The shift still prickled beneath her skin—a phantom vibration where
Ly’Lyth’s power used to hum, wild and sharp. Now? Just Ember.
Again. And the silence that followed that truth settled heavy in her
chest.
The cavern yawned ahead, a hollow beast carved by
time’s slow, patient drip. Jagged stalagmites stabbed upward while
stone fangs hung from the ceiling, glistening with unseen moisture.
The smell hit next: damp earth, sour and cold… and something else.
Sweet. Metallic. Blood, maybe. Or just the stale stink of demons,
lingering like the punchline to a joke no one remembered.
Ly’Lyth’s voice coiled through her mind,
silk-smooth and sharp-edged: “Rent free, little mortal.
Always.”
Ember exhaled through her nose—slow and tight. Rent
free, yeah. The Bitch wasn’t wrong.
Her eyes landed on the goblin still hovering by the
door, his beady stare locked on her, wide as saucers. A flicker
stirred inside her—some ghost of Ly’Lyth’s old amusement
curling low in her gut. Bitter. Familiar. The pathetic little thing
couldn’t decide whether to grovel or bolt.
Her lips curved—not kindly.
Still, her hand moved. Reaching into her pouch, her
fingers found the rough-cut amethyst—the one she’d pocketed
earlier. Violet fire flickered deep in the shard’s core. She didn’t
think. Just held it out.
The goblin blinked. Thick, dirt-smeared fingers
twitched, then snatched the gem like it might vanish. He looked up,
surprise cracking across his ugly features—raw, unmasked. Honest.
Her throat tightened—fast and stupid. She shoved the
feeling down.
Why did she do that?
Ly’Lyth wouldn’t have. She’d have swatted the
creature aside without blinking.
But that memory—those scraping fingers, that
desperate reach for something, anything—it stuck. Lodged
somewhere in the mess of Ember’s regrets. A quiet ache that hadn’t
healed right.
Her hand hovered, stiff, before dropping to ruffle the
goblin’s grimy hair.
“Good goblin,” she muttered. The words felt clumsy,
foreign on her tongue.
His eyes somehow widened more. Then a slow, crooked
grin spread across his face—too many teeth, surprisingly even. He
clutched the gem to his chest and bolted, scampering down the tunnel
like a rat with stolen cheese.
She watched him vanish. Shadows swallowed him whole.
Good. One less problem.
She turned back. The ogres still loomed—huge,
dim-witted brutes. Even they flinched when her low snarl rolled
out—deep and raw, a sound that didn’t quite belong to her. It
vibrated in her chest. Primal. Too much like her.
One of the ogres twitched. Fear? Maybe. She’d take
it. Power was power—even borrowed.
If Ly’Lyth’s instincts bled through… fine. Maybe
that was just survival now.
The doors slammed shut behind her with a ringing clang.
It echoed like a final word.
Alone. Again.
Ember straightened. Shoulders squared. Eyes sharp. She
scanned the cavern ahead. Stalactites dripped overhead—each drop
loud in the hush. The path vanished into black, shadows shifting just
out of reach.
Her neck prickled. A whisper of sensation, faint but
sure.
Not danger. Not yet.
But something was watching. Always watching.
She inhaled, deep and steady. Braced herself.
How many times had she done this dance? New chamber.
New monster. Another horror dressed in teeth and claws.
And yet—
Into the unknown, again. Of course.
After what feels like an eternity in this dripping tomb, Ember catches movement.
A figure slips from behind a jagged clutch of stalagmites—silent, fluid, like a shadow unbound. Hooded. Face buried in folds of cloth blacker than a storm-drenched midnight.
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“Took your sweet time, didn’t ya, Ly’Lyth?”
The voice scrapes the air—rough, edged, impatient.
Ember’s grin falters. Panic prickles beneath her skin—cold, electric.
Water still clings to her in thin rivulets, but it's the heat on her neck that betrays her. Sweat, not rain. Her tail flicks, restless—a tell she can’t hide.
“What did you say?”
Her voice comes tight, frayed, brittle with defiance she doesn't fully feel.
“What did you call me?”
Ly’Lyth stirs inside her, afraid.
We know that voice...
The figure doesn't answer. He watches. Still. Solid. Carved from stone.
The silence needles her—sharp, cold, unsettling. Ember shifts her stance, weight rolling to the balls of her feet. Pulse tripping.
Something’s wrong. Too quiet. Too heavy. The air’s pressing in.
This isn't a man you turn your back on.
Her fingers twitch. She hates the quiet. Hates how it claws at her thoughts.
So she breaks it. Swallows hard.
“So... you know what I am. What should I call you?”
His voice comes back smooth now. Coiled. Like a snake testing the air.
“Hold on, now.” A step closer. “Oi, who in blazes are you, then?”
Her mouth opens—“I’m... Em—”
NO! Ly’Lyth screams inside her, sharp and panicked.
Don’t answer! It’s him... the Enslaver!
Her heart lurches. She stumbles back.
The Enslaver.
The word sinks in. Heavy. Cold.
It explains the goblins sniffing around this cave like chained dogs.
The figure chuckles—dry, humorless. “Come now. You oughta know better than to keep a bloke waitin’. Don’t go clutterin’ my head with questions.”
Her spine locks. “We... are nameless,” she snaps. “Demon folk are better off without names.”
“We,” he repeats, slapping a gloved hand to his forehead in mocking disbelief.
Her teeth clench.
“Right then... come 'ere, love. You’re not just one of the faceless anymore, are ya? Ember, was it? That what your new daddy calls you now, love?”
The words slam into her.
Her breath catches—sharp. Her chest cinches tight.
He knows.
But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.
Ly’Lyth howls.
Her legs stay rooted. Stubborn. Defiant.
The man whistles, cold and careless. “Cheeky little succubus.”
His grin is a knife.
“Fine. You can call me the Broker.”
He bows, slow and mocking. The name hangs thick in the air—like smoke that clings.
Ember’s gut twists. Her pulse beats low and hard in her ears.
Everything in her screams to back away.
She doesn’t.
Her eyes narrow. Her voice chills. “And what exactly does the Broker... broker?”
The words slide out smooth, but tension coils under each syllable.
Her claws twitch. She wants something solid to rip.
The Broker doesn’t flinch.
From his cloak, he pulls a small bag—pale blue, delicate-looking, yet heavy in his hand.
He shifts it.
Tick.
The sound scrapes bone. Soft. Wrong. Like secrets grinding stone.
“Well,” he drawls. Voice dry as dead dirt. “Ain’t it obvious?”
He shakes the bag—tick, tick, tick—like a clock running out.
Her pulse skips.
“I broker in the weapons of the Mistress.”
Her jaw tightens. Hands curl. Nails press into skin.
“What did you say?”
“You’ll never be human.”
The chant creeps in. Soft. Cruel. “Your soul’s purpose is to kill.”
It cuts deep. Something raw twists inside her.
“Stop that,” she says, voice darker now. Grounded.
“Fighting it is pointless,” the Broker hisses. “You were made to kill. That’s how the Mistress shaped you.”
A growl builds low in her throat. Smoke rising.
Claws flex—digging in. Heat spilling from under her skin.
“Stop talking.”
“The Mistress is angry.” His laugh cracks too loud in the damp. “I am angry.”
Ember straightens. Arms cross like armor. Her spine locks stiff.
Tail lashes—sharp. Cutting.
Her eyes narrow to blades.
“No. Stop it.”
He tilts his head. Smug. Slow.
A ghost of a sneer curling his lips.
“Human life’s too short to waste. Demon life’s too long to change.”
Then the bag sails through the air.
A lazy flick.
A curse in motion.
“Begone, weak little human girl…”
His voice curls soft. Deadly.
“Come forth... the Shadowed Kiss.”
Her breath hitches. Hard.
Something inside ignites—heat and smoke flooding her core. Her body tenses, shifts. Limbs stretch. Curves sharpen. Her girlhood peels away—burns off like wax—leaving something older. Full of hunger. Full of fire.
The woman beneath emerges.
The Broker’s eyes gleam in the dark. That grin widens—cold, gleaming, hungry.
“There she is,” he purrs. Voice like velvet dragged over razors.
“We have work to do.”
Ly’Lyth’s voice barely whispers now. Thin. Glazed.
“Yes… master.”