The goblin’s thick fingers claw at the rock, nails splitting as he digs like a dog tearing at a buried bone. Ember leans in, chest tight, lips parted just enough to draw shallow breaths. If he’s lying—if this is just another one of his games—

  Stone groans.

  The dead end he dragged her to shudders, then splits open like a slit throat. Not a wall. Not the end. A hidden path—gaping, eager. The boulder shifts aside with a breath that smells old and wrong, revealing a black wound in the earth. Dark. Wet-looking. Hungry.

  Her gut twists hard. Instinct screams: Run. But her feet? Traitors. They move anyway.

  The air thickens, pressing close, like the cave knows. Knows why she’s here. Knows she shouldn’t be. The pressure snakes around her ribs, heavy and mean, like it’s trying to squeeze her out—like a memory too stubborn to fade.

  She smiles—thin and sharp—and pushes through it. Keeps moving like she’s not the fool everyone thinks she is.

  She ducks under the ledge. Stone scrapes her shoulders like a lover with claws. Deeper she goes, slipping into the cave’s mouth, heart pounding like it wants to shatter bone and escape.

  Regret?

  Yeah. It’s there. Cold and sharp, twisting under her breastbone.

  But she’s too deep in to turn coward now.

  The weight wraps around her like chains—slick, iron-cold—tightening with every step. Shadows lean in, thick and eager. Her breath turns ragged, too loud in the grave-deep hush. This silence doesn’t just swallow sound—it chews it up and spits out bones.

  She reaches out. Fingers find jagged stone, rough and greedy, and she lets it guide her. Lets it bite. One step at a time. Deeper. Always deeper.

  If I couldn’t see in the dark...

  She shivers. Lips curl.

  ...this place would’ve broken me already.

  Behind her, the tunnel fades like a bad dream. The clangs—their steady little heartbeat—gone. Swallowed whole. All that’s left is weight. Pressure. A presence heavy and sharp as a whispered threat.

  The shadows twist wrong here—too long, too thin. They move when she doesn’t. Like they’re watching. Like they know.

  Her pulse hammers in her throat, loud and frantic, slamming against the silence like it’s begging to escape.

  The goblin mutters and shuffles ahead, useless as ever, leading her through a narrow cut that widens into a chamber so old it stinks of forgotten things. Ember’s eyes flick across the walls—cracked bricks, half-erased carvings. Time-bitten ruins. Deep. Secret. Older than anyone remembers.

  Her stomach flips.

  What the hell am I walking into this time?

  At the far wall, two massive stone doors crouch—cracked but still standing.

  And flanking them—two sentries.

  Ogres.

  Big. Ugly. Their beady eyes snap to her—sharp, wet, mean. Faces carved from slabs of meat and bone.

  Ember’s fingers curl tight at her side, nails digging into her palm.

  No turning back now.

  Ember’s breath catches tight in her chest. She smothers it before it escapes—buried beneath the thick, stifling air.

  Brutes. Big. Dumb. Armed. But guarding something.

  Her eyes flick between their thick necks and the heavy clubs strapped to their backs. Dangerous? Yes. But still idiots.

  The ogre on the left—nothing more than a mound of scarred, stitched flesh—grunts. His beady eyes, small and mean, settle on the goblin.

  “Sniveler. Trash. Why you bring?”

  His voice grinds like stone on stone. Flat. Contempt heavy in every syllable.

  The goblin flinches.

  The other ogre, broader but slower, hacks up a wet snort.

  “Runt. Master no see you. Go, or I break bones.”

  His eyes barely flick to Ember. Bored. Then back to the goblin.

  “Take new pet. Go away. Scab-picker.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Pet?

  A growl curls beneath her ribs. Ember’s mouth twitches, lips thinning.

  Do you see now?

  This is what happens when you play human.

  They think you soft. Fragile. Useless.

  “Fools,” Ember hisses under her breath.

  They’re ogres. Nothing more. They haven’t yet felt the furnace smoldering under her skin.

  The goblin flinches at her tone. He tries to plead, voice trembling, hands up. A weak attempt—but he tries.

  “Shhh… she… like… Master. Dem—”

  The first ogre laughs, loud and cruel, his voice bouncing off the stone walls.

  “Like Master? Lost little lamb. I kill you now.”

  He lumbers forward. His shadow swells, thick and choking.

  “Master no want vermin. You die now.”

  Vermin.

  The word slices through her. Not because it’s new—because it never stops cutting.

  But something colder blooms beneath it. A slow, dangerous smile unfurls behind Ember’s lips.

  She tilts her head—slow, smooth. Her eyes stop darting. Now they fix—sharp and steady—on the ogre’s face.

  The air shifts. Not from the cave’s weight, but from something else.

  Warmer. Closer. Sharper. Like breath on skin. Like teeth on a throat.

  “Vermin?” Her voice is low. Velvet laced with iron. Too soft to be safe.

  Her smile blooms—small, sharp, empty in the eyes.

  “You dare mistake me… for something less?”

  The second ogre stiffens. His dull eyes drop, catching the shimmer—her tail, long and coiled; her horns, glass gleaming black as midnight.

  But the first one doesn’t catch on. Not yet. He grunts and reaches for her, thick fingers curling.

  The air around her sharpens. Electric. The shadows twitch, pulling closer like hounds straining at the leash. A scent rises—sweet and heavy. Like flowers blooming in the dark. Like the breath before a scream.

  And then Ember lets it go.

  The second ogre jerks back, stumbling. “Dem—!”

  The first freezes. His hand hovers mid-reach. Now he feels it. The pressure. The wrongness crawling under his skin.

  His beady eyes widen.

  Ember’s smile stretches, lips peeling back to show teeth—sharp and gleaming, too white in the dark. Fangs catching torchlight. She looks nothing like a girl.

  She looks hungry.

  Amusement coils in her chest. Cool and rich. Sweet as poisoned wine.

  She moves. A flicker. Shadow into shadow.

  Her claws—black as onyx, curved like a predator’s—slice through the air. A wet whisper. They cut behind the ogre’s knees. One clean stroke. Tendons and muscle part like silk.

  The sound is small.

  The result is not.

  The ogre grunts, confused more than pained, before his legs give out.

  He collapses, slow and stupid, like a tower folding in on itself. His arms flail, weight slamming down in a graceless heap.

  Ember is already behind him when he hits the floor. Her form blurred, shadows clinging like lovers.

  She hisses through her teeth—low, sharp—and drives her heel into the base of his skull.

  The crack is muffled. Sickening. A wet thump.

  His face crashes against the stone. Blood smears dark and slick. Teeth crack.

  He groans. Twitching. Massive arms scrabbling.

  But she’s already there—always ahead—her silhouette unfolding like smoke before him.

  She steps forward. Slow. Deliberate. Heels clicking against stone.

  Soft at first.

  Then the crunch—sharp and final—as her heel comes down on his head again.

  Not enough to kill. Not yet.

  Just enough to press his face harder into the dirt.

  His breath hitches. Ragged. Shallow. His shoulders slump, trembling.

  Instinct wins. The fight dies.

  Ember’s smile lingers—cold and bright.

  Her heel grinds once more. Slow. Purposeful.

  “That’s better,” she purrs. Voice like honey over a blade.

  “On your knees. Right where you belong.”

  She digs her heel in again.

  “I am no runt.”

  The second ogre’s face turns grey. His eyes dart, wild.

  “Grand Succubus…” he breathes. All bravado gone.

  The goblin collapses. On all fours. Begging. Trembling.

  Ember inclines her head—lazy, regal.

  “Grand, yes. Though ‘succubus’ is… only a title I wear.”

  Her eyes shift back to the first ogre. His mouth works. No sound.

  She leans in close. Voice cool as cut glass.

  “Ly’Lyth.”

  The ogre chokes—a wet, strangled sound. His eyes bulge.

  Ember kicks him. He jerks upright, stumbling back.

  “Shadowed Kiss?” he whispers.

  Her smile turns feral.

  “Ah. So you have heard of me.”

  The air pulses around her. Shadows writhe—stretching like living things.

  “No mere succubus, dolt. Though…” She shrugs. “The allure has its uses.”

  Her eyes sweep across them—cold, sharp, measuring.

  “You sneered at the filth brought before you.

  You should’ve looked closer…

  At the filth itself.”

  The second ogre drops his club. It clatters on the stone. He doesn’t move. Just stares.

  Only fear remains.

  Ember’s gaze returns to the first. He’s still frozen.

  Her voice drops the silk.

  Now it’s steel. Thin and honed to a killing edge.

  “Will you keep standing in my way?”

  She steps closer.

  “Or will you finally understand who you dared to block?”