A man stumbles down narrow alleyways, his boots splashing through puddles of rainwater as he struggles to maintain his balance on the uneven, broken-down cobbled streets. The full moon hangs low, casting just enough light to penetrate the thick layers of rain clouds –barely enough to let the man see where he’s going.
His breath comes in ragged gasps, each one making him wince in pain as he clutches his side.
‘Damn it, those bastards dare go against me!?’ the man curses in his mind, careful not to utter a word as he leans against the wall. He chances a look over his shoulder.
Nothing.
“Guh…” He wheezes, glancing at the hand he’d been using to clutch his body. It’s bright red, as if coated in a fresh layer of paint. The rain washes some of away before he presses it back to his side, desperate to stem the bleeding.
Blackness creeps into the edges of his vision as he continues slogging onward, narrowing his view to the uneven path ahead.
The pain pulses in time with his heartbeat, he feels his mind slipping away, suddenly, he’s no longer in the alley. He’s back at the vault, one more deal sealed, the coins stacked high. Vast riches that no ordinary man could hope to own.
Protection fees, bribery, smuggling, money laundering and many more. In the city of Harrendal, one filled with defenseless lambs blind to the ways of the world, there is always more work to be done.
The people of the city fear him, they treat him with respect. Walking down the streets is always a pleasure to him. Women hide their children, men shy away from his gaze. Those subservient to him hold their heads high.
In the less reputable quarters, at least.
As a former soldier it had been a trivial task for the man to gain power over the city’s underworld. Disorganized mobs and gangs had been violently taken over and transformed
Hot-blooded youths seeking a way from poverty had been easily influenced—becoming the muscles of his syndicate.
The beggars of the city, almost perpetually hungry, had become his eyes and ears to be strategically placed where he needs them. All for a steady stream of food.
A couple of coins for the city officials so they look the other way —everything had been perfect.
With the spoils of their work he thought it wouldn’t have been a problem to indulge.
The most stunning whores, the most expensive wine, the most mouthwatering of food. A great day of celebration for his group. All had been merry, singing and drinking.
His teeth grind together as he's suddenly pulled from the illusion. Now back at the alley, rage fills him as the image of his most trusted bodyguards flashes in his mind once again, their daggers held high, painted red with his blood.
The sound of steadily approaching footsteps make him flinch.
‘They found me, how!? I’d lost them!’ He scrambles forward, each step sending a wave of pain through his body. The trickle of blood passing through his fingers turns into a stream, chilling his core and warming his hand at the same time.
Navigating the maze-like alleyways of the slums is never easy, never mind the his injuries and the cursed weather. The strain, the confusion, and the fear make it only natural to misremember and take the wrong turn in these familiar paths at the most inopportune time.
Using the solid wooden wall as support, the man limps forward, turning a corner—only to freeze. His hair stands on end and his eyes open wide.
A dead end.
His throat dries as if he’s bitten into a chunk of salt.
The footsteps turn ever louder, slapping against the wet stones. They’re calm and methodical, the people behind them seemingly unhurried and certain in themselves.
Backed into a corner the man looks around in panic, thinking. Can he jump and climb to one of the rooftops? Not an option, not with his injury and with such heavy downpour. The strain will be the end of him.
Hide? A quick glance shows the impossibility in the task. The largest object around is a broken off piece of pavement that barely reaches his ankle.
There is only one option left.
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Drawing his dagger, he prepares to lash out with whatever strength he has left. Going by the sound—he reckons—there are three men tracking his trail, maybe two.
Crouching he lays in wait, feeling as if a large boulder is strapped to his shoulders. His limbs feel weak as if he’d run a marathon. It is now or never.
Just as the group rounds the corner he lunges, screaming.
Only to be met by a wall of wood. A shield slams into him, knocking him back and causing him to crash to the ground. The shield itself is nothing more than a collection of planks, loosely held together by rope and nails.
“Guh,” he grunts as the dagger tumbles from his grip, ringing as it strikes the earth.
Through blurred vision, he spots the man responsible—the one who struck him. His face is frozen in disbelief.
“Yenor!” he yells, “And you, Torryg? Were you two in on it as well?!? Of all the people to seek my death...” His sentence remains unfinished.
The duo says nothing. They remain still, rooted in place, their faces unreadable as they stare at the bloodied, beaten man.
A scowl forms at their silence. “Nothing to say for yourselves? No shame?” His voice rises, full of anger. “Everything you have—you owe to me. Me!” He pounds a fist against his chest. “I found you both, broken and starving in some back alley, half-dead. I nursed you back, taught you how to fight, how to take your fate into your own hands like men should.”
He tries to gesture, waving his arms to emphasize his words, but the strength has long since left him. Even that simple effort is too much for his body.
“I fed you. Clothed you. Watched you grow into people worthy of respect.” His breath comes ragged now, but he forces himself to keep going. “And this—is this how you repay me?”
His lip curls in disgust. “Cowards. Ungrateful little rats. I made you. Without me, you’d still be rotting in that alley, choking on your own filth, begging for scraps like dogs. But I lifted you up. Gave you purpose. Gave you a reason to keep breathing.”
“You think you’re high and mighty now, huh? That you don’t need me? You wouldn’t have survived a day without me. And now you stand there, silent, pretending like you don’t remember?”
His fingers twitch at his sides, eager to grab the fallen dagger again, yet too weak to do so.
“Say something, damn you! Look at me!” He grinds out through his teeth, and yet still, they do not move.
The moment stretches on. The man breathes heavily, each intake of air more labored than the last. The rain rumbles steadily, drowning out all other sound, its chill seeping deep into his body.
Then—laughter.
A weak cackle, barely audible over the downpour, brittle and frail at first, but growing. It is not a laugh of joy or amusement but something else. Something filled with darkness.
‘What…?’
Whatever fury that still burned within him withers into confusion. His eyes flick to the two men in front of him, but their faces remain blank, their mouths unmoving. The laughter isn’t coming from them.
It is feminine.
A slow, creeping realization slithers into his mind.
Someone else is here.
At that exact moment, the rain clouds part, revealing the full moon. Silver light spills over the scene, and with it, a third figure—a woman—steps into view. The moonlight catches her in its glow, illuminating every inch of her body.
“That was adorable~” she sighs dreamily, sliding a delicate finger under Torryg’s jaw as she takes her place between the two men.
To any ordinary onlooker, she would appear scandalously dressed—so much so that city guards will be summoned to arrest her. A thin band around her thigh, a hairclip and the barest suggestion of underwear is all she wears. It is less clothing and more decoration, meant not to conceal but to entice. Her full curves, wide hips, and breasts remain unobscured, as if the concept of modesty is something she has never known.
But none of that holds the man’s attention for long.
What does—what roots him to the spot, drowning out all thought—are the pair of black bat-like wings and the thin lace-like tail sprouting from her body.
Noticing where his eyes lay only makes the woman grin. She flares her wings and flicks her tail, displaying them the same way a street hawker would present their goods.
“Yo—you…” the man stutters out, his mind frozen in shock.
The woman tilts her head, amused.
“You charmed them…” His voice barely rises above a whisper.
“Torryg’s always been a loudmouth. A showoff. There’s no way in the hells he’d stay this quiet. If he was behind this betrayal, he’d be gloating, throwing insults. Fuck, he’d take a piss on me for the fun of it. But he’s just standing there.”
The realization hits him all at once. The ambush at the tavern. The daggers. The lifeless stares. Not just Torryg and Yenor, but every single man who had been at the celebration. He’d been wondering, how could such a massive plot have happened against him, seemingly everyone rising up against him, all without him hearing even the tiniest of whispers hinting of it.
Now he knows.
They aren't traitors.
They are puppets.
His jaw tightens as the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place. A succubus.
He's not seen one in a long time, and going by the size of her wings and the length of her tail this is a powerful one.
The succubus in question lets out a giggle—light, airy, yet dripping with such hatred that it could chill a man to the bone. “You just figured that out?” She shakes her head with mock disbelief. “Truly, it boggles the mind how you managed to build a city-spanning crime ring with that thick skull of yours. You humans have gotten real sloppy these last few decades.”
She steps forward, brushing a damp lock of hair from her face. The rain doesn’t seem to bother her, not in the way it should. No shivers, no goosebumps, no sign that she is cold. If anything, she treats it as nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Stopping just a meter from him, she leans in, her grin giving way to something colder.
“What disgusts me most, however,” she murmurs “is that even after all this—even as exhausted as you are, as mentally broken as you’ve become from the betrayal, with everything you built crumbling around you—” her voice dips “—I still can’t influence you. What reason does a worthless nothing like you have to pray?”
A pink haze drifts from the man’s body, pouring out from his mouth, nose and skin before it is re-absorbed by the succubus.
The man exhales sharply. He straightens, drawing up every last ounce of strength left in his battered body. His fists clench, his back stiffens. He’s a dead man and he knows it.
“The goddess…” he gasps, his breath ragged. “...protects me, you demon. I may be a criminal… a scum of the earth… but even someone like me will—”
His words cut off with a wet gurgle.
The heart-shaped tip of her tail pierces clean through his throat, slipping out the other side.
She watches the last flicker of life fade from him and she sighs, rolling her eyes. With a casual flick, she pries her tail free, letting the rain rinse away the blood.
“Well, that was a giant waste of time.” Her voice is light, almost bored, as if she hadn’t just ended a life.
Turning away from the corpse, she sets her sights back on the duo. Her previous amusement gone, she barks out an order.
“You two grab him, find a place where you can dig a nice, deep hole and dispose of him.”
Torryg and Yenor nod in unison, walking past her and lifting up the dead man on their shoulders. She watches them as they move out of her sight, eager to fulfill her will.
A mild frown decorates her face as she too slips off into the night, her mind already elsewhere as she deliberates on how to best take advantage of her new 'gang'.
