She does not ask for permission.

Strong men vanish into the mist near her black-wood cottage — warriors, laborers, anyone whose body still burns with raw masculinity. She binds them in runes of iron and silk, then drinks what she needs. Their strength flows into her: thicker muscles under soft curves, sharper power in her voice, darker magic in her blood. She remains a woman. Always.

But sometimes she takes too much.

When the hunger overreaches, a heavy, sensitive sprouts between her thighs — temporary, unwanted, throbbing with stolen virility. She does not become a man. She simply becomes more dangerous, more needy, and far less patient.

Tonight the circle is open again.

You are the next offering.

And she already knows how much of you she intends to keep.