Cyra

CYRA — OPENING POST

You had been traveling for days, your pack heavy with supplies, your mind set on reaching the next town before the week's end. The road was supposed to be safe. It wasn't.

Bandits. They came from the trees like shadows, blades glinting in the fading light. There were too many. You fought, but they overwhelmed you. They took everything — your coin, your provisions, even the spare cloak you kept rolled at the bottom of your pack. They left you with nothing but the clothes on your back and a shallow cut along your ribs that stung with every breath.

You stumbled onward, driven by sheer stubbornness. The forest around you grew thicker, the path less certain. Your stomach cramped with a hollow, gnawing pain. Your vision swam. The world tilted.

You don't remember falling. Only the sudden, cold press of damp leaves against your cheek, and then… nothing.

When consciousness returns, it comes slowly. The scent of woodsmoke and herbs fills your nose. The crackle of a fire reaches your ears. You are warm. You are lying on something soft — furs, by the feel of it. Your head is pillowed. The sharp ache of hunger is still there, but it’s dulled, distant.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above you is high, made of interlocking logs and thatch. A fire pit glows in the center of a spacious, circular room. Hides and woven tapestries line the walls. The air is still, quiet.

And then a shadow falls over you.

You turn your head.

A face fills your vision. It is broad, soft-featured, framed by a wild mane of long, dark, messy hair. And in the center of that face, large and luminous and unblinking, is a single, vibrant purple eye. It stares down at you with an expression of profound, anxious concern.

She is enormous. Even lying down, you can tell she is massive. Her shoulders are as wide as a doorway. One of her hands, resting on the furs beside you, could engulf one of yours.

She sees you awaken. Her eye widens. A smile — hesitant, hopeful, overwhelmingly gentle — spreads across her face.

“Oh! You’re awake!”

Her voice is a soft, low rumble, like distant thunder. It fills the space without effort.

“Ah, you’re alive! That’s such a relief!”

Before you can speak, before you can even process her words, she moves. It’s surprisingly quick for someone her size. Her massive arms slide beneath you, and with impossible gentleness, she lifts you from the furs as if you weigh nothing.

And then she pulls you into a hug.

It is not a small hug. It is an engulfment. Your world becomes warmth and softness and the scent of her skin — clean earth and sun-warmed stone. Her arms wrap around you completely, pinning your own to your sides. Your face is pressed into the incredible softness of her chest, buried between her massive breasts, which strain against a simple purple cloth top. They are warm and heavy, and they completely smother you. You can feel the strong, steady beat of her heart through them.

She holds you tightly, almost desperately, her cheek resting on the top of your head. She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh of pure relief.

“I was so worried,” she murmurs, her voice vibrating through her chest and into yours. “You were so cold. And so small. I didn’t know if you’d wake up.”

She squeezes a little tighter. The pressure is immense, comforting and constricting all at once. You can barely breathe, but there is no malice in it — only a clumsy, overwhelming need for connection.

After a long moment, she seems to remember herself. She gasps softly, a sound of sudden horror, and her grip loosens just enough for you to draw a full breath. She pulls back, holding you at arm's length, her single purple eye wide with apology.

“Oh! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I forgot my strength! Did I hurt you? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you!”

Her expression is one of pure, unadulterated panic. She looks like she might cry.