seemed to dissolve, the firmness eroding into nothingness under his expert touch. Alaric shuddered violently, his breaths hitching as the sensation crawled through his body.

"Stop!" Alaric cried, his voice trembling with panic, but Orlin’s grip only tightened.

The mage’s hands moved lower, massaging the sides of Alaric’s torso. His broad, masculine frame began to narrow under Orlin’s firm, unyielding pressure. The width of his shoulders shrank slightly, but the most dramatic changes were in his waist. Orlin’s fingers dug into the flesh around Alaric’s midsection, kneading and smoothing with clinical precision.

The prince let out a strangled cry as his waist pulled inward, the change painfully dramatic. His clothing, once tailored perfectly to his form, began to bunch and stretch awkwardly around his reshaping body.

"There," Orlin murmured, his tone almost approving as his hands slid lower. He began working on Alaric’s hips, massaging deeply into the flesh. Slowly, padding began to form under his fingers, the once straight, narrow hips of the prince filling out into softer, curvier shapes. Alaric writhed, his monstrous spider legs twitching involuntarily as the mage’s hands worked him over.

"Please… stop this…" Alaric whimpered, his voice cracking, but his words fell on deaf ears.

Orlin returned his focus to Alaric’s chest. His palms pressed firmly against the remnants of the prince’s pectoral muscles, and he began massaging again, this time with an almost reverent care. The flesh under his hands stirred and shifted, the smooth surface beginning to push outward.

Alaric gasped, his body jerking as if trying to reject the change, but the mage’s hands were relentless. The small mounds that had started to form on his chest grew rapidly under Orlin’s expert touch.

"You took so much pride in your form," Orlin said softly, his tone mocking yet methodical. "Let’s give you something new to be proud of."

The growth accelerated, the once-flat expanse of Alaric’s chest swelling into full, heavy breasts. Orlin’s hands cupped them briefly, as if inspecting his work, before pulling back to let the transformation finish on its own. Alaric looked down in horror, his trembling hands—no, spider legs—hovering uselessly as he tried to comprehend what had happened.

The weight of the new additions was undeniable, their size impossible to ignore. They were large, too large for him to ever hide, a deliberate cruelty from the mage who had shaped them. The fabric of his shirt strained against them, the seams groaning as they struggled to contain the altered proportions of his body.

Alaric’s face crumpled in despair, his breaths shallow and uneven. He tried to speak, to protest, but no words came.

Orlin stepped back, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed his handiwork. "You’ll find this shape far more fitting for what you’re meant to be," he said coldly.

Luke glanced back briefly, catching sight of Alaric’s trembling form. The prince—no, the creature that had once been a prince—looked completely unrecognizable now. The narrow waist, curving hips, and the prominent mounds on Alaric’s chest gave her a distinctly feminine silhouette, though her monstrous spider legs and chitinous arms were a constant reminder of her inhumanity.

Alaric shuddered, clutching at the remnants of her torn shirt, her voice breaking as she whispered, "What… what have you done to me?"

"We’ve only begun to unmake you," Orlin said, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"Stop this!" Alaric cried, his voice cracking, rising in pitch with a tone of desperation that had never graced his lips before. He gasped sharply, his breath catching in his throat as Orlin’s hands moved lower, sliding purposefully to his thighs.

"These legs," Orlin murmured, his voice quiet but dripping with disdain, "that carried you so confidently over the backs of your people… let’s make them more fitting for your true form."

Alaric flinched as the mage gripped his thighs firmly, his fingers pressing into the flesh with an almost calculated gentleness. Orlin began massaging, his hands kneading the thick muscle with a slow, rhythmic precision that made Alaric shudder involuntarily. The transformation started immediately.

A burning sensation spread from Orlin’s touch, sharp and searing as though his fingers carried fire beneath the skin. Alaric screamed, his thighs twitching uncontrollably as the changes took hold. The muscle began to shrink beneath Orlin’s grip, thinning rapidly as though melting away. His once-strong, powerful legs, shaped by years of physical training, dissolved into something horrifyingly alien.

"You don’t need this strength anymore," Orlin said coldly, his hands continuing their deliberate work.

The mage’s touch moved downward, from the thighs to Alaric’s knees, which buckled painfully as the bones inside twisted and cracked with sickening precision. Alaric wailed in agony, but Orlin’s grip remained firm, his movements steady as the knees contorted, bending slightly backward in a way no human joint was meant to move.

Orlin’s hands then slid further down to Alaric’s calves, where the flesh tightened and blackened under his fingertips. The skin hardened into segmented plates of chitin, sleek and glossy, wrapping around the reshaped bones like armor. The once-sturdy muscles of his lower legs disappeared entirely, replaced by thin, angular shapes that looked impossibly fragile yet eerily sharp.

Alaric sobbed as Orlin finally reached his feet. The mage gripped them with both hands, his fingers digging into the arches as though molding clay.

"No—please, not my feet!" Alaric cried, his voice trembling as he tried to pull back. But his monstrous arms offered no leverage, and Orlin’s hands pressed firmly against his feet, reshaping them with cruel precision.

The toes were the first to go. Orlin massaged them away one by one, the digits shrinking and fusing together until they disappeared entirely, leaving only a single sharp, pointed tip at the end of each leg. Alaric shrieked as his feet elongated unnaturally, the bones snapping and extending until they resembled the ends of spears, their edges wickedly sharp.

When Orlin finally let go, Alaric’s new legs twitched uncontrollably. The sharp points dug into the marble floor with an audible scrape, and he instinctively tried to stand upright—but the loss of his feet destroyed his balance entirely.

With a strangled cry, Alaric fell forward, landing on all fours with a loud, echoing thud. His monstrous arms, now spider-like spears, clicked awkwardly against the floor as he tried to push himself back up, but his altered legs refused to cooperate.

The weight of his own transformation pressed down on him, both physically and emotionally. His head hung low, his breaths coming in shallow, panicked gasps as he realized he couldn’t even stand like a man anymore.

And then, humiliatingly, he realized his new posture: with his spider arms and legs splayed out and his abdomen slightly raised, his lower half was pointed awkwardly toward the sky. His once proud, regal body was now bent in the most monstrous and degrading position imaginable.

Orlin chuckled darkly, his voice filled with cruel satisfaction. "Fitting," he said, his tone mocking. "A creature like you doesn’t deserve to stand tall. Crawl, Alaric. That’s all you’re good for now."

Alaric whimpered, his mind reeling as he tried desperately to shift his position, but his new limbs only scraped uselessly against the floor.

Orlin turned to Luke, who stood frozen, his face pale and his hands trembling. "Take a good look at him," the mage said coldly. "This is the price of arrogance."

Luke glanced at Alaric—now sprawled on the floor, trembling, with tears streaming down his face. But the mage wasn’t finished yet.

"But alas, having his head down there isn’t part of my vision. So let’s rectify that," Orlin said, his voice cold and laced with a mockery that made Luke shudder.

Alaric barely had time to process the words before Orlin’s hands settled firmly on his lower back. The prince let out a soft gasp at the contact, his entire body tensing in dread. The mage began to massage, his movements deliberate and unhurried, pressing his fingers into the flesh with calculated precision.

A wave of searing heat radiated outward from Orlin’s touch, followed by a sharp, tearing pain that made Alaric cry out. Something was shifting beneath his skin, pushing outward in a way that felt completely unnatural.

"You’ve carried yourself with such pride," Orlin murmured, his tone cruelly soft. "Let’s give you something more fitting to carry now."

Alaric’s screams grew louder as the base of his spine began to bulge. The skin stretched taut before splitting open, and a new appendage began to grow from his backside. Orlin’s hands continued to knead and massage, coaxing the grotesque transformation along with a sickeningly methodical care.

The appendage swelled rapidly, the flesh darkening and hardening into glossy black chitin. It grew larger and larger, the weight of it pulling Alaric’s body lower as the monstrous new abdomen took shape. The bulbous structure gleamed ominously under the chandelier’s light, its segmented surface smooth and alien.

Alaric’s sobs turned to broken gasps as he felt the full weight of the new addition. His arms—already grotesque spider legs—twitched uselessly against the floor, unable to support him as the heavy thorax grew larger with each passing second.

But Orlin wasn’t finished.

As the abdomen continued to expand, the mage shifted his hands, moving them to specific points along Alaric’s sides. He began to massage once more, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh with an almost surgical precision.

Alaric’s body jerked violently as the first new pair of legs erupted from his sides, just below the base of the growing abdomen. The pain was excruciating, the sensation of bones forming and chitin hardening under his skin sending fresh waves of agony through his body. The legs unfurled slowly, thin and angular, their sharp tips clicking against the floor as they adjusted to their new existence.

"One pair," Orlin said softly, his tone almost contemplative. "But why stop there?"

He massaged another point further down, his hands working with the same dreadful care. Alaric’s screams echoed through the frozen hall as a second pair of spider legs burst forth, their segmented joints flexing and twisting unnervingly as they found their place on his now grotesque form.

"Two pairs," Orlin continued, his voice carrying an air of satisfaction. He moved lower again, his hands pressing into the sides of the growing thorax with merciless precision.

Alaric convulsed as the third pair of legs sprouted, completing the grotesque set. The new limbs twitched and clicked against the floor, their sharp, jointed points digging into the marble with an audible scrape.

By the time Orlin removed his hands, Alaric’s monstrous form was fully supported by his eight legs: three pairs on the thorax and the two original legs that had already been transformed. The once-proud prince now resembled something that belonged in a nightmare, his massive abdomen balanced on a cluster of sharp, angular limbs that clicked and twitched with an unnerving rhythm.

The weight of the thorax forced Alaric into a more upright position, his arms no longer needed for balance. For a moment, he almost looked regal again—his back straight, his posture steady—but the grotesque reality of his new form robbed the image of any dignity it might have held.

Alaric looked down at himself, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the full scope of his transformation. The glossy black surface of the thorax gleamed mockingly in the light, the additional legs shifting involuntarily as though they had minds of their own.

"No… no, please…" Alaric whimpered, his voice breaking.

Orlin stepped back, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "There. Much better," he said, his voice cold and mocking. "Walking with dignity is a thing of the past. At least now when you approach, everyone knows to run."

Alaric’s body trembled as he struggled to adjust to the unfamiliar weight and balance. The monstrous legs clicked and shifted beneath him, supporting him with an unnatural ease that only deepened his despair. He was upright again, but it brought him no comfort—if anything, it only made the humiliation sharper.

Luke stood frozen, his face pale as he watched the once-proud prince reduced to this grotesque form. The sight of the massive abdomen, the long, angular legs, and the trembling, broken expression on Alaric’s face sent a shiver down his spine.

"Now," Orlin said, stepping in front of Alaric, who was barely recognizable, her monstrous body trembling under the weight of her new form. "For the final touch."

Alaric flinched, but Orlin was unrelenting. With a cruel gentleness, the mage cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her once-proud, sharp features were pale, tear-streaked, and contorted with fear and humiliation.

"You think your beauty, your charm, can excuse the horrors you’ve wrought," Orlin said, his voice dripping with venom. "Let’s see how well you hide behind it now."

He placed his hands on either side of her face, his fingers cool against her fevered skin. Alaric’s breath hitched as Orlin began to massage, his thumbs pressing into her cheeks with an unnerving precision. The sensation was unlike anything she had felt before—a disorienting blend of discomfort and a strange, shameful pleasure.

Orlin’s hands slid downward, his thumbs brushing against the base of her throat. Alaric gasped as the touch lingered on her Adam’s apple. The mage pressed firmly, kneading the area with deliberate care, and Alaric let out a choked cry as the lump began to shrink beneath his touch. The once-pronounced feature of her throat faded entirely, leaving her voice softer and higher-pitched, its masculine edge erased.

"Much better," Orlin murmured, his tone low and mocking.

His fingers moved upward, cradling her jawline. With slow, deliberate motions, he began to reshape her face. Alaric shuddered as the bones beneath her skin shifted, her once angular, masculine jaw softening into a delicate, feminine curve. Orlin’s fingers traced her cheekbones, lifting and sculpting them with the precision of an artist, giving her a strikingly refined appearance.

Her lips were next. Orlin’s thumbs pressed against them, molding their shape as they plumped and softened under his touch. Alaric’s breaths came in short, panicked gasps, her trembling lips betraying the shame she felt as they transformed into something undeniably alluring.

The mage stepped back briefly to admire his work, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "A face fit for the festival’s most beautiful girl," he said. "But we’re not done."

He placed his hands above her eyes, his fingers pressing into her brow. Alaric whimpered as a searing heat spread through her forehead. The sensation was unbearable—her skin prickled and stretched, as though something beneath was clawing its way to the surface.

With a sickening pop, a third eye opened above her right eyebrow. Alaric screamed, her voice breaking as the same process repeated above her left eyebrow. Two more eyes blinked open, glowing faintly in the dim light, their pupils sharp and predatory.

Orlin tilted her head slightly, massaging just below her existing eyes. Two final eyes emerged, perfectly arranged in a triangular pattern across her face, giving her six in total. The mage stepped back for a moment, watching with satisfaction as the new eyes blinked in unison, their sharp, inhuman pupils scanning the room with an eerie intelligence.

"Look at you now," Orlin said, his voice heavy with mock admiration. "Beautiful and horrifying, all at once."

He wasn’t finished. His hands slid down to her jaw again, his fingers pressing along the edges with meticulous care. Alaric gasped as a sharp pain shot through her mouth, her teeth aching as they shifted and grew. Her canines lengthened unnaturally, curving outward into two gleaming, venomous fangs that protruded slightly even when her lips were closed.

"Poisonous, as all monsters should be," Orlin murmured.

Finally, he moved to her ears. His hands cupped the sides of her head, his fingers gently massaging the base of her ears. The change was subtle at first—a slight lengthening that became more dramatic as Orlin’s fingers worked their magic. Alaric shuddered as her ears stretched upward, growing long and pointed, their delicate curves reminiscent of an elf’s.

When Orlin stepped back, the transformation was complete.

Alaric’s face was a haunting blend of beauty and monstrosity. Her soft, feminine features were stunning, almost otherworldly, but the six glowing eyes, venomous fangs, and long, elflike ears twisted that beauty into something terrifying.

The mage tilted her chin up slightly, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Perfect," he said, his voice filled with cruel satisfaction. "A face that embodies everything you are: alluring, monstrous, unforgettable."

Alaric trembled under his touch, her six eyes glimmering with tears that spilled down her transformed cheeks. She tried to speak, but the sound caught in her throat—a soft, broken whimper that only deepened her humiliation.

Orlin released her, stepping back to admire his handiwork. The creature before him was no longer the arrogant prince who had once ruled with impunity. She was something entirely new—a monstrous beauty crafted from her sins, her pride, and the mage’s twisted sense of justice.

Luke could only stare, his chest tightening as he took in the sight of her. Alaric lowered her head, her shoulders trembling as she finally broke down.

"Beautiful," Orlin said coldly, his voice echoing in the silence. "And utterly yours, Luke."

“M-Mine?” Luke stammered, his voice shaking with disbelief, the weight of the mage’s words crashing down on him harder than any of the grotesque transformations he had just witnessed.

Alaric—now an unrecognizable blend of monstrous and feminine beauty—shivered on the cold marble floor. Her monstrous limbs twitched involuntarily, the heavy spider abdomen dragging awkwardly behind her, and her six glimmering eyes blinked disjointedly as fresh sobs echoed through the frozen hall.

Orlin knelt before her with deliberate care, his shadow stretching long and dark over her trembling form. He reached out and cradled Alaric's head in his hands, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze. Alaric flinched at his touch, but her body lacked the strength or the will to resist.

"Her body reflects her sins," Orlin said, his tone soft but laced with cruel satisfaction. He turned to Luke for a moment before looking back down at Alaric. "But her mind… her mind still clings to the pride, the arrogance, the belief that she is above others. That ends now."

"No… please," Alaric whimpered, her voice trembling and soft, barely recognizable as her own.

Orlin’s thumbs pressed gently against her temples, his fingers sliding along the sides of her head with slow, rhythmic precision. At first, the sensation was warm and unsettling, like molten wax spreading through her skull. But the warmth quickly turned sharp, invasive, and overwhelming. Alaric gasped, her six eyes widening in alarm as the fog began to seep into her thoughts, clouding everything she had once been.

"Let’s begin with the name," Orlin murmured, his tone almost soothing as his thumbs pressed firmly against her temples. "Prince Alaric… that name has no place here anymore."

Alaric’s breath hitched as Orlin began massaging in slow circles, the pressure in her head growing unbearable. The sound of her own name echoed faintly in her mind, but it grew quieter and quieter with each stroke of Orlin’s hands. She clung to it desperately, her lips trembling as she whispered, "Alaric… I’m Alaric…"

But Orlin’s hands pressed harder, erasing the name as though wiping ink from parchment. "No," he said firmly. "You are Alara now."

The new name slipped into her mind like a whisper, then grew louder, filling the void left behind. Alaric’s name was gone—forgotten—and in its place was a single, undeniable truth: Alara. She shuddered as the new identity settled over her like a second skin, her trembling lips forming the name unbidden.

"Alara…" she whispered, her voice soft and uncertain, yet strangely… right.

Orlin smiled faintly. "Good. Now, let’s deal with the rest of this… clutter."

His hands moved slightly, massaging new points on her temples and pressing deeply into the sides of her head. Alara let out a strangled gasp as the invasive heat spread further, reaching into the deepest recesses of her mind.

"Your desires. Your ambitions. Your drives," Orlin said softly, his tone almost conversational as his hands kneaded her skull. "You don’t need those anymore."

Alara whimpered as flashes of her former life raced through her mind. The ambitions that had once defined her—her plans for the kingdom, her pride in her reforms, her desire to shape history—all of it began to crumble under the relentless pressure of Orlin’s touch. She tried to cling to them, but each time she reached for a memory or a goal, it dissolved into nothingness.

And in their place, something new began to grow.

"You don’t need to rule," Orlin murmured, his fingers working with almost loving care. "You don’t need to lead. All you need is him."

Through the haze, Luke’s face appeared in her mind—clearer and sharper than anything else. His voice, his presence, his approval became the center of her world. Alara’s thoughts twisted and reshaped themselves, every hollow left behind by Orlin’s touch filling with a singular, overwhelming purpose: to serve Luke.

Her ambitions vanished, replaced by a burning desire to obey Luke’s every word. Her pride in her old accomplishments was gone, replaced by a new kind of pride—a pride in her ability to please him.

Orlin’s hands pressed harder, his touch moving to new points along her temples. "And what of your fear?" he said softly. "Your rage? Your worries?"

Alara shuddered as the last remnants of her defiance flared briefly, a flicker of anger and terror in the face of what she had become. But Orlin’s thumbs moved in slow, soothing circles, and the emotions began to melt away.

"You don’t need those, either," Orlin said gently. "There’s no need for fear, no need for anger, no need for worry—not when all you need to do is make him happy."

The heat spread deeper, and Alara’s fear faded into nothingness. The shame, the rage, the despair—all of it was swept away, leaving only a calm, blissful emptiness. Her thoughts filled with Luke, with the image of his face and the sound of his voice, and with the overwhelming need to make him smile.

When Orlin finally removed his hands, Alara’s head slumped forward, her entire body trembling as she processed the changes. Her six eyes blinked slowly, the sharp, predatory pupils softening with something almost childlike in their devotion.

"Alara," Orlin said softly, tilting her chin up again. "What do you want?"

Alara’s lips parted, and her voice was steady, unbroken, and filled with quiet reverence.

"To serve Luke," she said simply. "To make him happy. That’s all I want."

Orlin turned to Luke, his expression one of grim satisfaction. "She’s yours now," he said, stepping back. "In every sense of the word."

Luke stared at her, his mind reeling. The creature before him—the once-proud Prince Alaric—now knelt with an unwavering devotion in her gaze, her monstrous beauty radiating a serene, almost unsettling calm.

Alara lowered her head again, her voice soft but resolute. "What would you have me do, Master?"

"I… I didn’t ask for this—" Luke stammered, shaking his head.

"Neither did they," Orlin interrupted coldly, gesturing toward the crowd of frozen nobles, their expressions locked in silent horror. "Neither did the villages razed by taxes. Neither did the families who starved while coin filled the royal coffers."

Luke flinched, but Orlin’s piercing gaze bore into him. "But you, Luke, are different. You are the only one in this wretched court with even a shred of decency." He tilted his head slightly. "And that is why she is your responsibility now."

Luke felt a lump rise in his throat. "But—"

"No more protests," Orlin cut him off. "The spell is done. The monster kneels before you, utterly devoted, utterly loyal. I trust you will wield her well."

With that, Orlin turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode toward the exit. He did not look back.

Luke watched him go, feeling an overwhelming weight settle on his shoulders. This wasn’t his burden to bear—it shouldn’t have been—and yet Orlin had left him no choice.

Then, with a snap of the mage’s fingers, time resumed.

The frozen nobles gasped as they were suddenly freed from the spell. Chaos erupted instantly.

Screams filled the grand hall as the courtiers stumbled back, clutching at their chests, eyes darting frantically around the room before locking onto the grotesque figure kneeling before Luke.

Whispers turned to shouts.

"What is that?!"
"It’s a demon!"
"The prince—he’s been cursed!"
"Someone, call the priests! We must—"

Luke could already see the panic spreading like wildfire. His mind worked quickly, calculating what needed to be done. They didn’t understand. They thought the prince was still the prince.

And that was his opening.

He turned sharply to Alara, who remained perfectly still, awaiting his command. Her massive, segmented legs twitched slightly, her monstrous body towering over him even in a kneeling position.

"Listen to me," Luke said, his voice low and urgent. "They think you’re still yourself. If you don’t calm them down, this entire party is going to collapse into chaos."

Alara tilted her head slightly, her six eyes flickering between Luke and the terrified nobles.

"What do you need me to do, Master?" she asked softly, her voice carrying no fear, no hesitation—only quiet readiness to obey.

Luke swallowed hard. "I need you to act like… like you’re still Prince Alaric. Tell them you’re fine, that this transformation won’t slow you down, and that you’ll search for a counterspell to reverse it."

Alara’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles. "Even if I don’t mean it?"

"Especially if you don’t mean it," Luke hissed. "They need to believe nothing’s changed. That you’re still in control. If they think you’ve lost yourself, this party will turn into a riot."

For a moment, she was silent, as if considering his words.

Then, she nodded.

"Very well, Master, but answer me this…" she said, rising to her full, intimidating height. “Was Alaric my own former name? Should I just act like I was before?”

“Ah, yes! Exactly!” Luke answered quickly, having completely missed the fact that Alara didn't remember her old name anymore. But that didn't seem to slow her down.

Her spider legs clicked against the marble, the eerie grace of her movements making the already uneasy nobles recoil further. Luke stepped aside, his heart pounding as she turned to face the crowd.

She was a nightmare given form—a grotesque mockery of humanity with her gleaming black exoskeleton, massive spider abdomen, and the six alien eyes that watched the nobles with cold, intelligent calculation.

And then she spoke.

"Enough!"

The word cracked through the air like a whip.

The entire hall fell into stunned silence.

Alara took a slow step forward, her new body moving with predatory ease. She swept her gaze across the room, the weight of her six-eyed stare enough to make even the bravest nobles shrink back.

"I am still Prince Alaric," she declared, standing tall despite the way her monstrous form made her loom over them. "This transformation is… unfortunate. But it is nothing more than a temporary setback. I remain your leader, and I will not allow this to hinder my duties to the kingdom."

Her voice was strong, authoritative—exactly as it had been before. The familiarity of it made the nobles hesitate, their panic faltering.

"I will immediately search for a counterspell to reverse this," she continued, her lanced arms flexing slightly. "But until then, I will not falter. This kingdom will continue to prosper under my guidance, no matter the circumstances."

The nobles exchanged uncertain glances. The horror of her appearance hadn’t faded, but the weight of her words held them back from complete hysteria.

Alara took another step forward, her six eyes narrowing as she added, "Now. Return to the celebration. This is still a joyous occasion, and I will not have it ruined by hysteria."

The words rang with the same unshakable arrogance the prince had always carried.

Slowly, hesitantly, the crowd began to settle. The musicians, though visibly shaken, picked up their instruments once more. A waltz filled the air, though it was far less lively than before. Conversations resumed in hushed, uneasy tones.

The panic had been quelled. The lie had worked.

Alara turned back to Luke, her expression unreadable—except for the faint flicker of pride in her six glimmering eyes.

"Was that sufficient, Master?" she asked.

Luke nodded stiffly, his throat dry. "Yes," he said quietly. "That was… perfect."

She smiled, her monstrous fangs peeking past her lips, but there was no malice in her expression—only satisfaction.

"Then I am glad to have pleased you," she murmured, dipping her head in a subtle bow.

The festival continued, but Luke knew the truth.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

—

The palace corridors were unusually quiet that morning, but the silence was heavy, tinged with whispers and unease that trailed behind Alara like a shadow. Servants and officials who passed by kept their heads low, their gazes averted, though their murmurs were audible just after they thought she was out of earshot. The news had already spread. By sunrise, the kingdom was alive with rumors of the monstrous transformation of Prince Alaric—the “spider prince,” they were calling him.

Alara—Alaric, as she was still supposed to be in the eyes of the world—strode through the halls, her spider legs clicking faintly against the polished floors. Her movements were deliberately slow and measured, her head held high in a display of confidence that Luke had insisted she maintain. She wore a flowing cloak draped over her monstrous body, concealing the bulk of her abdomen and additional legs, though it did little to disguise her unsettling new presence.

By her side, Luke walked in silence, his expression tight with focus. He had barely slept the night before, and his mind was racing with how to manage the situation. Every step they took felt like a performance, and Luke knew they couldn’t afford a single misstep.

"Remember," Luke said under his breath, his tone firm but quiet enough not to be overheard, "you are still the prince to them. Arrogant, confident, untouchable. Act like nothing has changed. It’s not your place to question me on this."

Alara glanced at him, her six eyes glimmering faintly. "Of course, Master," she said softly.

Luke winced at the way she said it—there was no hesitation, no sarcasm, no resistance. It wasn’t the voice of someone merely humoring him; it was the voice of someone who genuinely believed every word.

As they turned a corner, a group of officials approached, their footsteps echoing through the hall. They froze for a brief moment upon seeing her, their faces pale, but quickly composed themselves and dipped into shallow bows.

"Your Highness," one of them said, his voice faltering slightly.

Alara stopped, tilting her head just enough to give the impression of mild irritation. "What is it?" she asked, her voice sharp, though not cruel.

"The council requests your presence later this afternoon to discuss…" The official hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, before continuing, "…the public response to recent… developments."

Alara narrowed her six eyes slightly, a faint sneer pulling at her lips. "Is that what they’re calling it now?" she said, her tone dripping with disdain. "Let the council know I’ll deal with them on my terms, not theirs. If they’re panicking like children, perhaps they’re unfit to serve."

The officials flinched at her tone but nodded quickly. "Of course, Your Highness," the lead official stammered, before hurrying past with the others in tow.

Luke sighed in relief once they were out of earshot. "That was… perfect," he said quietly. "Exactly what they needed to hear."

"Thank you, Master," Alara replied, her voice softening immediately. She didn’t even seem to notice the shift in her tone—it was second nature to her now, the difference between the mask she wore for the world and the truth she lived for Luke alone.

As they resumed walking, Alara’s mind drifted, her focus slipping away from the facade she maintained so effortlessly. She didn’t care about the officials, the council, or even the whispers that followed her through the halls. None of it mattered.

What mattered was getting back to her chamber.

In her chamber, she could shed the weight of the pretense. There, she could bow to Luke as deeply and as often as she pleased, address him with the reverence he deserved, and fulfill her purpose without interruption. Every step closer made her abdomen twitch in anticipation.

But for now, she had to play the role Luke had given her. The proud prince who had "everything under control."

As they approached her chamber doors, Luke hesitated. He placed a hand on her arm—her monstrous, lance-like spider limb—and looked at her seriously. "Remember, Alara. We don’t know who’s watching, even here. The walls have ears. You can’t drop the act."

Alara nodded, her six eyes blinking in perfect synchrony. "I understand, Master."

Luke pushed the door open, and they stepped inside. Alara’s body relaxed immediately, the tension draining from her posture as she turned to face him.

"May I?" she asked softly, her voice trembling with eagerness.

Luke sighed, rubbing his temples. "Just… keep it together, okay? If anyone finds out how far this has gone…"

Alara didn’t wait for him to finish. She dropped to her knees, her monstrous legs folding beneath her in perfect submission. Her head bowed low, her voice reverent as she whispered, "Thank you, Master, for trusting me with this role. I exist only to serve your will."

Luke sat on a chair near the window, watching her in disbelief. This was the same person who, just a day ago, had arrogantly lectured the court on the necessity of his reforms. The same prince who had looked down on everyone else, including Luke, from the towering pedestal of his royal blood. And now…

Now she was happily bustling about, preparing tea with a precision and care that would have made any palace maid envious. Her spear-like spider arms, which Luke had thought would be clumsy and unwieldy, moved with uncanny dexterity as she gripped the teapot’s handle and poured steaming water into delicate porcelain cups.

"There you are, Master," Alara said softly, placing the cup in front of him with a small, reverent bow. Her voice was warm and full of quiet joy.

Luke blinked, unsure how to respond. His gaze traveled from the tea to her. Her transformation had been monstrous by any reasonable standard. The sleek black exoskeleton covering her arms and abdomen gleamed faintly, her eight spider legs were unnervingly sharp, and the large thorax extending behind her gave her an undeniably inhuman silhouette. Yet, as she moved, there was a strange elegance to her motions, a rhythm that was almost… beautiful.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought, but it lingered.

"Why do you… enjoy this so much?" he asked hesitantly, his voice breaking the silence.

Alara paused, tilting her head slightly as her six eyes blinked in unison. "Because it’s what makes me happy," she said simply. "Serving you, being useful to you… it feels right. Like it’s what I was meant to do."

Luke opened his mouth to argue, to tell her that she was the heir to the throne, not a maid. But the words caught in his throat. Watching her now, so calm, so content, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter her moment of happiness.

Instead, he let his eyes wander over her again, taking in every detail. The sharp contrast between her monstrous features and the delicate, humanlike curves of her feminine form was striking. Her six eyes were unnervingly symmetrical, yet the softness in them made them less alien. Her movements were smooth and calculated, and there was something strangely hypnotic about the way her legs moved in perfect harmony.

She caught him staring and smiled faintly. "Is something wrong, Master?"

He looked away quickly, his cheeks flushing slightly. "No, I… it’s nothing."

She didn’t press further. Instead, she returned to her work, tidying up the already immaculate chamber with a diligence that bordered on obsession.

Luke’s thoughts churned as he watched her. This was wrong. All of it. And yet… was it? Alaric had been a cruel, arrogant ruler, indifferent to the suffering his decisions had caused. The Alara before him was nothing like that. She was kind, obedient, and, most of all, genuinely happy.

And then there was the way she listened to him. Every word he spoke, every command he gave, she followed without hesitation, her only concern being how best to please him. It was a stark contrast to the Prince Alaric who had once dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

A strange warmth stirred in his chest. It was a thought he couldn’t quite suppress, no matter how much he tried: She’s beautiful.

Not just in her new form—though he found himself appreciating its unique elegance more and more—but in how completely she had embraced her new role. There was no arrogance, no cruelty, no resentment. Just pure, unshakable devotion.

Maybe… maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing.

As Alara finished her tasks and returned to kneel by his side, her hands folded neatly in her lap, Luke hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to say, or how to handle this strange, unexpected dynamic between them.

But as her six eyes looked up at him, glowing softly with quiet contentment, he found himself smiling despite everything.

---

I always knew that the prince was meant to be a good monstermaid serving a person who actually knew what they were doing.

Sketch by ThatFreakGivz.