What is Freedom?
After being locked up for many lifetimes in the Emerald Spire under the control of the Lich Nhur Athemon the two Succubi are adjusting to life outside the spire. The stark contrast between bending to thier former masters and his demon consorts wills for so long have made a permanet impression on the two, known as Nimthria and Katyala.
They are now servecing different masters, but freedom is within their grasp, one year and a day is nothing in the immortal lifetime of the Succubi.
The soft glow of candlelight flickers in the lounge between their chambers, making shadows dace across the fur-lined rug and polished wine table. The sounds of the inn below—music, laughter, and boots on wood fades away as night settles over Fort Inevitable.
Nimthria lies across the plush couch, a silk robe loose over her pale skin, blonde hair unbound and spilling like honey over the cushions and her shoulders. Her bare feet are propped in Katyala’s lap as he slowly rubs scented oil into her calves—an odd gesture from the proud incubus, but one he performs with practiced grace.
“You smiled today,” Katyala says, not looking up. His voice is like midnight heat—low, smooth, confident.
“Did I?” Nimthria yawns lazily, one hand playing with a lock of her own hair. “You’re mistaken. I smirked at a Hellknight. That hardly counts.”
He pauses, squeezing gently at her ankle.
“No… It was different. When the girl gave you that ribbon.”
Nimthria’s smirk fades to something softer.
“She said I looked like the sun. Can you imagine that? Me?”
Katyala lifts her foot, kisses her instep.
“You are the sun, Nim. You always were. Even in the dark.”
There’s silence between them for a moment—heavy, but not uncomfortable. Then Nimthria sits up and slides into his lap, her arms draping around his neck.
“Do you remember how the Nhur Athemon used to keep us gagged when "guests" came?” she whispers.
Katyala's jaw tenses. He says nothing.
“Now we choose who hears us. Who touches us.” Her lips brush his ear. “That Hellknight would have paid anything for one night. I told him no. And it felt good.”
Katyala smiles—sharp and proud.
“You don’t belong to anyone anymore,” he says. Then, gentler: “Not even to me.”
Nimthria leans her forehead against his.
“Except for one year and a day,” she teases. “A binding’s not ownership,” he replies. “It’s trust.”
Outside, wind rattles the shutters. Inside, the two demons—once shackled, once broken—hold each other in warm silence. Not lovers, not captors, not victims. Just two souls relearning how to feel without fear.
They are now servecing different masters, but freedom is within their grasp, one year and a day is nothing in the immortal lifetime of the Succubi.
The soft glow of candlelight flickers in the lounge between their chambers, making shadows dace across the fur-lined rug and polished wine table. The sounds of the inn below—music, laughter, and boots on wood fades away as night settles over Fort Inevitable.
Nimthria lies across the plush couch, a silk robe loose over her pale skin, blonde hair unbound and spilling like honey over the cushions and her shoulders. Her bare feet are propped in Katyala’s lap as he slowly rubs scented oil into her calves—an odd gesture from the proud incubus, but one he performs with practiced grace.
“You smiled today,” Katyala says, not looking up. His voice is like midnight heat—low, smooth, confident.
“Did I?” Nimthria yawns lazily, one hand playing with a lock of her own hair. “You’re mistaken. I smirked at a Hellknight. That hardly counts.”
He pauses, squeezing gently at her ankle.
“No… It was different. When the girl gave you that ribbon.”
Nimthria’s smirk fades to something softer.
“She said I looked like the sun. Can you imagine that? Me?”
Katyala lifts her foot, kisses her instep.
“You are the sun, Nim. You always were. Even in the dark.”
There’s silence between them for a moment—heavy, but not uncomfortable. Then Nimthria sits up and slides into his lap, her arms draping around his neck.
“Do you remember how the Nhur Athemon used to keep us gagged when "guests" came?” she whispers.
Katyala's jaw tenses. He says nothing.
“Now we choose who hears us. Who touches us.” Her lips brush his ear. “That Hellknight would have paid anything for one night. I told him no. And it felt good.”
Katyala smiles—sharp and proud.
“You don’t belong to anyone anymore,” he says. Then, gentler: “Not even to me.”
Nimthria leans her forehead against his.
“Except for one year and a day,” she teases. “A binding’s not ownership,” he replies. “It’s trust.”
Outside, wind rattles the shutters. Inside, the two demons—once shackled, once broken—hold each other in warm silence. Not lovers, not captors, not victims. Just two souls relearning how to feel without fear.
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