Jessel had been a tavern maid, a wife, a mother of three, and most recently, a self-decred human hammock for her newborn twins. Her breasts, once described by a suitor as “delightfully distracting,” now felt like warm, exhausted puddings sloshing in her bodice.

  “It’s not vanity,” she told herself. “It’s alignment. It’s getting back to normal.”

  Still, she avoided the looking gss and the bathing mirror, and even her beloved husband’s gaze. He said she was beautiful, but he also said her turnip stew was spicy, so really, how trustworthy was he?

  That’s when the fairy showed up.

  A shimmer of sparkle over the dishwater. A tittering ugh. And then, perched on the soap shelf like a bust-obsessed hummingbird—stood a very small, very enthusiastic Boob Fairy.

  “Hi!” she squeaked, wings aflutter. “I’m Mammarel, Boon Bringer of Bosoms, and I heard someone crying into her cleavage!”

  “I wasn’t crying,” Jessel muttered, trying to block the fairy’s view with a dishrag.

  “Not out loud, sure.” Mammarel zipped closer. “But your soul was sighing. And girl, I got you. One quick spell and BAM—uplift, shape, softness, the works! You’ll be perky enough to pass for pre-pregnancy and smug enough to glow about it!”

  “I don’t know…”

  But it was too te. Mammarel did a glittery pirouette, whispered a spell that sounded suspiciously like "perkifyboobaloo," and poofed out of sight in a puff of rose-scented sparkle.

  The First Day Was Glorious.

  Jessel’s breasts sat high and happy, curved like artfully scooped soufflés. Her dress fit like it had been tailored by a corset whisperer. Strangers held doors open. A knight tipped his helmet and accidentally walked into a fruit cart.

  Her confidence soared.

  The Second Day, Less So.

  The spell the fairy pced on her was progressing. They’d grown. She couldn’t sleep on her stomach. Her left tit kept ringing a small bell. No bell was present.

  Her nipples appeared to be slightly… glow-in-the-dark? She wasn’t sure, until she entered the bedroom te one night and her half-asleep husband mumbled, “Can you turn the mp off?” There was no mp.

  Also, the bounce. There was too much bounce. Her cleavage now cpped.

  By Day Four, She Was a Legend.

  Travelers came to “see the Miracle of the Swaying Saint.” The local priest asked if she’d been chosen by Lustrama. Her husband was exited and he had tried to be supportive but bruised his chin during forepy.

  And Jessel had had enough.

  “This is not alignment!” she cried. “This is BIG BOOB MAYHEM!”

  She packed her bags, strapped herself down with three scarves, one girdle, and a borrowed child’s backpack, and began the long pilgrimage to Altara, Cleavendale’s religious capital and spiritual service hub.

  The Road to Altara

  It was not, in any sense, a smooth journey.

  The carriage was old, the road worse, and every bump sent her bouncing against her bodice with the rhythm of a poorly tuned orchestra. After one particurly jarring pothole, she leaned forward, flushed and gritting her teeth.

  “Driver, is there any way to soften the ride?”

  The man didn’t even look back. “Not unless ye’d like to pave the road yerself, miss.” By the time she reached Altara, she was a swirl of bruises, regrets, and reverb.

  The City of Shrines

  Altara was nestled in the misty Farfx Reaches, the far eastern portion of Cleavendale, a city of incense, overpping prayers, and spiritual density so thick you could trip over a minor god on your way to the bakery.

  Its yout was an ever-growing spiral known as the Spiral of Supplication, where shrines, altars, temple-stones, and enchanted garden benches fought for space like pious weeds. The city's goal for the st hundred years had been to construct a shrine for every known deity in the Cone. Space was limited. Most were the size of bread boxes.

  Priest Hollum Quetzel, ritual scheduler and divine directory wrangler, met Jessel at the Pilgrim’s Nook.

  “Redactyl?” he asked, flipping through his annotated shrine scroll. “Undoer of Magical Modifications? Ah. Right between the Lustful Haiku Muse and the Goose-Queen of Judgment. Don’t dawdle. Honkmadre’s geese are snippy this week.”

  On the way, they passed:

  The Wandering Altar, currently nestled beside someone using a tree as a restroom. “It means no offense,” Hollum assured.

  The Apology Bell, which rang constantly with confessions from raisin-reted offerings and shrine farts.

  A pushcart with the altar of Blibblebop, the Vaguely Divine Jelly, jiggling in empathetic resonance with Jessel’s own struggles.

  Finally, they arrived at a modest alcove in the fifth spiral ring. A softly glowing symbol, an asterisk with nipples, marked the entrance.

  “Here Dwells the Deity of Body Reversal, the Androgynous Arbiter of Undoing, the Patron of Whoopsies.”

  Their Name: Redactyl.

  The shrine hummed faintly, like a sigh of shared embarrassment.

  Jessel knelt. “Please, oh Great Redactyl… I just wanted to feel like me again. Not a festival float. Not a bouncing cautionary tale. Just… comfortable. Is that too much to ask?”

  There was a shimmer.

  A voice, soft and strange and both sultry and bureaucratic, echoed:

  “Consent is sacred. But consequences are yours. Still… I heard what you meant.”

  Her breasts shifted. Softened. Settled. Still hers, but lifted just enough, banced just so. Not enchanted. Not extreme. Just right. Touchable. Wearable. Sleep-on-your-side-able. Dignified.

  She wept with relief.

  Later, in a tavern outside the city...

  A young barmaid grumbled about chest pain.

  From the flowerpot, a new voice chirped, “Hi! I’m Mammarel! I heard someone sighing near their sternum!”

  Someone screamed. The Apology Bell rang in the distance. Somewhere above, Redactyl massaged Their temples.

  “I’m going to need a bigger altar.”