Darkness.
Not the oppressive kind—this was softer, warmer, like being wrapped in velvet.
Soren stirred, but his body felt light. Floating. His senses were dulled, as if submerged underwater.
Where am I…?
The air smelled faintly of flowers. Sweet and cloying.
Then came the voice.
"Hm… You're awake."
It was sultry. Soft. Silk over steel. Feminine.
Soren turned his head slowly. The haze in his vision parted—revealing a dimly lit room, curtains swaying lazily as if moved by an unseen breeze.
And her.
A woman lounged on a plush divan, one leg crossed over the other, skin smooth as porcelain. Her dress—or what little there was of it—clung to her curves like it was made of liquid shadow. Slits ran high up her thighs, and her neckline plunged far too deep. Her golden hair flowed like waves, and her eyes sparkled with amusement.
He knew her.
Or at least, his mind said he did.
"You look tense," she said, rising gracefully to her feet. "Why don't you sit with me, just for a while?"
Soren blinked. "I… what is this?"
"Shhh." She placed a finger over his lips without touching him. "Don't think too hard. You've had such a rough time. Let me help you… relax."
Her presence was overwhelming—warm, inviting, dangerously so.
Her hand brushed his arm. A chill ran down his spine, followed by a wave of heat. It was hard to focus, like fog clouding his thoughts.
He sat beside her without realizing it. Her fingers trailed up his chest, her lips near his ear.
"You've been carrying so much weight, haven't you? Always protecting, always fighting. You deserve to be touched. To be wanted."
His heart pounded.
Something about her words felt like honey laced with poison.
She straddled his lap, her breath warm against his cheek.
Soren's lips parted slightly.
But then—
"Lyra."
He whispered it.
Everything froze.
His arms, which had begun to rise, dropped limply.
"…Lyra. I need to find her."
The woman's expression faltered for the briefest moment. She tilted her head, smile dimming.
"Oh come now, must you spoil the moment?"
"I need to find my sister," he said again, eyes narrowing.
"You don't need to think about that," she purred, trying to reclaim his attention. "Not now. Let's enjoy each other."
He stood abruptly, causing her to slip from his lap.
The dream shifted.
The room distorted—walls stretching, lights dimming. Curtains turned to shadows. Soren stumbled backward, heart racing.
"I said stay away!"
He turned and ran.
Into darkness.
Hallways twisted. Doors led to nowhere. Stairs went up, but ended in ceilings. Mirrors reflected wrong angles. Voices echoed—his own, hers, others he didn't recognize.
"Lyra!" he shouted. "Where are you!?"
No answer.
Only the sound of his own footsteps and ragged breathing.
Then—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Slow applause echoed from behind.
He turned.
The woman was back—but different now.
Her form shimmered, clothing fading into sheer veils that barely concealed anything. Wings unfurled from her back—leathery and dark. Two horns curled elegantly from her head. Her eyes had changed too—deeper now, like bottomless pools of temptation.
A succubus is the precise way to define her features.
She grinned.
"Alright. I admit it. You really do love your sister," she said with a playful pout. "It's… admirable, really. Even I'm jealous."
Soren took a step back. "What are you?"
She walked forward, hips swaying with an unnatural grace.
"I only wanted to toy with you. See how far you'd fall. But you…" Her smile widened. "You resisted. That makes you even more my type."
Her form shifted slightly again, shimmering with a dangerous allure. "The ones with conviction… ahh, the ecstasy if I can break them~ It's a high unlike anything else."
Soren clenched his fists. "So this… isn't real."
She giggled. "No. But it was fun, wasn't it?"
He looked away—face flushed, jaw tight.
Her outfit… if it could even be called that, exposed nearly every inch of her skin. Only the bare minimum was hidden. It was indecent—overwhelming.
Yet her face was oddly serene. Angelic, almost. Framed by golden hair and those two perfect horns, she looked like a fallen angel sculpted for seduction.
She had the face of a saint—gentle, flawless, almost sacred. But every curve of her body, every motion of her hips, spoke only of sin. It was blasphemy made flesh. A temptation dressed in grace.
It was a deadly combination.
And she knew it.
She leaned closer, watching his reaction with a pleased hum. "You're still a virgin, aren't you?"
Soren flinched, jaw locking.
"Adorable," she whispered.
He looked back up—eyes sharp now.
"…You're one of them."
"Mhm~" she said, twirling a finger. "Lust, at your service. Or perhaps… in your service now, Master."
He didn't reply.
"Alright," she said with a sigh, stretching her arms overhead with feline grace. "I won't take more of your time. Just wanted to see what you're made of."
The dream began to dissolve.
"Until next time."
Darkness surged in like a crashing tide—
Soren gasped.
Air rushed into his lungs as his eyes flew open.
He was cold.
Very cold.
The stone beneath him was damp, the faint scent of mildew and iron hung in the air. His skin prickled. His vision was still blurry—but he could make out bars.
Iron bars.
A cell.
He sat up slowly, limbs aching, head pounding.
He was alone.
No voices. No warmth. Just the dim light of a magical torch flickering outside the barred gate.
"…Captured," he murmured.
With effort, Soren looked down at his hands—shackled tightly in cold iron. Not ordinary restraints.
Anti-magic cuffs.He could feel it. The dullness in his veins. The suppression of mana, the emptiness where once arcane flow surged.
They didn't take chances.
He shifted slightly, wincing. As he did, a faint sound reached his ears—a movement outside the bars.
Someone peeked in.
A figure in muted armor, face obscured beneath a half-mask. They made brief eye contact—then hurried off down the corridor.
The warden…? No—just a guard. Probably reporting that I've awakened.
Soren's heart quickened.
"Lyra…" he whispered.
Restlessness began to gnaw at him.
He couldn't rest. Not before knowing her condition. Not before ensuring her safety.
Frustrated, his hand drifted to his neck.
Clink.
The crimson necklace still hung there.
His eyes widened.
They let me keep it?
To the unknown eye, it truly looked like nothing more than a simple trinket—dull red, old, unremarkable. Just another keepsake from a lost family member or lover.
But Soren knew better.
Greed… I'm really grateful.If you hadn't told me, I might've thought it worthless too.
He exhaled.
Then his mind drifted—Lust.
Why did she show up? Just to tease him?
He remembered the dream.
Her face. Her touch. Her voice. The fog of temptation that nearly pulled him under.
Was it just mischief? Or something else?
And then—Wrath.
His hands trembled slightly at the thought.
That wasn't just normal rage. It was possession.
He took over my body… I couldn't stop him. I was just watching from inside.
The Seven.
One by one, they were surfacing—playing games with his mind, testing his will.
If he had to pick one among them—
Sloth, he thought wryly.At least he helped without interfering too much. Quiet. Detached.
His thoughts were interrupted by the clack of a turning lock.
Then—screech—the iron bars creaked open.
Light footsteps echoed softly on the stone floor.
A composed, regal figure stepped into view.
Mirelle Thalrune.
Her glasses caught the torchlight, briefly masking her eyes behind a gleam of cold clarity.
She regarded him from a distance before stepping closer.
"Well, well," she said. "Decide to wake up, Soren Noctis?"
He looked up, eyes calm, lips parted in a small breath. "Lady Mirelle."
His voice was hoarse. He felt parched, throat dry—but he ignored it.
"Tell me… how long have I been unconscious? And my sister—how is she?"
Mirèlle raised a brow. She hadn't expected that to be his first concern.
"Your sister," she said slowly, "was found not far from the site. Safe."
Soren's eyes closed.
Relief. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep relief washed over him.
"Thank you…" he said softly. "Thank you, Lady Mirelle."
There was no sarcasm, no agenda. Just sincerity.
Mirelle's expression shifted. The sharpness in her gaze softened a bit.
She looked at him—truly looked. Shackled, weakened, yet grateful.
But still…
"Don't be too quick to celebrate," she said, stepping back. "We haven't decided what to do with you yet."
Soren nodded faintly. "Of course. After all of what I did yesterday..."
His voice was quiet. Solemn, almost resigned.
"I'll accept whatever judgment is passed. Just… please. Take care of Lyra. That's all I ask."
Mirelle watched him for a few more seconds.
"…We'll see."
She turned to leave. "You should worry about yourself. The council will call for your trial soon."
She exited.
Clack.The cell door shut behind her, and the lock clicked back into place by the guard.
She didn't look back.
Not until she had taken a few steps down the hall—then paused.
Her eyes drifted to the man in the cell. Slouched, cuffed, eyes closed in thought.
He looks harmless…
Facing her earlier, he had done so with his eyes closed—like he always did before.
But now…
What lies behind that red eye? she wondered.
She couldn't get the image out of her mind.
That glow. That glare—pulsing with madness, exuding danger.
As a magician, curiosity was a sin she could rarely resist.
And as a woman—well, perhaps she was even worse.