~I first wrote this story back in 2013, when I was still in high school and fangirling over the How to Train Your Dragon TV Series. I couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if someone utilized the Changewing and its abilities, until finally, I decided to put my idea on paper.

Suddenly I was getting feedback of all kinds, and I was learning and tinkering and adjusting things until I'd become obsessed with this story, and writing.

Now aiming for my Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing/English, I look back and this story, and . . . I cringe.

But I also smile and laugh at seeing how much I've progressed through the years.

When I see that story still getting favored, and reviewed, and people choosing to follow me because of this story, I can't think of words because I'm just so shocked that people still find that story, amazing.

But I am ever grateful that people love the idea and continued that love through what turned into a Mindbender Series.

And for the readers who were here at the beginning, when I was actively updating that story, and now to the readers who may just stumble upon that story one day, I can't thank you enough.

You were, and are the reason why I chose to make writing my career; who gave me the confidence to believe that I might actually have a talent for this – a talent to express my thoughts and feelings in writing when I can't find my voice in real life.

Your endless feedback, both positive and critical, have taught me a lot, and helped me grow alongside learning in school.

So with this, I'd like to give you my deepest thanks, and if I could, I've give every one of you a hug.

Now, I'd like to present to you, a refinished version of my most popular story on my profile, Mindbender.

I hope you enjoy. Though I know it could never really outdo the original. ;)

KeshaRocks Xxx~


The darkness around him was endless, but it felt comfortable.

As he traversed, his feet are muffled, quieted as if walking on a plush carpet.

So why does his heart beat like a hummingbird's wings? Why does he feel, uneasy?

Lifting his hand, he can see it, see the blue veins running down his hand, see the brown stitching of his green tunic sleeve.

Where am I? he thought his lips moved to speak the words, but the voice had come from his mind, and echoed around him like he is in a cave.

The world bends and tightens into an actual tunnel of a cave, and at the end, a golden light wavers. Inviting. Welcoming.

Traversing down the corridor, he feels his waist for a dagger, but he finds nothing. The squeaking of his mechanical foot is the only other sound, and even that feels too loud.

Once he's a yard from the light, suddenly it surges forward, as if excited to see him, and wanting to latch onto him.

Squinting against it, he thought he saw a figure standing before it.

It was merely a glimpse, but his stomach immediately sank at the sight of the figure.

One moment he is there. And then he is not.

And then he is shoved aside, locked into a box with no key, and the blood is not his, his body was not his, his name was not his.

Staring through a small rectangle cut at eyelevel, he finds eyes of darkness staring back.

Endless pits of inky black stare at him, squinting as the thing gives a violating and grotesque smile.

He wants to scream, tries to scream, but his words are cut off.

He can feel the Other there, filling him, laughing silently as he marvels at the heat of the sun on his face, at the damp sea breeze filling his nose with salt, at the pain of the hand now healed of its wound.

Never – never has the Other felt such things, felt them wholly and not as something in between and diluted.

And those eyes — his eyes . . . they belonged to the Other now.

To the demon who had walked through the temporary door left ajar in his mind and seized his body as if it were a mask to wear.

He has no words, for he has no voice, no self, nothing—

And he can only watch as if through a window as he feels the demon, who has possibly trailed him the entirety of his life, for this moment, this opportunity, take a deep breath of air.

His face turns expressionless. Cold as the biting ice of the north.

A faint smile blossoms on his full mouth, born of cruelty and arrogance, and he examines the dagger strapped to his waist.

His real waist.

The demon frowns at the dagger but picks it and palms it with skill.

Time slows and stretches as his body pivots towards his friends, his father; as his own arm lifts, his hand pivoting the dagger towards them, ready to strike.

No, no . . .

The demon smiles with his lips, and he can feel the hunger as his stolen eyes rake over Astrid, lingering in some places.

No!

The demon roars and hisses at him. It beats him, whips him, and breaks him until he can only whimper.

It throws him back into the box and covers him in chains. His neck, his wrists, his ankles, even strapping an iron mask over him. It chains the box shut and made him lie on his wounds to weaken him.

And he watches.

He sobs and weeps and cries in agony as he watches it unleash hell upon his home. His village.

His screams as silent as the darkness that surrounds him.