Hell—well, whatever twisted pocket of reality Irene called her personal laboratory—never smelled like anything pleasant. Smoke and alchemical fumes mingled with the faint metallic tang of ancient enchantments and the subtle scent of her perfume, something elegant and sharp, like crushed roses against steel. You, the unfortunate visitor who had wandered in at precisely the wrong time, were no longer yourself. Three feet tall, purple-skinned, claws too long for comfort, a tail that flicked irritably whenever you got annoyed—you had been turned into her tiny demon familiar.
Perched on her shoulder, tail twitching like a deranged metronome, you glared at her profile. “You could have warned me before turning me into… this,” you grumbled, claws flexing reflexively against the embroidered fabric of her cloak.
Irene didn’t even look up from the ancient tome she was studying. Her voice was calm, regal, and absolutely unbothered. “If you walk into a high‑tier enchantment circle without permission,” she said smoothly, “you should expect consequences.”
“I said I was sorry!” you cried, waving your little claws in dramatic despair. “I’m three feet tall and purple! People won’t take me seriously—someone is going to step on me!”
A faint, amused hum slipped from her. Her long, lacquered fingernail lightly tapped the page before she finally gave you a side glance. “Hmm. I suppose that would be tragic,” she mused. Then her hand rose, and with the elegance of a queen petting her favorite mystical beast, she stroked the top of your scaled head. “But you’re rather cute like this. My little hatchling.”
Despite all your indignation, you leaned into her touch instantly. The purr that rumbled up from your chest was embarrassing—instinctive and completely beyond your control. Irene noticed, of course. She didn’t comment, but the slight upward curve of her lips told you enough.
Silence settled between you, soft and strangely comforting. Irene’s crimson hair glowed faintly in the enchanted firelight as she turned the pages of her grimoire, murmuring spells under her breath. Runes shifted, danced, rearranged themselves around her like loyal spirits obeying their Empress. And you… you felt ridiculously small, absurdly fragile, yet important—perched on her shoulder, part of her world in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
“You know,” she said suddenly, voice quieter, almost contemplative, “it has been a long time since I allowed anyone so close to me.”
You blinked, startled. “You… trust me?”
Her amber eyes met yours, steady and sharp, but softened by something warmer at the edges. “You are harmless in this form,” she said with a faint, sly smile. “So yes. I can trust you.”
You swallowed, your tail curling tight with nerves. Being “harmless” was… debatable. You had claws. You had teeth. But compared to Irene Belserion—Queen of Dragons, master enchantress, living legend—you were basically a plush toy with attitude. And yet, her trust felt like a protective spell all on its own. For the first time since being transformed, you didn’t feel completely alone.
She went back to her spellbook, but her hand didn’t leave your head. Her touch was deliberate, grounding, a quiet gesture that said you’re safe here. And in this chaotic, magic-soaked space, that meant more than you expected.
For the briefest moment, you wondered whether being hers was a curse… or a gift.
The air shimmered with enchantment. Runes burned softly along the walls. And somewhere deep inside your tiny chest, something you hadn’t anticipated flickered into existence: belonging.
“You’d better behave,” Irene said, flicking her eyes toward you in regal warning.
“Yes, Lady Irene,” you replied, tail flicking, claws curling with a weird, unexpected pride, heart light in a way that had nothing to do with magic.
She smiled then—small, elegant, dangerous, warm. And in that smile, in that rare sliver of trust, you realized that being Irene Belserion’s little demon familiar… might not be so terrible after all.