The path was thin and winding, veined with frost and the scent of pine. The deeper Aurian rode, the quieter the world became—until only the sound of hoofbeats and the soft rustle of his cloak remained.
Then the silence broke.
"You could have killed him."
The voice slid into his thoughts like silk through a blade's edge—smooth, intimate, disturbingly close.
Aurian didn't flinch.
"I didn't need to," he muttered aloud. "Not yet."
He pulled the horse to a slow trot, reaching a rise in the forest path where the trees opened briefly to the sky. Pale morning light filtered through skeletal branches.
The Grimoire's voice came again, smokey and feminine, like embers given speech.
"You let him live. But he knows now. He'll prepare."
Aurian dismounted. Tied the reins to a low branch. His breath misted in the cold air as he looked out across the valley—a distant thread of smoke rising where the city of Krtha slept on the horizon.
"Then let him prepare," he said, voice low. "He's playing catch-up now. The moment I walked out that door, I stopped being his property."
He opened his coat slightly, exposing the faintly glowing sigil on his chest—the Mark still pulsing like a second heart.
"I need power. Real power. Not just gold. Not just his secrets."
The air shimmered. A soft hum bloomed in his bones.
"Then you must take it," the Grimoire whispered. "From those who would hoard it. From the city. From the courts. From the weak who pretend they are strong."
Aurian narrowed his eyes. The wind picked up, tousling his hair.
"Kartha. That's where the nobles hold court. That's where he made deals."
"And where those debts still linger."
Aurian's jaw tightened.
"He owed my mother. And he owed me. But I'll collect the rest myself."
A chuckle slipped from the Grimoire—low, approving.
"Now you speak like a true Vessel."
He turned back to the horse, hands tightening on the reins.
"If I go into that city like I am now, I'll be nothing but another hungry stray. They'll smell it on me."
"Then hide it," the spirit said, drifting closer in his mind. "Hunger is a weapon. Concealed, it becomes deadly."
Aurian paused. Then nodded slowly.
"Fine. We going to Krtha. I'll start with the slums. The gutters. That's where the whispers live. I need information. Contacts. Magic."
"And flesh," the Grimoire cooed. "You are an incubus, Aurian. Whether you choose to seduce, consume, or corrupt… that, too, is a source of power."
He mounted the horse again, eyes fixed on the distant city.
"One step at a time."
He dug his heels in.
The horse galloped down the trail toward Krtha, toward danger, toward the life he was never meant to survive.
He wasn't running.
He was hunting.
[Hours later…]
Aurian sat on the edge of the hay-strewn cot, the rough wool blanket sliding from his shoulders. Lanternlight flickered across the wooden beams above, casting long, twitching shadows—too long for how still he sat.
Mark burned faintly on his abdomen. Not in pain.
In invitation.
"You're holding back," the Grimoire whispered, voice curling like smoke inside his skull. "You always have. Even in her bed. Even when you tasted the edge of what you could be."
Aurian closed his eyes, hands resting on his knees. The air in the loft was cool and still, but his skin was fevered.
"I didn't want to hurt her."
"You didn't," the spirit purred. "You changed her. She bears your mark now—your essence, deep in her soul. She is yours in ways she doesn't understand. And you, Aurian, are still only half-born."
A slow breath escaped him.
He stripped his coat away. Then his shirt. The faint glow of the Mark intensified, pulsing with his heartbeat. He placed a hand over it.
"Then show me," he murmured. "Show me what I am."
The air shifted. Grew dense. Sweet. Like breath laced with honey and wine. Around him, the shadows twitched—then leaned in.
His skin shimmered faintly. The muscles in his shoulders coiled tight. A hum began behind his teeth—deep, sensual, almost musical.
"Focus," the Grimoire cooed. "Touch the edge. Let the hunger speak."
He reached deeper.
And something unfurled.
It wasn't just lust—it was need. An aching, primal magnetism that rolled off his skin like a storm building beneath silk. His pupils thinned. His breath deepened. The air smelled different—brighter, headier, like the scent of skin just before a kiss.
"Gods," he whispered.
He could feel things down in the street, through stone and wood and flesh. A man and woman quarreling, just beyond the stables. A lonely widow across the square, stirring in her sleep. Every soul like a candle, flickering… reachable.
"This is only the first door," the Grimoire said, now echoing from inside his bones. "Once you learn to take, you will learn to change. Desire is a weapon. Crave, and be craved."
Aurian's head fell back.
He ached.
Not just for touch, but for connection. For control. For the power that came from being wanted, needed, and feared.
The Mark throbbed again.
And just like that, the power dulled.
Retreated.
With effort, he reined it in. Panting.
"Not yet," he rasped. "Not here. Not without a plan."
The spirit sighed, like a disappointed lover, but with a tinge of respect.
"Wise. For now. But in Krtha, you'll need more than patience. You'll need allies. Eyes. And a mask."
Aurian stood and pulled his coat back on, buttoning it tight.
"I'll find them. The ones who whisper in the dark. The ones like me. Or worse."
He stepped to the edge of the loft and looked down at the city, its lights flickering like stars fallen to earth.
"Krtha will either make me," he said softly, "or try to break me."
"Let it try," the Grimoire whispered. "And when it does… break it back."