So I’m rewatching Wednesday Season 1… did anyone find it a little bit dramatic for Weems reaction when throwing away that photo of young Morticia? Like I find that it’s more common with wlw relationships to have these type of feelings still resonating after a long period of time, rather than a heterosexual one.

(not my image/gif)

Summary:

Trapped within the Megamycete’s decaying consciousness, Lady Alcina Dimitrescu wages a brutal battle against the fused minds of the Four Lords and the corrupted Duke. Refusing to be consumed by madness, she breaks free, driven by the obsession to resurrect her daughters.

When she encounters Rose Winters, whose powers can reshape the mold, Alcina manipulates the girl to help her. Together, they evade the monstrous Duke-Lords hybrid, forging an uneasy alliance.

Rose reluctantly uses her power to revive Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela, but the resurrection comes at a cruel price—the daughters can only exist within the Megamycete’s mindscape, forever trapped.

Forced to leave them behind, Alcina lets Rose escape, vowing to find a way to restore her family truly. Now ruling over the Megamycete’s void with her daughters’ phantoms, Alcina Dimitrescu waits—patient and plotting—for the day House Dimitrescu will rise again.

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Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65053441

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The Megamycete wasn't just a prison.

It was a battlefield of egos—fractured wills fused into a festering hive, where identity was currency, and weakness was devoured.

Inside the Duke's warped consciousness, the Four Lords fought like rabid dogs chained together—each too stubborn to submit, too weak to dominate fully.

And Alcina Dimitrescu? She stood above them—a queen forced into the mud with pigs.

Time was meaningless within this realm of thought, but Alcina felt every agonizing second she was tethered to them. Their presences gnawed at her mind, each more loathsome than the last.

Heisenberg's incessant mockery, his coarse voice always echoing with that smug superiority he wielded like a rusted hammer.

"Face it, Countess," he'd sneer from somewhere within the Duke's grotesque form, "without your precious castle and those freak daughters, you're just another corpse in a dress."

Her response was always the same—a mental lash of disdain that silenced him, if only briefly.

Then came Donna—silent, but never absent. Her whispers slithered through the cracks of Alcina's thoughts, conjuring hallucinations that stabbed deeper than any blade.

Visions of her daughters, crumbling to ash. Their laughter turned to screams. Bela's accusing glare. Cassandra's contempt. Daniela's sorrow.

"Why didn't you save us, Mother?"

Alcina's rage flared every time—how dare that porcelain witch toy with her grief?

But it was Moreau who made her skin crawl—the pathetic, slobbering mess of a man-child whose constant self-loathing infected the air around them. His despair was a disease, dragging the others down into his pit of worthlessness.

"We deserve this..." he would whimper. "Miranda made us monsters... now we rot together..."

Alcina despised him most of all—not for his ugliness, but for his acceptance.

Every moment spent entwined with those wretches was a reminder of what she'd lost—and what she needed to reclaim.

Her daughters weren't just memories—they were extensions of her will. Creations of the Cadou and the mold, yes, but hers. And now, drifting somewhere within the Megamycete's endless sea of consciousness, they flickered like dying embers.

But Rose Winters… that child was the key.

Alcina had observed Rose's essence moving through the Megamycete—pure potential, molded by Miranda's experiments. The girl wasn't just surviving—she was reshaping reality within the mold.

And if Rose could manifest herself in the physical world again…

Then Alcina could do the same.

Her mind sharpened around the idea like a predator scenting blood.

But more than that, Rose could give her daughters life once more. Not as fragile mold puppets bound to the Megamycete, but as actual beings—reborn, perfected.

Yet, such power would not be given. It must be taken, earned, through manipulation, force, or deception.

Alcina's lips curled into a cold smile whenever she thought of it.

Let the girl believe in alliance. Let her think they fought for survival together.

Once free, Alcina would claim what was hers—and no one would stop her this time.

And above all, there was the Duke—the unwilling vessel, now little more than a sentient carcass stuffed with their hatred and madness.

At first, he'd tried to negotiate—his merchant mind attempting to barter control, as if their souls were just goods to be traded.

But the Lords didn't bargain.

They fought.

And amidst that chaos, Alcina plotted.

The Lords' bickering reached a crescendo within the Duke's mind—their consciousnesses clawing at each other like starving wolves.

"You're weak, Dimitrescu!" Heisenberg's voice thundered, his presence trying to suffocate her thoughts. "Without Miranda's favor, you're only molded in a dress!"

"At least I wasn't groveling at her feet like a mongrel," Alcina snapped back, her will slamming into his like a tidal wave.

"Stop... stop fighting..." Moreau whimpered, his presence flickering in and out like a dying lightbulb.

Donna said nothing, but the hallucinations intensified, attempting to drown Alcina in false memories.

A perfect vision of Castle Dimitrescu appeared—her daughters alive, laughing in the courtyard bathed in eternal sunlight.

For a heartbeat, Alcina faltered.

But then—rage. White-hot and absolute.

"You insult their memory with these illusions!" she roared, shattering the vision with a slash of her mental talons, Donna's quiet sob echoing as the false paradise crumbled.

And that was when Alcina understood.

They were weak—all of them.

Heisenberg's arrogance, Donna's escapism, Moreau's despair, and the Duke's gluttony were fractured and driven by their flaws.

But Alcina? She was whole. Her pride was not a flaw—it was armor.

So, she struck—not in rage, but with precision. She severed their holds one by one, peeling their influences from her mind like diseased flesh.

The Duke screamed—a cacophony of voices wailing in unison as Alcina ripped herself free.

When it was done, she stood alone amidst the collapsing mindscape, her consciousness burning bright amidst the ruin.

As she emerged into the Megamycete's core once more—independent, untethered—Alcina's thoughts were already weaving a strategy.

Rose Winters wandered this realm, seeking escape. But Rose's power wasn't just about survival.

It was about creation.

If Alcina could convince—or force—the girl to manifest her essence into the real world, Alcina could piggyback on that power, using the mold's connection to reconstitute her body.

It wouldn't be easy. The Megamycete would resist. The Duke, now a writhing mass of the remaining Lords, would hunt them both.

But Alcina wasn't concerned with obstacles.

She was focused on results.

And once manifested, Rose's abilities could be harnessed—perhaps even bent to Alcina's will. The thought of her daughters reborn, stronger than before, made her heart—long since dead—ache with longing.

Not as fragile experiments of Miranda, but as true scions of House Dimitrescu.

Her legacy is eternal.

When she found Rose, it was almost amusing—how the girl bristled with defiance, yet trembled beneath it.

"You—" Rose spat, power coiling at her fingertips.

Alcina's gaze swept over her, calculating, cold.

"Spare me the dramatics, Winters. You need me if you wish to leave this place alive."

"I don't trust you."

Alcina smiled—a slow, predatory expression.

"Nor should you. But trust is irrelevant."

Her voice softened, a mockery of sympathy.

"You want to go home, don't you? Back to your father's world? I can make that happen. And in return..." She stepped closer, her shadow engulfing the girl.

"You will help me restore what was taken from me."

Rose's frown deepened, suspicion flashing in her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Alcina's smile widened—hungry, knowing.

"My daughters. You have the power to bring them back."

The silence between them was thick with tension—Rose's moral compass already warring with her survival instinct.

Alcina didn't press—she didn't need to.

Desperation would drive the girl to comply soon enough.

And when it did, Alcina Dimitrescu would rise again—not as a Miranda servant, nor a Megamycete prisoner.

But as a queen reborn, with her daughters at her side, and the world beneath her heel.

The Megamycete's veins pulsed like a dying heart—slow, wet thuds echoing through the tunnels of fleshy growth and festering memories.

Alcina Dimitrescu strode through the mire as if it were a royal promenade, her towering form regal even amidst decay. Behind her, Rose Winters kept her distance, golden energy flickering defensively at her fingertips.

The silence between them was thick—every word unspoken weighed heavier than those exchanged.

But Alcina knew patience.

She let the quiet stretch, confident that curiosity-the most human of weaknesses—would soon gnaw at the girl's resolve.

Sure enough, after what felt like hours navigating the shifting labyrinth, Rose's voice broke the tension.

"You said I could bring your daughters back." The words were cautious, but beneath them... intrigue.

Alcina's lips curled in satisfaction, though she made sure her expression remained indifferent when she glanced back.

"I did."

Rose hesitated, stepping carefully around a pool of black ichor that sizzled where it touched her light.

"How?" she finally asked, unable to mask the genuine question behind her defiance.

Alcina stopped, her sharp heels sinking slightly into the spongy ground. She turned, her golden eyes gleaming in the dim, pulsing glow of the Megamycete.

"You misunderstand your power, child," Alcina began, her tone rich, like velvet over steel. "You believe it's a curse—something to be rid of. But what you wield is far greater than you realize."

She stepped forward, watching Rose stiffen, her energy flaring brighter.

"This place—" Alcina gestured to the endless, writhing tunnels around them, "—is not merely a prison of memories. It is a womb. Everything consumed by the Megamycete still exists here. Thoughts. Souls. Potential."

Her voice softened, threading grief with purpose—just enough to sound sincere.

"My daughters linger within this filth, shadows of what they were. But with your power—the ability to manifest thought into flesh—you could bring them back."

Rose's brow furrowed, conflict flashing across her face.

"I'm not... I can't just bring people back from the dead," she muttered, almost to herself. "That's not how it works."

Alcina's smile was faint, like a knife hidden beneath silk.

"Isn't it?" she countered smoothly. "You're here, aren't you? Walking, breathing, fighting, in a place where only echoes remain."

She let that hang in the air before delivering the dagger.

"You brought yourself back. I ask that you extend the same mercy to a mother's children."

Rose's gaze dropped, uncertain, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Alcina turned without waiting for a reply, satisfied that the seed had been planted. Doubt. Temptation. The idea is that helping might be the moral thing to do.

Mortals were so easily tangled in their righteousness.

The Megamycete's veins pulsed like a dying heart—slow, wet thuds echoing through the tunnels of fleshy growth and festering memories.

Alcina Dimitrescu strode through the mire as if it were a royal promenade, her towering form regal even amidst decay. Behind her, Rose Winters kept her distance, golden energy flickering defensively at her fingertips.

The silence between them was thick—every word unspoken weighed heavier than those exchanged.

But Alcina knew patience.

She let the quiet stretch, confident that curiosity-the most human of weaknesses—would soon gnaw at the girl's resolve.

Sure enough, after what felt like hours navigating the shifting labyrinth, Rose's voice broke the tension.

"You said I could bring your daughters back." The words were cautious, but beneath them... intrigue.

Alcina's lips curled in satisfaction, though she made sure her expression remained indifferent when she glanced back.

"I did."

Rose hesitated, stepping carefully around a pool of black ichor that sizzled where it touched her light.

"How?" she finally asked, unable to mask the genuine question behind her defiance.

Alcina stopped, her sharp heels sinking slightly into the spongy ground. She turned, her golden eyes gleaming in the dim, pulsing glow of the Megamycete.

"You misunderstand your power, child," Alcina began, her tone rich, like velvet over steel. "You believe it's a curse—something to be rid of. But what you wield is far greater than you realize."

She stepped forward, watching Rose stiffen, her energy flaring brighter.

"This place—" Alcina gestured to the endless, writhing tunnels around them, "—is not merely a prison of memories. It is a womb. Everything consumed by the Megamycete still exists here. Thoughts. Souls. Potential."

Her voice softened, threading grief with purpose—just enough to sound sincere.

"My daughters linger within this filth, shadows of what they were. But with your power—the ability to manifest thought into flesh—you could bring them back."

Rose's brow furrowed, conflict flashing across her face.

"I'm not... I can't just bring people back from the dead," she muttered, almost to herself. "That's not how it works."

Alcina's smile was faint, like a knife hidden beneath silk.

"Isn't it?" she countered smoothly. "You're here, aren't you? Walking, breathing, fighting, in a place where only echoes remain."

She let that hang in the air before delivering the dagger.

"You brought yourself back. I ask that you extend the same mercy to a mother's children."

Rose's gaze dropped, uncertain, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Alcina turned without waiting for a reply, satisfied that the seed had been planted. Doubt. Temptation. The idea is that helping might be the moral thing to do.

Mortals were so easily tangled in their righteousness.

A guttural roar tore through the tunnels—wet, echoing, and layered with too many voices.

The Duke.

Or rather, the thing that had once been him, now a mass of gluttonous flesh, driven by the fractured consciousnesses of Heisenberg, Donna, and Moreau.

Alcina didn't flinch at the sound, but Rose did—her head snapping toward the darkness beyond.

"It's getting closer," Rose whispered, her light flickering in response to her fear.

"Let it come," Alcina murmured, her claws extending with a metallic snikt. "I owe them all a proper farewell."

But the Megamycete was shifting, its corridors bending to trap them—walls of sinew closing in, forcing them toward a dead end.

The abomination slithered into view from the shadows ahead—a grotesque fusion of the Duke's corpulent frame, sprouting metallic limbs and doll-like faces embedded in pulsating flesh. A twisted harp of bones jutted from its back, plucking its nerves as it moved, emitting discordant, maddening sounds.

Donna's mask stared blankly from the creature's shoulder. Heisenberg's jagged grin split across its belly. Moreau's drooling maw gurgled beneath the folds.

"Alcinaaaa..." they crooned in a chorus of mockery and hate.

"You can't leave us..." Donna's hollow voice whispered.

"We're family now," Heisenberg sneered.

"Join us in the mud... forever..." Moreau sobbed.

The Duke's original voice was barely audible beneath them—a gurgling plea of hunger and emptiness.

Rose stepped back, horrified, her power flaring instinctively.

Alcina stepped forward, shielding the girl without a word, not out of protection, but because no one would steal her kill.

"Family?" Alcina's voice was a venomous purr, her claws gleaming with anticipation. "You were never my equals—only Miranda's failed experiments, desperate for her scraps."

The abomination screeched and lunged, tendrils and metallic limbs whipping toward them.

Alcina met it head-on—her claws severing limbs, ichor spraying like ink across the fleshy ground. She moved with brutal grace, a towering force of nature amidst the chaos.

"Rose!" she barked, not looking back. "Use your power—reshape this place! Open a path!"

Rose hesitated, torn between fighting and fleeing—but Alcina's command wasn't a request.

"Now, girl! Unless you want to be part of this freakshow forever!"

Gritting her teeth, Rose closed her eyes, focusing her energy. The walls responded to her will, the mold trembling as cracks of golden light burst through the darkness, reality bending to her desire.

A tunnel opened—a way forward.

"Go!" Alcina snarled, tearing through the last of the creature's tendrils before following Rose into the collapsing passage.

Behind them, the hybrid beast's screeches echoed—rage and despair blending into one monstrous wail.

They didn't stop until the Megamycete's core loomed before them—a pulsating mass of black roots and veins, with a swirling vortex of memories at its heart.

This was the place where Rose could leave—where she could manifest herself back into the physical world.

But Alcina's eyes weren't on the exit.

They were on the potential.

"This is it," Rose panted, exhaustion lining her face. "I can get us out of here."

Alcina stepped beside her, towering and calm, her voice a seductive whisper laced with command.

"Then do it, Winters." She gestured toward the core, her golden gaze sharp. "But not just for yourself."

Rose's shoulders tensed, knowing precisely what Alcina meant.

"Bring them back," Alcina continued, her voice soft but heavy with expectation. "My daughters. You can. I've felt their presence—you've felt it too."

Rose shook her head, backing away slightly.

"I can't—"

"You will," Alcina interrupted, her tone darkening like a storm. "You owe me that much, after what your father did."

Rose's fists clenched, guilt flickering across her face.

"That wasn't me..." she whispered, but she sounded unconvinced.

Alcina stepped closer, looming like a shadow over a dying flame.

"Help me, Rose. Fulfill a mother's only wish. Then I will let you go free, safe, untouched."

For a moment, the weight of it all crushed Rose—her morals, survival instinct, and empathy warring within.

The Megamycete pulsed, the distant roars of the Duke-Lords growing closer. Time was running out.

Rose looked at her hands, golden light sparking between trembling fingers.

She could do it. She could feel the power—the lingering echoes of Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela like faint heartbeats in the mold.

But at what cost?

She met Alcina's unyielding gaze—saw the cold promise behind those eyes. This wasn't a request. If Rose refused, Alcina would take what she wanted.

The air crackled with tension.

Now came the choice:

Would Rose surrender to Alcina's will, resurrecting the daughters and unleashing House Dimitrescu upon the world once more?

Or would she stand against the towering matriarch, risking everything to stop a legacy of blood from rising again?

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The golden light at Rose's fingertips trembled, flickering like a candle in a storm.

Alcina stood before her, silent but looming, the weight of expectation suffocating.

The choice had been made.

"I'll do it," Rose whispered, her voice hollow. "I'll bring them back... but I don't know if it'll work how you want."

Alcina's golden eyes narrowed, sharp with suspicion—and something else. Something dangerously close to... hope. The emotion she despised most was the one Miranda had exploited to chain her.

"It will work," Alcina declared, her voice as sharp as her talons. "You're stronger than you think, girl. Don't insult us both with doubt."

Rose swallowed hard and turned to the pulsing core of the Megamycete.

She reached out—not with her hands, but with her mind, channeling her power into the writhing abyss of memories. She felt them almost immediately—three delicate threads tangled within the rot.

Bela. Cassandra. Daniela.

Their essences flickered like embers buried beneath ash—fragile, but there.

Tears pricked at Rose's eyes as their presence brushed against her consciousness, emotions flooding in. Confusion. Fear. And above all... the yearning for Mother.

Behind her, Alcina watched—her usually composed expression cracking with something raw, something aching. Her claws trembled at her sides—not from weakness, but from the unbearable tension of what was to come.

Rose poured her energy into those threads, weaving them together, pulling the daughters from oblivion.

And then, a light burst from the core.

Three figures took shape amidst the swirling golden glow.

They stood there—whole, yet not.

Bela, serene and sharp-eyed, her blonde hair cascading like sunlight.

Cassandra, ever defiant, her smirk tempered by confusion.

Daniela, wild and bright, her gaze darting around like a curious bird.

"Mother...?" Bela's voice was soft, disbelieving.

"What—?" Cassandra's eyes narrowed, scanning the grotesque surroundings.

"Where are we?" Daniela whispered, her voice trembling with both fear and wonder.

Alcina stepped forward, her breath catching in a way she hadn't allowed in over a century.

"My darlings..." Her voice cracked—regal composure fracturing under love and loss.

The daughters turned toward her, recognition dawning, followed by a rush of movement as they ran to her, wrapping their arms around their towering mother.

For a fleeting moment, there was silence—pure, hauntingly beautiful silence.

A family, reunited.

But then... the truth began to seep in.

Bela was the first to notice. She pulled back slightly, her sharp mind already assessing.

"This isn't... Castle Dimitrescu."

Cassandra's smirk faded, replaced by a scowl. "What is this place?"

Daniela clung tighter, sensing what her sisters were beginning to understand.

Rose lowered her hands, her face pale with exhaustion and regret.

"I-I did what I could," she said quietly. "You're here, but... only here. The Megamycete is the only place I could manifest them. They... they can't leave."

The words hit like a blade through Alcina's heart.

Her golden eyes snapped to Rose, fury blooming behind them—but beneath that rage was something far more dangerous.

Despair.

"You said you'd bring them back," Alcina hissed, her voice low and trembling—not with weakness, but with the sheer force of contained wrath.

Rose stepped back, hands raised defensively.

"I did! This is all I—" she began, but Alcina's claws extended with a violent shhk.

"You promised me life," Alcina snarled, her voice deepening into something feral. "Not... this," she gestured to the decaying, fleshy walls of the Megamycete, "this purgatory!"

"Mother..." Bela's voice was calm but laced with concern.

"She tried," Daniela whispered, clutching Alcina's arm.

"It's better than nothing," Cassandra muttered, though her tone was bitter.

Alcina's breath came heavy, her mind racing, trapped between overwhelming gratitude and soul-deep frustration.

This wasn't freedom.

This was a mockery of resurrection. Her daughters, bound forever to a rotting god, unable to set foot in the world above. A family of phantoms, beautiful and vibrant—but caged.

And she? She could leave alone.

The thought was unbearable.

"This isn't enough," Alcina whispered, more to herself than anyone.

Rose's voice was quiet, almost pleading. "I'm sorry... If I could do more, I would... but if I stay here any longer, I'll lose myself. I have to go."

The core behind them pulsed, offering Rose her exit, her salvation.

Alcina stared at it, the realization settling like ice in her veins.

She could leave.

But her daughters could not.

Bela looked up at her, serene and knowing. "Go, Mother."

"We'll be fine," Cassandra added, her bravado hiding the crack in her voice.

Daniela forced a grin. "Yeah... we'll hold down the fort here. Maybe redecorate this disgusting place."

Alcina dropped to one knee, gathering all three of them into her arms—her talons resting carefully against their backs, as if they might shatter if she held too tightly.

For a moment, the proud matriarch was simply a mother, grieving a second death she couldn't stop.

She stood slowly, turning her gaze toward Rose—her expression unreadable.

"You have your freedom, Winters," Alcina said at last, her voice cold but composed once more. "Take it, before I change my mind."

Rose didn't need to be told twice. She backed toward the core, her heart pounding, guilt clawing at her insides.

"I... I am sorry," she said quietly before entering the light.

In a flash, she was gone.

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Alcina stood in silence, the oppressive weight of the Megamycete settling around her once more.

Her daughters hovered nearby—alive, laughing softly, whispering to each other, trying to make sense of their strange, half-existence.

They didn't complain. They didn't cry.

But Alcina knew.

This was no life for them.

Her golden eyes stared into the endless darkness, her mind calculating and scheming.

Rose Winters had escaped—for now.

But Alcina Dimitrescu was nothing if not patient.

The Megamycete connected everything. And somewhere, somehow, there would be another way—a path to truly bring her daughters back into the world of flesh and blood.

She would find it.

Even if it took centuries.

Her voice echoed softly through the void, regal and unbroken:

"Come, my darlings. Let us make this wretched place... our garden."

With this type of stereotype, that proves true in some areas, our lovely dear,Alcina, is a bottom.

Short Summary: Alcina Dimitrescu's Transformation, Mother Miranda's Wicked Judgement.

Word Count: 4,338 | Genre: Heavy Gore, Body Horror, & Angst. Matured Audiences.

The year was 1954, deep in the snow-laden mountains of Romania. The Dimitrescu estate, a crumbling yet regal mansion, loomed over the frostbitten land, its once-pristine halls now draped in decay. Though noble by birth, Lady Alcina Dimitrescu found her family name tarnished—her ancestors had lost their favor with the world, and their lineage was slipping into irrelevance.

But Alcina was not one to accept defeat.

Clad in a black satin gown that clung to her tall, statuesque frame, she stood at the edge of the great forest of the forbidden valley. An invitation—no, a summons—had been delivered to her in the dead of night, its wax seal bearing a sigil she did not recognize. The letter was simple:

"The answers you seek lie beyond the trees. Come alone."

And so she did.

A full moon hung low in the sky, painting the snow with a pale glow as she ventured deeper into the mist-shrouded woods. The silence was suffocating, save for the crunch of her heels against the frozen ground. Shadows twisted unnaturally in the periphery of her vision, but she did not waver.

Then, she saw it—a chapel, ancient and cracked with time, its stained-glass windows long shattered. A figure stood before the altar, clad in flowing black robes, a golden mask obscuring her face. The air felt wrong—too still, too heavy, as if the very world held its breath.

"You came," the woman said, her voice like silk wrapped in steel.

Alcina narrowed her golden eyes. "I was told you have answers."

The woman chuckled, stepping forward. "I have much more than that, child. I have power."

As the candlelight flickered, revealing the full sight of the High Priestess Mother Miranda, Alcina felt something stir within her—an ancient hunger, a whisper in her blood calling out to something far greater than herself.

"Do you wish to be reborn, Alcina Dimitrescu?"

The choice stood before her, as cold and certain as the winter night.

Alcina’s golden eyes narrowed as she took in the woman before her. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across Mother Miranda’s imposing figure—tall, but not as tall as Alcina herself. Her black robes draped like the wings of a carrion bird, and the golden mask covering her face revealed only the faintest glint of piercing eyes beneath. There was an air of something inhuman about her, a presence that made the very walls of the ancient chapel feel as though they were closing in.

Alcina tilted her head, her lips curling into a skeptical smirk. “Reborn?” she repeated, her voice rich and dripping with disdain. “I wasn’t aware I had died.”

Miranda chuckled—a low, knowing sound that sent an unnatural chill through the room. “Not yet.”

Alcina took another slow step forward, heels clicking against the frost-laced stone floor. Her gaze traced every detail of the woman before her—the way her robes barely shifted as she moved, as if she were gliding rather than walking. The way the golden mask gleamed dully in the dim light, its expression eternally serene yet eerily hollow. The way the air around her felt… wrong.

Something ancient lived within this woman. Something Alcina couldn’t yet define.

“And what exactly do you mean by rebirth?” she pressed, folding her gloved hands before her. “You speak as though I should want it.”

Miranda tilted her head slightly, studying Alcina in turn. Then, she extended a single, slender hand from the folds of her robes. “You are dying, child.”

Alcina’s smirk faltered. “…Excuse me?”

“Your blood is cursed.” Miranda’s voice was smooth, absolute. “A sickness, woven into the very fabric of your lineage. It clings to your bones, thinning your blood, eating away at your flesh. It is why your ancestors faded into obscurity, why their strength withered, why you struggle even now to hold power that should be yours.”

Alcina’s jaw tensed.

It was true.

She had known for years that something was… wrong. Her body had always felt as though it were at war with itself—fevers that left her bedridden for days, a gnawing weakness she could not explain, a hunger that no meal could satisfy. And the knowledge that, like her mother before her, and her grandmother before that… her days were numbered.

She clenched her fists. “And you expect me to believe you can change that?”

Miranda stepped forward, standing just before Alcina now, close enough that Alcina could see the faint, unnatural glow behind her mask.

“I can make you strong. I can make you eternal.”

The weight of those words filled the chapel, thick as the scent of melting wax and old stone.

Alcina’s heart pounded against her ribs.

Eternal.

It was everything she had ever wanted.

But at what cost?

Alcina stood frozen, the weight of Mother Miranda’s words settling upon her like fresh snow atop a dying flame. Eternal. The word echoed in her mind, a promise of strength, of power—of escaping the slow, maddening decay of her own body.

For years, she had fought against the creeping weakness in her bones, masking it beneath silken gowns and effortless poise. No one could know the truth. No one could see the moments behind closed doors, when the sickness took hold, when her hands trembled too violently to grasp the stem of a wine glass, when the music of her own beloved jazz ensemble became a blur behind a fevered haze.

She was Lady Alcina Dimitrescu. A noblewoman. A patron of the arts. A singer whose voice commanded the velvet-lit stages of Bucharest’s finest lounges. She had fought to live as grandly as she could, to preserve what little dignity remained of her crumbling lineage.

But she was dying.

Her fingers, wrapped in the finest black satin gloves, curled into fists at her sides.

She took in a slow breath, ignoring the weight in her chest, ignoring the fear twisting in the depths of her stomach. If this woman—this Mother Miranda—spoke the truth, if she truly had the power to fix her, then… perhaps it was a price worth paying.

After what felt like an eternity, Alcina lifted her chin. Her golden eyes, sharp as a predator’s, met the glowing gaze behind the golden mask.

“Fine,” she said at last, her voice steady, cold. “I accept your offer.”

Mother Miranda did not smile. She did not react as most people would when their prey stepped willingly into the snare. Instead, she merely inclined her head, as though she had known the answer all along.

“Then come,” she said, turning toward the altar. “Your rebirth begins now.”

Alcina hesitated, glancing once more at the ruined chapel around her.

Could she return to her life?

Surely, she thought, once this was done—once her body was whole again—she could step back into the smoke-filled lounges, the low hum of a double bass underscoring her voice as she sang beneath the golden glow of chandeliers.

She could live again.

With that final thought, she followed Mother Miranda toward the altar.

A doorway, hidden in the shadows, led deep beneath the earth. The air grew thick and humid, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something metallic. The flickering candlelight illuminated ancient symbols carved into the walls, a language Alcina did not recognize.

And then, at the heart of the chamber, she saw it.

A single blackened chalice, resting atop a stone pedestal.

Mother Miranda turned to her. “Drink.”

Alcina stared at the chalice. A dark, viscous liquid swirled within, thick as blood, its surface rippling despite the still air.

Her throat felt dry. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Was this truly the path to salvation?

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

And then, without another word, she reached for the chalice.

Bringing it to her lips, she drank deep.

Pain.

It was the first thing she felt, the first thing that shattered through her senses like glass beneath a hammer. It was a fire that ignited in her veins, spreading, consuming, twisting. Her breath hitched, her vision blurred—her body was changing, tearing itself apart to be built anew.

She gasped, staggering back as her limbs convulsed. Her gloves ripped at the seams, her skin bubbling, stretching. Something deep inside her snapped, a primal hunger awakening.

She barely heard Miranda’s voice through the haze of agony—

"You are no longer bound by weakness, child. You are becoming something greater.”

Darkness clawed at the edges of Alcina’s mind, her last thought a whisper—

And when I wake… I will sing again.

Pain.

It was the first thing Alcina recognized as she clawed her way back to consciousness—a dull, burning ache, pulsing through her entire being like a distant drum. Her body felt foreign, heavy, as though she had been buried beneath layers of stone. She tried to move, to shift even slightly, but found she could not.

Her eyes fluttered open, greeted by the sickly glow of lanterns hanging from a cavernous ceiling. The air was damp, thick with the acrid scent of iron and antiseptic, laced with something rotten. Shadows stretched along the rough stone walls, littered with strange equipment—surgical tools, bloodstained notes, vials of substances that gleamed an unnatural gold.

And then, she became aware of herself.

She was laid out on a cold, metal slab, her arms bound at her sides with thick leather straps. The irritation against her skin was unbearable—a deep, itching burn radiating from just beneath her flesh. Every part of her felt swollen, stretched, as though her own skin was struggling to contain what now lurked beneath.

Her breath hitched as she forced her head downward, her vision swimming. Her gown—once a masterpiece of fitted elegance—was ruined. The fabric strained at the seams, torn in several places where her body had simply outgrown it. The once-delicate lace sleeves had split down the middle, revealing unnaturally elongated limbs, the skin lined with raw, angry red streaks—not unlike stretch marks, but deeper, almost scar-like.

And then, she saw the blood.

Dark, half-dried streaks marred her pale skin, soaked into the ruined fabric of her dress, concentrated around the worst of the stretching. It was her blood. But why?

Alcina’s breathing turned shaky as she flexed her fingers—or tried to. Nothing. No sensation. It was as if her limbs no longer belonged to her, as though they were still waking from a deep slumber.

A sound echoed in the chamber.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, drawing closer.

A shadow passed over her, and then—Mother Miranda stood above her, peering down with that ever-placid expression, golden mask glinting in the dim light.

"Ah… you awaken at last."

Her voice was smooth, but there was something in it—something calmly expectant.

Alcina tried to speak, but her throat was dry, raw, as if she had been screaming for hours. All she could manage was a hoarse, shuddering exhale.

Miranda tilted her head, then slowly reached out, gloved fingers brushing against one of the irritated red streaks across Alcina’s exposed forearm. A sharp, searing pain shot through her, and she jerked as much as her restraints would allow, a strangled gasp forcing itself past her lips.

"Your body resists still… but you are changing."

Miranda’s fingers withdrew.

"Do you feel it?"

Alcina’s pulse pounded in her ears. Feel it? She felt like she had been peeled apart and stitched back together.

Finally, voice trembling, she forced out a single word—

“What… have you done to me?”

Miranda exhaled, almost amused. She folded her hands before her, watching Alcina with an expression that could only be described as clinical curiosity.

"I have given you what you asked for.” A pause. Then—"But your metamorphosis is far from complete."

Alcina’s fingers twitched—sensation was returning. The burning ache was intensifying, but beneath it, something else lurked.

Something hungry.

Her breath shuddered. What was happening to her?

Pain.

It did not stop. It did not wane. It did not allow her a moment's peace.

For two days, Alcina drifted between the waking world and the black abyss of unconsciousness, held captive by the firestorm raging within her flesh. Her body was breaking and remaking itself—stretching, expanding, twisting beyond what she had once known.

At times, she was aware of it.

The sensation of her bones shifting, her ribs widening as if to house something larger. The feeling of her spine lengthening, her limbs thickening, her very skin struggling to contain what writhed beneath. She could feel the pressure against the ruined fabric of her gown, the delicate seams of her undergarments giving way as her frame surged past its former limits.

And then there was the hunger—a deep, gnawing abyss that clawed at her insides, screaming to be sated.

She had no control. She had no will left to fight it.

And so she slept.

On the third day, she woke.

A low, distant ringing filled her ears, like the fading echoes of a symphony long since finished. The pain had dulled—no longer the unbearable inferno it once was, but still a heavy, aching weight within her.

Her golden eyes fluttered open.

The lanterns still flickered overhead, casting their dim glow across the cavernous chamber. The air was thick, stagnant, filled with the lingering scent of blood and sweat.

And then—she noticed.

Her restraints were gone.

Not merely unbuckled, but sliced through, the thick leather straps hanging loosely from the sides of the slab, edges frayed and torn.

Slowly, she tried to move.

Her limbs felt… heavy. Strange. The dull ache pulsed through her hands, dragging against the cold metal beneath her as she lifted them into view.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Her fingers—once long and elegant—were now thicker, heavier, their shape almost inhuman. The flesh remained, but the weight of iron lay just beneath the surface, the tips tapering into what looked like razor-sharp claws. Dried blood—her own—streaked her palms, staining what remained of her gloves, proof of recent use.

She flexed her fingers. A sharp, metallic click echoed through the chamber.

What… had she done?

Her body was no longer her own.

She pushed herself upright, her breath unsteady. The ruined gown sagged against her new frame, its fabric stretched to its limits, clinging uncomfortably to the unfamiliar shape of her body. Her shoulders were broader, her torso longer, her very presence now looming where it once merely commanded.

She had grown.

A tremor ran through her as she placed her feet onto the stone floor, the sensation foreign, almost alien. Even standing felt different—her balance shifted, her limbs adjusted with an instinct not entirely her own.

Her stomach twisted as she took an uneasy step forward, her weight settling strangely. It felt powerful. It felt unnatural.

And then—

A voice.

“You have awakened.”

Alcina whipped her head up, eyes darting toward the far end of the chamber.

There, standing beneath the glow of the lanterns, was Mother Miranda.

Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her posture—a quiet satisfaction.

Alcina swallowed the rising panic in her throat.

“…What have you done to me?”

Miranda did not answer immediately. Instead, she stepped forward, slow and deliberate, her golden mask reflecting the dim light.

“You are more than you once were.”

Alcina’s breath hitched. The hunger, the pain, the sheer wrongness of her own flesh—it was all screaming inside her.

Her fingers twitched, a sharp scraping sound echoing as the tips of her claws brushed against the stone.

She had been changed. She had been made into something else.

And she could never go back.

Alcina took a staggering step forward, the weight of her own body foreign, unstable. Her legs trembled beneath her, not from weakness, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of her newfound height. The world around her felt smaller, the chamber’s ceiling no longer so distant, the very air somehow thinner.

Her bare feet—now larger, heavier—pressed against the frigid stone floor, each movement sending a strange, unsettling awareness through her limbs. Every shift of muscle, every subtle change in posture, required adjustment.

She reached for the slab she had awoken on, fingers digging into the metal with ease, the sound of it screeching under her grip sending a shudder down her spine.

This is wrong.

Across the room, Mother Miranda watched.

She stood at a simple wooden table, quill in hand, meticulously writing in a leather-bound book adorned with the Dimitrescu crest. The faint scratching of ink against parchment was deliberate, methodical. Miranda’s golden mask caught the dim candlelight as she tilted her head slightly, observing Alcina’s struggle with clinical precision.

She was studying her.

Alcina’s breath hitched, and that was when she noticed it—

The sound of Miranda’s heartbeat.

It was subtle, steady—too steady. Each beat thrummed in her ears like the distant, rhythmic pounding of a war drum.

And then she heard more.

Beyond the chamber, beyond the thick stone walls, she could hear them. Lycans.

They stalked the ruins above, their claws scraping against the cracked stone, their ragged breathing like the wind through the trees. They moved in erratic, hungry patterns, waiting—hunting.

Her golden eyes widened.

She could hear their blood.

It coursed through their veins, thick and hot, the pulsing of their hearts deafening in the eerie silence of the chamber. Her throat tightened as something primal stirred within her.

Hunger.

Not the refined hunger she had once known—the longing for a rare, exquisitely prepared cut of meat paired with the finest red wine. No.

This hunger was raw. Undeniable.

It clawed at her insides, demanding satisfaction, demanding to be fed.

Her fingers twitched. Her jaw tensed. She could smell the blood.

Mother Miranda did not look up from her notes, but Alcina could feel her smirking beneath the mask.

“You hear them, don’t you?”

Alcina’s breathing grew heavier.

Her body was still adjusting. Her mind was still fighting. But this—this was something new. Something dangerous.

She clenched her jaw, trying to focus, trying to suppress the growl rising in her throat. She was a lady, not a beast.

But Miranda’s words slithered into her ears, honeyed and precise—

“You were always hungry, Alcina. But now… now you can feast.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Her claws flexed.

The hunger gnawed at her, screaming to be sated.

And the Lycans were so, so close.

Alcina’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as she fought the insatiable hunger writhing within her. It was a battle against instinct, against the very fabric of whatever she was becoming. Her entire body trembled, her iron-tipped fingers clenching into tight fists, the tips of her claws scraping against her own palms, leaving shallow cuts that barely even bled.

She refused to give in.

She was Lady Alcina Dimitrescu—a noblewoman, an aristocrat, a singer. Not some mindless, drooling beast.

Mother Miranda, still perched at her desk, noticed.

The golden mask tilted just slightly as Miranda regarded her, a flicker of amusement glinting behind her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she set her quill down, her fingers steepling over the leather book that bore the Dimitrescu crest.

“Ah… You resist?” she mused, the faintest lilt of mockery in her voice.

Alcina’s jaw tightened, her fangs—fangs?—grinding against each other as she forced herself to meet Miranda’s gaze. “I… am not… an animal.”

Miranda hummed, almost pleased. "Then starve."

A sharp, eerie silence followed.

And then—Miranda rose from her seat, approaching Alcina with slow, measured steps, her black robes trailing behind her like the wings of a great, looming bird of prey.

"If you wish to deny yourself, then so be it." She lifted a gloved hand, tracing the air in front of Alcina’s face as if she were a specimen in a jar. "I have no need for failures. Either you will adapt, or your body will be swallowed whole."

She circled Alcina, watching with cold calculation. Was this how she had treated the others? The failed ones?

Alcina’s limbs trembled violently. She could feel something was wrong.

Her breathing hitched. A pulse—deep within her gut, her spine, her bones—ignited. It was different from before. Not just hunger. Not just pain.

Something else was inside her.

And it was waking up.

A strangled gasp tore from her throat as heat spread through her back, searing, white-hot, and unforgiving. Her skin split.

Ripping. Tearing. Breaking.

She collapsed to her knees, the iron-tipped claws of her fingers scraping against the stone, struggling to hold herself upright. It was happening again.

Miranda merely observed, silent as the grave.

Alcina's screams pierced the chamber as her flesh tore apart, splitting at her shoulder blades in grotesque, jagged wounds. The sound was sickening—wet, cracking, like raw meat being pulled apart. Blood—thick and blackened—spilled down her back, staining the tattered remnants of her gown as something pushed through.

Wings.

The first tear sent a bolt of agony racing through her spine, her nerves screaming as newly formed appendages burst forth. The weight of them was immense, foreign, like an extra set of limbs she was never meant to have.

Scales—darkened by flesh and wounds, oily, monstrous—fluttered, slick with fresh blood.

Her body convulsed as a tail—long, sinewy, lined with unnatural muscle—ripped its way free from the base of her spine, shredding already irritated flesh.

She could barely breathe through the pain, barely think, barely exist beyond the agony wracking her monstrous form. Her vision blurred.

She was changing again.

And Miranda…

Miranda merely smiled.

"Yes," she whispered, watching the carnage unfold with something dangerously close to reverence. "Now this… this is something new."

Alcina’s screams turned to ragged gasps, her body trembling as the pain began to dull, leaving behind only raw exhaustion and the slow, creeping realization that she had once again become something else.

Her hands pressed against the blood-slick stone beneath her as she forced herself to rise, her new wings trembling at her back, her tail dragging behind her. Her gown—what little remained of it—hung in tatters, struggling to contain her now truly monstrous frame.

Alcina panted, swallowing back the lingering waves of agony.

She no longer felt human.

But the hunger?

It was still there.

Stronger than ever.

And now, she wasn’t sure she could fight it anymore.

Alcina stared at Mother Miranda, but it was no longer the same gaze she had held before.

Her golden eyes—once the sharp, calculating windows of a noblewoman—had been entirely swallowed by crimson, glowing like embers in the dim candlelight. Her breath came in ragged, uneven snarls, her once-refined lips pulling back over gleaming, unnatural fangs.

The pain hadn’t stopped. It had only deepened.

Her skin cracked, deep fractures forming along her exposed arms and shoulders, the flesh beneath darkening—like cooling magma, like something being burned alive from the inside out. The elegant woman she once was had been stripped away, leaving something raw, monstrous, unspeakable in its place.

Miranda watched.

She said nothing as Alcina’s frame twisted further, her towering figure wracked with tremors as her body obeyed something far more primal than her mind could control.

A sickening crunch echoed through the chamber as Alcina lurched forward, the last traces of human awareness slipping through her fingers. Her claws dug into the ground, her hunched figure expanding, the remnants of her once-elegant gown falling away like mere scraps of fabric against the enormity of her changing form.

Her wings, slick with fresh blood, stretched wide, unfurling in full grotesque display. Her tail lashed violently, cracking against the stone like a whip, shaking the chamber’s very foundation.

And then—her flesh writhed.

The sound of tearing meat, of something pushing through from within, filled the cavern as massive, writhing tendrils erupted from her back, her shoulders, her spine. They slithered like serpents, wriggling, curling in the air, as though tasting the world for the first time.

Her body was no longer her own.

Alcina Dimitrescu was gone.

Mother Miranda sighed.

She took her quill in hand once more, her expression unreadable as she scribbled into the leather book bearing the Dimitrescu crest.

"Unsuitable Vessel."

A quiet snap as she closed the book, tucking it beneath her arm. Another failure.

She had hoped, truly, that Alcina might have been the one. The one to withstand the full embrace of the Cadou, to become something perfect, eternal, divine.

But no.

Just like all the others before her, she had fallen.

The chamber trembled as the beast that was once Alcina Dimitrescu lifted its massive head, its elongated form stretching into its new existence, the last remnants of its human mind buried beneath the hunger.

A single, thunderous roar tore from its throat, a sound that rattled the very stone, that sent unseen creatures scurrying deeper into the earth in fear.

And then—it moved.

With a horrifying, unnatural grace, Alcina launched herself forward, tearing through the chamber’s exit with monstrous ease, her tendrils lashing out, crushing stone as she barreled into the night.

She did not think. She did not remember.

She only hunted.

Through the dark, frost-laden ruins of the village, she descended upon the Lycans that lurked in the shadows, creatures that had once ruled these forsaken grounds with savage hunger of their own.

Now, they were prey.

One barely had time to snarl before she ripped through it, her claws cleaving through fur and flesh as if it were nothing more than wet parchment. Another fell, caught in the grasp of a writhing tendril, crushed, its bones splintering under her monstrous strength.

Blood painted the snow.

And yet, it was not enough.

This hunger—this abyss within her—was boundless. It would never be satisfied.

She would hunt until nothing remained.

And high above, standing at the ruined threshold of her cavernous laboratory, Mother Miranda watched her creation disappear into the night.

A failure.

But perhaps…

I created another one shot on AO3 if any of you all wish to read it. It is a little angsty and about Alcina's transformation.

1.) Verian and her sister are soooo Alcina Coded.

2.) I am no better than a man