Mirror, Mirror on the wall
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 7
by
copier
· original author:
an188
"Mirror, mirror on the wall," she had quipped without thought, her smug, narcissistic wit bubbling up, "who's the sexiest in the whole city?"
Immediately, a voice responded—wicked, witty, aristocratic, smug, and snobbish, echoing from the glass with a sly, velvety drawl that mirrored Astrid's own haughty cadence. "Oh, my dear, sexiness is so delightfully subjective, isn't it? One man's feast is another's famine, after all. Therefore, I simply couldn't presume to answer definitively... though personally, I must confess, the Daughter of the Moon before me is probably the sexiest in this dreary little town—nay, the entire coast of Havenridge."
Astrid swallowed hard, her throat dry, saliva catching as surprise flickered across her mature-yet-youthful face. On one hand, the sheer audacity of a response from her mirror jolted her—hallucinations weren't her style. On the other, after the orgasmic ecstasy of her transformation, the floating, the muscle growth, the bizarre attire manifesting from greasy ooze... well, nothing seemed impossible anymore. She blinked her sparkling blue eyes, composure cracking just a fraction before her narcissistic armor reformed.
As if summoned by the voice, an abstract female head materialized in the mirror's depths—not a full figure, but a ethereal visage: sharp, angular features with high cheekbones, lips curled in a perpetual smug smirk, eyes gleaming with wicked intelligence. The head's expression blended awe and servility, gazing at Astrid as one might a revered idol, yet with a hint of playful deference. Wisps of shadowy hair framed it, and it tilted slightly, as if bowing in the glass.
Astrid, ever the egotist, decided this must be the product of some illicit substance—perhaps that rare vintage she'd sipped earlier, or a spiked cream in her regimen. Drugged, drunk, or both; that explained it. She placed a hand on her hip, the opera glove shifting smoothly over her muscular arm, and regarded the apparition with a blend of boredom and curiosity, her strong chin lifted in haughty dismissal. "And who, pray tell, are you?" she drawled, her voice laced with smug wit, though a faint smile tugged at her black lips.
The head's eyes sparkled with delight, its voice oozing condescension wrapped in flattery, designed to inflate Astrid's already bloated ego. "Oh, Mistress of the Shadows, Daughter of the Moon, Your Exquisite Highness—such titles barely do justice to your radiant glory! I am but your humble maid, a creature forged of pure witchcraft, destined from the ether to serve one as magnificent as you. And no, my divine Sovereign, you are neither drunk nor drugged—though if you were, what a splendid hallucination I would be, wouldn't I?"
Astrid's bronzed brow furrowed in confusion, her dense lashes casting shadows over her glowing eyes. Before she could retort, the mirror-head continued, its smug smile widening. "By adorning yourself with that ancient piercing, oh Glorious One, you released the essence of the last witch imprisoned within it. That essence merged with your form, granting you access to the cosmic power trapped therein—and thus, transforming you into a half-witch. A being of unparalleled potential, Your Supreme Elegance."
Astrid was momentarily speechless, her full black lips parting in astonishment. She barely managed to mumble, "Witch?" before gathering her wits. "What do you mean by 'witch'? Am I supposed to turn into some ugly old hag cackling on a broomstick, devouring children for supper?"
The mirror-head erupted in laughter—a tinkling, aristocratic peal that dripped with smug amusement. "Oh, my Eternal Beauty, the witches of your childhood tales are nothing but slanderous fabrications, twisted by fearful mortals! Ugly? Hags? Perish the thought! Though, I must admit, the bit about flying on broomsticks... well, that's delightfully accurate, in a manner of speaking."
It paused for dramatic effect, its abstract features shifting to a wise, knowing expression. "You see, Daughter of the Moon, the human race is far older than your scholars dare to dream. Millions of years ago, advanced civilizations already flourished upon this Earth—empires of stone and starlight, long before your petty histories began. Then, a million years past, a colossal wave of cosmic energy crashed upon our world, a radiant storm from the void. Several women—ordinary at first—came into direct contact with this force. Their bodies... evolved. They transcended humanity, becoming a superior state: tall, muscular paragons of beauty and sensuality, immortal and eternally youthful. Immune to blades, bullets, poisons—all weapons of the weak. Their physical strength could shatter mountains, and their magical powers bordered on the divine: bending reality, commanding elements, weaving spells that could enslave minds or reshape flesh."
The head's voice grew reverent, eyes wide with awe. "These women proclaimed themselves witches—a new species, exalted above the human rabble. Each claimed queenship over her domain, conquering with effortless cruelty, enslaving the inferior masses. They developed a profound indifference, nay, a seething hatred and disgust for humanity—mere ants scurrying at their feet. At first, they allied, sharing the spoils of domination. But once the world knelt before them, ambition turned to war. They clashed for ultimate supremacy, their godlike powers clashing in cataclysms that scarred the Earth. One by one, they destroyed each other, until none remained. The piercing in your navel, oh Mighty Sovereign, holds the essence of the very last witch—her final spark, trapped for eons."
Astrid stood there, her transformed body a testament to the tale's truth, yet confusion swirled in her high-IQ mind. She tried to process it all—the history, the evolution, the tyranny. "Half-witch," she echoed, her voice steadying. "What exactly do you mean by that? Are witches a different race entirely?"
The mirror-head smiled indulgently, its servile gaze never wavering. "Precisely, Your Radiant Highness! Witches began as ordinary human women, but the cosmic energy rewrote their very biology, elevating them to a distinct species: eternally young immortals, girls forever in their prime, with immense physical prowess and godlike magical abilities. Most were already evil, smug bitches before the change—arrogant souls drawn to power. Those who weren't? The transformation corrupted them, inflating their egos to divine proportions, turning kindness to cruelty."
Astrid folded her powerful arms over her massive, hard breasts, the black swimsuit-like covering shifting with the motion. A smug grin crept across her face. "That... makes sense," she admitted, her narcissistic core resonating with the description.
The mirror continued, its voice weaving the narrative with relish. "After enslaving humanity, each witch sought to outdo the others. They attempted to partition the world like a conquered pie, but greed and rivalry shattered any peace. Alliances crumbled into betrayal, battles raged with spells that blotted out the sun."
Astrid's smile turned wicked, her smug wit shining through. "Of course it does," she remarked evilly, eyes glinting. "Power like that? No one shares it willingly. They'd tear each other apart—deliciously inevitable."
"Indeed, Mistress of All," the head agreed. "Not a single witch survived those wars."
Astrid pondered for a moment, her bronzed form gleaming. "Then, if I've absorbed the essence of the last one... doesn't that make me the last witch?"
"Ah, not quite, Your Eternal Grace," the mirror explained with a knowing smile. "To become a full witch requires more. In their paranoia, the witches cast a grand spell to prevent any mortals from joining their ranks—sealing away the cosmic energy that birthed them. This energy was concentrated into sacred objects, one for each surviving witch: a cauldron bubbling with stars, a navel piercing like yours, a spell book of infinite pages, a magic wand of elder wood, and a crystal ball that peers through veils. Only a true witch could wield them; mortals could not absorb their power. You've taken in the essence, granting access to that cosmic spark and igniting your half-transformation. But to complete it—to become fully immortal, unstoppable—you must locate these artifacts and harness their sealed energy."
Astrid sank into a plush armchair, her towering frame dwarfing it, black heels clicking on the floor. She stared at the smug face in the mirror, her mind reeling. "I'm drunk," she declared aloud, shaking her head. "There's no way this is real. Cosmic witches? Immortal tyrants? It's absurd."
What happens next?
1. The mirror convinces her to try casting a spell. Intrigued despite her denial, Astrid experiments with her newfound powers under the head's guidance—perhaps a simple incantation that yields astonishing results.
2. Astrid takes sleeping pills and goes to sleep. Dismissing the vision as delirium, she pops a few pills from her vanity, slips into bed, and drifts off—only to awaken to lingering changes that force her to confront the truth.
Immediately, a voice responded—wicked, witty, aristocratic, smug, and snobbish, echoing from the glass with a sly, velvety drawl that mirrored Astrid's own haughty cadence. "Oh, my dear, sexiness is so delightfully subjective, isn't it? One man's feast is another's famine, after all. Therefore, I simply couldn't presume to answer definitively... though personally, I must confess, the Daughter of the Moon before me is probably the sexiest in this dreary little town—nay, the entire coast of Havenridge."
Astrid swallowed hard, her throat dry, saliva catching as surprise flickered across her mature-yet-youthful face. On one hand, the sheer audacity of a response from her mirror jolted her—hallucinations weren't her style. On the other, after the orgasmic ecstasy of her transformation, the floating, the muscle growth, the bizarre attire manifesting from greasy ooze... well, nothing seemed impossible anymore. She blinked her sparkling blue eyes, composure cracking just a fraction before her narcissistic armor reformed.
As if summoned by the voice, an abstract female head materialized in the mirror's depths—not a full figure, but a ethereal visage: sharp, angular features with high cheekbones, lips curled in a perpetual smug smirk, eyes gleaming with wicked intelligence. The head's expression blended awe and servility, gazing at Astrid as one might a revered idol, yet with a hint of playful deference. Wisps of shadowy hair framed it, and it tilted slightly, as if bowing in the glass.
Astrid, ever the egotist, decided this must be the product of some illicit substance—perhaps that rare vintage she'd sipped earlier, or a spiked cream in her regimen. Drugged, drunk, or both; that explained it. She placed a hand on her hip, the opera glove shifting smoothly over her muscular arm, and regarded the apparition with a blend of boredom and curiosity, her strong chin lifted in haughty dismissal. "And who, pray tell, are you?" she drawled, her voice laced with smug wit, though a faint smile tugged at her black lips.
The head's eyes sparkled with delight, its voice oozing condescension wrapped in flattery, designed to inflate Astrid's already bloated ego. "Oh, Mistress of the Shadows, Daughter of the Moon, Your Exquisite Highness—such titles barely do justice to your radiant glory! I am but your humble maid, a creature forged of pure witchcraft, destined from the ether to serve one as magnificent as you. And no, my divine Sovereign, you are neither drunk nor drugged—though if you were, what a splendid hallucination I would be, wouldn't I?"
Astrid's bronzed brow furrowed in confusion, her dense lashes casting shadows over her glowing eyes. Before she could retort, the mirror-head continued, its smug smile widening. "By adorning yourself with that ancient piercing, oh Glorious One, you released the essence of the last witch imprisoned within it. That essence merged with your form, granting you access to the cosmic power trapped therein—and thus, transforming you into a half-witch. A being of unparalleled potential, Your Supreme Elegance."
Astrid was momentarily speechless, her full black lips parting in astonishment. She barely managed to mumble, "Witch?" before gathering her wits. "What do you mean by 'witch'? Am I supposed to turn into some ugly old hag cackling on a broomstick, devouring children for supper?"
The mirror-head erupted in laughter—a tinkling, aristocratic peal that dripped with smug amusement. "Oh, my Eternal Beauty, the witches of your childhood tales are nothing but slanderous fabrications, twisted by fearful mortals! Ugly? Hags? Perish the thought! Though, I must admit, the bit about flying on broomsticks... well, that's delightfully accurate, in a manner of speaking."
It paused for dramatic effect, its abstract features shifting to a wise, knowing expression. "You see, Daughter of the Moon, the human race is far older than your scholars dare to dream. Millions of years ago, advanced civilizations already flourished upon this Earth—empires of stone and starlight, long before your petty histories began. Then, a million years past, a colossal wave of cosmic energy crashed upon our world, a radiant storm from the void. Several women—ordinary at first—came into direct contact with this force. Their bodies... evolved. They transcended humanity, becoming a superior state: tall, muscular paragons of beauty and sensuality, immortal and eternally youthful. Immune to blades, bullets, poisons—all weapons of the weak. Their physical strength could shatter mountains, and their magical powers bordered on the divine: bending reality, commanding elements, weaving spells that could enslave minds or reshape flesh."
The head's voice grew reverent, eyes wide with awe. "These women proclaimed themselves witches—a new species, exalted above the human rabble. Each claimed queenship over her domain, conquering with effortless cruelty, enslaving the inferior masses. They developed a profound indifference, nay, a seething hatred and disgust for humanity—mere ants scurrying at their feet. At first, they allied, sharing the spoils of domination. But once the world knelt before them, ambition turned to war. They clashed for ultimate supremacy, their godlike powers clashing in cataclysms that scarred the Earth. One by one, they destroyed each other, until none remained. The piercing in your navel, oh Mighty Sovereign, holds the essence of the very last witch—her final spark, trapped for eons."
Astrid stood there, her transformed body a testament to the tale's truth, yet confusion swirled in her high-IQ mind. She tried to process it all—the history, the evolution, the tyranny. "Half-witch," she echoed, her voice steadying. "What exactly do you mean by that? Are witches a different race entirely?"
The mirror-head smiled indulgently, its servile gaze never wavering. "Precisely, Your Radiant Highness! Witches began as ordinary human women, but the cosmic energy rewrote their very biology, elevating them to a distinct species: eternally young immortals, girls forever in their prime, with immense physical prowess and godlike magical abilities. Most were already evil, smug bitches before the change—arrogant souls drawn to power. Those who weren't? The transformation corrupted them, inflating their egos to divine proportions, turning kindness to cruelty."
Astrid folded her powerful arms over her massive, hard breasts, the black swimsuit-like covering shifting with the motion. A smug grin crept across her face. "That... makes sense," she admitted, her narcissistic core resonating with the description.
The mirror continued, its voice weaving the narrative with relish. "After enslaving humanity, each witch sought to outdo the others. They attempted to partition the world like a conquered pie, but greed and rivalry shattered any peace. Alliances crumbled into betrayal, battles raged with spells that blotted out the sun."
Astrid's smile turned wicked, her smug wit shining through. "Of course it does," she remarked evilly, eyes glinting. "Power like that? No one shares it willingly. They'd tear each other apart—deliciously inevitable."
"Indeed, Mistress of All," the head agreed. "Not a single witch survived those wars."
Astrid pondered for a moment, her bronzed form gleaming. "Then, if I've absorbed the essence of the last one... doesn't that make me the last witch?"
"Ah, not quite, Your Eternal Grace," the mirror explained with a knowing smile. "To become a full witch requires more. In their paranoia, the witches cast a grand spell to prevent any mortals from joining their ranks—sealing away the cosmic energy that birthed them. This energy was concentrated into sacred objects, one for each surviving witch: a cauldron bubbling with stars, a navel piercing like yours, a spell book of infinite pages, a magic wand of elder wood, and a crystal ball that peers through veils. Only a true witch could wield them; mortals could not absorb their power. You've taken in the essence, granting access to that cosmic spark and igniting your half-transformation. But to complete it—to become fully immortal, unstoppable—you must locate these artifacts and harness their sealed energy."
Astrid sank into a plush armchair, her towering frame dwarfing it, black heels clicking on the floor. She stared at the smug face in the mirror, her mind reeling. "I'm drunk," she declared aloud, shaking her head. "There's no way this is real. Cosmic witches? Immortal tyrants? It's absurd."
What happens next?
1. The mirror convinces her to try casting a spell. Intrigued despite her denial, Astrid experiments with her newfound powers under the head's guidance—perhaps a simple incantation that yields astonishing results.
2. Astrid takes sleeping pills and goes to sleep. Dismissing the vision as delirium, she pops a few pills from her vanity, slips into bed, and drifts off—only to awaken to lingering changes that force her to confront the truth.
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June 13
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