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Zozafina silences Miselda by placing her finger on the slaver’s lip. “Tut, tut, dearest Miselda. There’s a stand and a place for kissing up to me. Sadly for you, that time shall never come. I require something else from you. Namely, a bit of house cleaning. Do you think someone down on your luck could bring herself to be helpful to someone like me?”

She slips her finger away.

“Buh… but of course, but oh great, Zozafina, I am afraid I don’t recall ever meeting with you before. After all, you are such a powerful and wonderful being—radiant and amazing!”

“Such flattery, but not from you, no, we can’t have that,” Zozafina says. “You couldn’t have given any succor to a poor, defenseless boy who came under your employ, could you?”

The slaver’s brows furrow, and she gulps and speaks up after a long pause. “Zuh…. Zoster…?”

A gloved hand rewards her word with a firm slap across the cheek.

“You shall address me by my true name, you cur!” Zozafina spits, the dark elf sorceress looming over the slaver, burning hate into her eyes.

Miselda’s face remains slammed to the side, her cheek stinging, the indignity burning through her whole body. She grits her teeth, shooting her burning glare at the Dark Queen. “You’re a cheater and a fraud…” she growls. “I would have never thought that such a lowly slave would ever rise to the top of our society. Let alone a male.”

Zozafina’s rage changes. She rolls her shoulders back, her hands behind her, tapping her heel against the ground, clicking her tongue. “That’s alright. You are simply of the old guard. I cannot blame you for your ignorance. But, thank you for helping me make it to my ascension.”

The sorceress’s eyes glow crimson, splitting and forming into multiple orbs as her mouth opens. Large mandibles emerge from within her until her face takes on a terrifying arachnoid countenance, her fangs dripping with saliva and venom.

Miselda struggles against her bonds, but it is no use, for those fangs bury themselves deep into her throat, seizing her breath. Her eyes roll back, and her body seizes up as hot venom rushes through her.

When Zozafina pulls away, her face returns to its beautiful yet merciless, humanoid countenance. She licks her lips, her gaze lingering on the twitching form before her.

But that’s all Miselda remembers before she falls, landing with a thump on the sand, naked and quite afraid but free from the webs.

She scrambles to her feet, swishing about this way and that until her vision reveals the empty arena.

With a blast of purple fire, the dread sorceress appears, sitting upon a stone throne hewn by dwarven servants many centuries ago. She leans back with one leg crossed over the other, leaning her head upon a scepter streaked with black and purple.

“Welcome, oh great slaver, Miselda,” she intones, “to a place I’m sure you recognize.”

Miselda shakes her fist at the gloating sorceress. “Why’d you bring me here? Is this how you plan to thank me?”

Zozafina giggles. “Oh, but of course. Why not bring you to the place where it all began? Here, where you took some elven youths and forced them into humiliation upon humiliation, mutilation upon depredation, and so many things that I need not repeat.”

“So, this is you gloating over me? Well, if you’re going to turn me into a servitor or kill me, do it now and get on with your life!”

Zozafina stands, leaning over her staff, her black-painted lips quirking into a sadistic grin. “Oh, but we can’t end your suffering just yet. We have to finish up this little reunion.”

“What are you blabbering about?” the slaver scoffs, hands wrapped under her breasts.

“A young, unawakened Zozafina, before she had learned of her true self and the might that femininity can impart about her, was not the only one thrown into your pit of shame. You recall, do you not, another servant who had joined me in these ranks?”

Miselda snorts. “Yeah, a worthless wretch. I remember how much she screamed for mercy when we had you exact your male, heh, dominance upon her. What a pathetic waste of flesh!”

Zozafina’s eyes darken. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong.”

The sand around Miselda’s feet shifts, the slaver stepping through the loosened earth as she slowly sinks, fighting against its pull. She falls onto her face, climbing, struggling to free herself from the sinking and shaking mass.

“When you are the new Dark Mistress of Transformation,” Zozafina says, hand on her hip, flicking her hair back. “Then no flesh is wasted.”

A rumbling gets louder through the darkened end arena, through the edge of Miselda’s vision. She sees the dark form, vast and imposing, slowly take shape. She climbs desperately through the sand, slowly progressing toward Zozafina and away from the horror hidden by the shadows.

“I must admit that I feel a little bad for my former fallen servitor,” Zozafina laments, lifting up her scepter and pointing down the path beyond the dark. “But I doubt they feel anything anymore except the more primal urges left to them.”

The slaver claws through the sand, yelping as something sharp cuts at her side. On instinct, she grabs her side, hissing at the searing pain that comes with it.

With another rumble, a long, clawed appendage slams into the dirt behind her, grasping the sand, excavating it, and forcing her to tumble back into the newly made hole.

Next to appear is a long muzzle, covered in slime, its lips curled back, teeth either removed or never exiled. It growls through its dripping saliva, scooting on useless legs ever closer to the trapped Miselda. Its eyeless visage sniffs the air close to its target, tentacles falling off it like long strands of hair. These terminate in long feelers that slap the ground in a gross parody of thalassic life.