The village of Arden lay nestled in a crescent valley between rolling hills and forests heavy with dew. Morning mists curled through the narrow paths and over rooftops like the breath of a sleeping beast. Chickens stirred in their coops, and the faint tink-tink of a blacksmith's hammer marked the rhythm of a new day.
Elian woke to that sound, as he always did. His bed was modest—more hay than mattress—and the blanket had long since worn to a threadbare patchwork. He pushed himself up, sunlight slanting through the shuttered window, illuminating a face that was not yet a man's, but no longer a boy's. Seventeen seasons had passed since his birth, and though his frame was lean, the toil of village labor had given his muscles a wiry strength.
He ran a hand through his messy auburn hair, muttering to himself. Today was the harvest fair. A day of drinking, dancing, and—if you were lucky—a stolen kiss in the shade of the orchards. Elian didn't much care for the festivities. Not because he disliked people, but because people made him feel… strange.
They always had.
When he walked through the marketplace, eyes clung to him longer than they should. Not with suspicion, but with interest. With want. It had puzzled him in his youth, but as he grew older, the glances sharpened—tinged with curiosity, flirtation, or outright hunger. Women flushed when they brushed his hand. Men stared too long, then looked away as if ashamed.
He never understood it. Until the first time it happened.
It was spring of last year, during planting season. Elian had been helping Mara, the healer's apprentice, gather wildroot near the glade. She'd tripped, laughing, and he'd caught her by the waist. Her eyes had met his—and something passed between them. A heat, a pulse, as though the very air had thickened.
Mara had gasped, then clung to him, breathless. Not in fear. Not in pain.
In need.
Her cheeks flushed deep crimson, and her body trembled like a bowstring drawn taut. Elian had dropped her, frightened. She fled, and for days afterward she would not look him in the eye.
Later, he felt it again. With others. Always brief. Always intense. And always leaving him feeling like something deep within him had stirred—something hungry.
He never spoke of it. Who could he tell?
His guardian, Master Deren, might have known something. A once-renowned warrior turned woodworker, Deren had raised Elian since he was an infant. His past was wrapped in mystery, but his discipline was firm, his care unwavering. When Elian asked about his parents, Deren only said they were "taken by the tides of fate."
This morning, Deren was already in the workshop. The scent of pine resin filled the air as the old man shaved a length of wood with a careful hand.
"Elian," he said without looking up. "You're late."
"Only a little," Elian replied, tying back his hair. "It's fair day."
"I'm aware." Deren set down his tools. His eyes—piercing gray—met Elian's. "Which means the village will be loud, foolish, and dangerous."
Elian blinked. "Dangerous? It's a harvest fair."
"Precisely." Deren wiped his hands. "Drunken minds stir reckless desires. You are not like the others, Elian. You must be cautious."
The warning felt heavier than it should have. "You've said that before."
"I'll keep saying it." Deren hesitated, then pulled a small object from under his bench. It was a pendant—simple, a circle of iron with a spiral carved in the center. "Wear this."
"What is it?"
"An anchor," Deren said. "It helps keep the tides of Arousal at bay."
Elian froze. "You know."
"I've always known."
He took the pendant, fingers trembling. "What am I?"
Deren sighed. "Not what. Who. You are Elian. That's enough, for now."
But it wasn't enough. Not anymore.
The fairgrounds were already bustling when Elian arrived. Stalls of fruit, breads, and spiced meats lined the central square. Children darted between dancers, and minstrels played lilting tunes that wove through the laughter and cheer.
Elian moved through the crowd like a phantom. People noticed him—he saw it in the glances, the blushes, the hushed whispers. A girl dropped her goblet when he passed. A merchant stammered mid-sale. Even the village mayor's wife gave him a smile too long to be proper.
It was happening again. Stronger.
The pendant warmed against his chest. The spiral shimmered faintly, pulsing with his heartbeat.
"Elian!"
He turned to see Calen, his childhood friend and the closest thing to a brother he had. Taller, broader, and far more at ease in the world, Calen wore his charms like a second skin. He clapped Elian on the shoulder.
"Come, they're starting the contest!"
"What contest?"
"The pole climb! You're in."
"I never said I'd—"
"You just did."
Before Elian could object, Calen dragged him toward the wooden pole erected in the town square, slicked with oil and strung with trinkets at the top—ribbons, charms, and a purse of coins.
Several contestants were already preparing. Shirtless. Oiled. Cheered on by a gaggle of admirers.
Calen grinned. "Go on. Show them what you're made of."
Elian hesitated. But the murmurs from the crowd—especially the women—made something stir within him. Not pride. Not lust. Something deeper.
He stepped forward.
His hands grasped the slick pole. Cool. Greasy. Tricky footing. He began the climb, muscles coiling and stretching. Every eye was on him. Every breath from the crowd seemed to feed the heat within him.
The pendant grew hot.
Halfway up, the world blurred.
Arousal.
The word echoed in his mind—not spoken, but felt. The desires of the crowd surged around him like waves. Their hunger, their admiration, their envy—all of it coalescing into a tangible force.
He absorbed it.
The energy flooded his limbs, made them stronger, faster. He reached the top in a blur and plucked the prize.
The crowd erupted.
He dropped down and staggered, breathless. Not from exertion, but from the overwhelming flood of emotions he had siphoned.
A woman touched his arm. "That was… incredible," she whispered, eyes glazed.
He stumbled back. The pendant hissed, smoke curling from its edge.
"Elian!" Deren's voice rang across the square. Urgent. Sharp.
Too late.
A figure stepped from the shadows—a tall man in dark crimson robes. Eyes like polished obsidian. A symbol burned into the fabric on his chest: a flame encircling a heart.
"Fascinating," the man said, smiling. "So the rumors were true."
Elian backed away. "Who are you?"
"A friend. Or a rival. It depends how this story unfolds." The man's gaze pierced him. "You have the Gift, boy. Raw and untrained. But you've touched the Lust System, whether you know it or not."
"What do you want?"
"To see if you survive long enough to matter."
He vanished.
Deren reached Elian seconds later. "We have to go."
"But—"
"No time." Deren's tone left no room for argument.
They fled the square, ducking into an alley as the crowd returned to its revelry. Elian leaned against the wall, heart pounding.
"What was that man?" he gasped.
"A Seeker of the Council of Pleasure," Deren said grimly. "And if they've noticed you, your days in Arden are over."
Elian stared at his trembling hands.
"What… what is the Lust System?"
Deren sighed. "It's the true magic of this world. A force shaped by desire, emotion, and passion. Few can touch it. Fewer still can master it."
"And me?"
"You're something new. Something dangerous. You were never meant for a quiet life, Elian. The tides are shifting. And you're at the center of the storm."
That night, as the village celebrated under firelit skies, Elian sat alone atop the hill overlooking Arden. He clutched the burned pendant in his hand.
The warmth of the Lust System still flickered inside him. Not a curse. Not a gift.
A beginning.
He didn't know what lay ahead. Only that everything was about to change.
And for the first time in his life, Elian wasn't afraid of that.
He was ready.