Consent was sacrosanct to the church of Ehoran. Informed, written consent, signed in triplicate, with one copy sent back to the monastery for safekeeping and another given to the mother-to-be. Soldiers tended to boast that they’d sooner die as men than live as women, but that sentiment often faded when they were face-down on a battlefield, by which point all the blood and guts and mud tended to smear the signatures.

The church had assigned Ythariel to the mercenary company known as the Ashen Blades to serve as their cleric, and her first day had her running around the encampment with armfuls of parchment and philtres of feminization rattling on her belt, as she detailed just how far each man was willing to go with clerical treatment, should they fall in battle.

Ehoran was generous with his healing magic, positively gushing, requiring little in the way of sacrifice or worship for his services. But the one thing he insisted upon was that the recipients be women. The god of masculinity had little time for men. Any man so unmanly as to require help was, by His definition, unworthy of receiving it.

As mercenaries, the men recognised a contract. Most could not read, however, requiring her to explain the process, frankly and in detail, each time. Only around a third accepted the philtres, masking it with the braggadocio of "it's not like they'd need it anyway."

Often, they would eye her up and down, confusedly. "I thought they were sending us a son of Ehoran," they would say.

"They did. It's a title. With a capital S," she explained. "Many of His Sons are women."

Which always created more questions than it answered.

She liked the mercenary captain. He had a level-headed pragmatism that would make him a good mother someday, and a nice, muscular torso that was ripe for hosting a baby. Or two or three. The thought of his body bulging with divine progeny played in her mind, and she tried not to let her eye wander while he studied the contract.

"... in the event of grievous bodily harm yadda yadda..." he read aloud. "... so long as doth carry the fruits of Ehoran such and such... shall fear neither arrow nor infirmity etcetera etcetera... ... patria potestas perpetuatum..." He looked up. "So this Reprieve thing grants me your god's protection?"

"Yes. So long as you're pregnant," she said.

"Once I've got it, what's to stop me charging back into battle?"

Perhaps he was a little too pragmatic, she thought.

"Well, for starters, you won't be charging anywhere in your state," she explained. "And secondly, it doesn't make you invincible - it just stops you dying. And thirdly, think of your baby. OUR baby."

"I'm trying very hard not to," he croaked. "This magic stuff makes my skin crawl. Why does your god have to be so old-fashioned? Well, at least it's quick, I suppose. You just place your hands on someone, mutter the words, and 'poof!', right?"

"Yes. The Prayer of Feminisation, or the philtre, are quick and painless."

"Great. That's a relief," he smiled. "It's amazing how the baby just magics itself into the womb like that. That's why it's called the miracle of life, I suppose!"

"Oh," she said. "No. He expects that part to be done the old-fashioned way."

Slowly, his eyes drifted down the aasimar woman's figure, and widened.

"I see you take after your father," he gulped.