Ever since his wedding to Lady Aurelia—or Princess, depending on who addresses her—Duke Lysander's nights had devolved into relentless torment. The coven's laws required him to share a chamber with his bride, yet she remained a wife in title alone; their marriage had never been consummated. He dared not voice this humiliation—showing weakness in the coven was a death sentence. Each night, his advances met the same brutal rejection: a painful, degrading castration. Though his vampiric nature allowed him to heal, the slow regeneration of what was taken left him hollow and trembling, haunted by the knowledge that his farce of a wife wielded not just a blade, but claws that cut deeper than flesh.

A sudden knock disturbed Lysander's stifled groans. Curled on the floor, he cradled the absence where his manhood had once been, struggling against waves of agony. He had clung to the belief that his suffering would remain unseen—how naïve.

"Come in," Aurelia called, her tone unsettlingly cheerful. Seated before a mirror, she brushed her lustrous black hair, every stroke mocking his pain.

Lysander's scowl deepened at her reflection. Misery weighed him down like lead. When the door opened, it revealed a dark elf—unshackled and unguarded—a system user from legend, who by all rights should have been rotting in his dungeon. Aurelia's tolerance of these so-called users, their effortless freedom, taunted him as surely as her nightly cruelties. He might have savored the power to imprison them himself, if only it hadn't been ripped away, much like his manhood. Worse still was the divine sanction of Aurelia's position, granted despite her prior marriage—if one could call it that. This scandal had reduced Lysander to a decorative afterthought in her harem, shredding his influence within the coven and allowing her to seize unquestioned control.

The dark elf lingered in the doorway, gaze drifting toward Lysander. Disgust—or perhaps pity—flickered across her features. Hatred smoldered within him. He knew of her furtive prayers to the Crone, that meddling goddess whose champion—a sinister fae—had once slaughtered countless vampires across his lands. The Serpent, Lysander's own patron deity, had done nothing in response. No champion rose to defend him, no answer emerged in the silence. The Crone's influence only spread while his god remained aloof. This neglect was maddening, his fury barely contained behind clenched teeth. He dared not speak, unsure who might be listening.

Still, as his eyes burned with unspoken rage, one question clawed at the edges of his mind: Why had his god abandoned him? Why?

"Heather," Aurelia said, smiling in greeting.

"Word has arrived," the dark elf announced, dragging her gaze from the blood soaked man. "It appears the Kingdom of Slaethia is finally advancing its forces out of beastkin territory. Your support for the resistances there has considerably slowed their progress." As she spoke, her eyes flicked toward Aurelia's brush hand, still tacky with Lysander's blood.

Aurelia sighed, the sound laced with condescension. "They've obliterated the beastkin as if overnight, yet those fools fail to understand that holding territory is far more complicated than taking it. Their ranks are stretched pitifully thin." Her voice, as rich and dark as velvet, turned playful. "Any whispers of which kingdom they plan to prey upon next?"

"None so far," the dark elf replied, her tone carefully neutral.

"What a pity," Aurelia drawled, not pausing in her brushing. "And what of the nymphs and fairies? Have their efforts with the crops borne fruit?"

The dark elf's demeanor brightened, a stark contrast to the room's oppressive tension. "They have, indeed. The blood fruit harvest was particularly plentiful. We've gathered enough to supply the other covens." She hesitated, then admitted, "Though I must say, seeing hearts dangle from branches like apples is... unsettling."

Other covens? Lysander's sneer threatened to crack his mask of pain. In truth, there were no other covens, just a few ragged outliers too weak to matter. The heart of their once-proud race lay here, under the thumb of his so-called wife—his tormentor. And the dark elf, unsettled by a bit of horticultural horror? Pathetic. He clenched his jaw and said nothing, determined not to earn his wife's ire again tonight.

Aurelia let out a melodic hum. "I suppose blood fruit could jar a non-vampire's sensibilities. Yet this crop may truly foster coexistence, expanding our alliances despite Slaethia's and the Ascended Empire's aggression. Strengthening those bonds is crucial if we're to prevail in the coming battle." Her gaze slid disdainfully toward Lysander. "Regrettably, my dear pet spent years sowing hatred among our neighbors. Undoing that mistrust will take time."

Lysander's scowl deepened at this reminder of his diminished status. Neighbors? Every other race upon their moon was an invader, and should be treated as such. He forced himself to remain silent; the last thing he needed was another agonizing lesson.

"Still," Aurelia continued, satisfaction gleaming in her crimson eyes, "sending my husband's… prized jewels as tribute has inspired significant goodwill. Moreover, diversifying our sustenance—returning to blood crops reminiscent of the old times before this moon aligned with Völuspá—has bolstered their faith. In me, specifically."

Lysander's jaw tightened. He could not ignore the pointed emphasis.

"What news of Lord Demidicus?" the dark elf inquired, concern shading her tone.

Aurelia paused mid-stroke, tapping a thoughtful finger against her chin. "His actions are puzzling," she admitted. "He's rallying other covens to our banner"—Lysander bristled inwardly at the term covens for those ragtag groups—"yet he directs them to me. I can't tell if he plans to reclaim his power or is grooming me for a queenship I never sought." She sighed, the sound hovering between frustration and bemusement. "His intentions have always been a mystery."

"That does sound both disconcerting and promising," the dark elf agreed, her brow furrowing as she pondered the implications.

On the floor, Lysander clung to a sliver of hope that the venerable vampire, Lord Demidicus, would one day return and overturn his daughter's rule, undoing the power shift she had so cunningly orchestrated. Yet a begrudging part of him couldn't ignore that even without Demidicus, Aurelia had expanded the coven's might and influence to unprecedented heights. The bitter irony lay in his own impotence against her. By all logic, her youth should have limited her power. Born vampires simply did not occur in this realm—Aurelia was the sole exception. Most vampires were survivors from an era before the convergence that had reshaped their world, while the rest were turned, lesser beings still accepted into the coven. Yet Aurelia, a mere fledgling at roughly three centuries old, defied every norm. She wasn't just strong—she was ascendant, paramount among their kind. That stark truth explained why he now lay reduced to a whimpering, emasculated heap, night after excruciating night.

Lysander also harbored a secret that gnawed at his pride: he preferred blood fruit over the blood of living prey. Even acknowledging this, even to himself, felt like a humiliation. The thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of prey writhing in his grasp, the rush of dominance as he fed—none of these could the fruit replicate. Yet its rich, ambrosial sweetness intoxicated him in a way fresh blood no longer could. Each bite mocked him, reminding him of his divergence from the pure vampiric essence he once revered. Still, the fruit seduced him, its sanguine nectar whispering to a part of himself he wished did not exist. It was a paradox that tormented him: a longing for traditional vampirism even as his palate craved this sacrilegious bounty of old.

This was the path Aurelia was steering their kind toward, a path of coexistence with other races. The very idea disgusted him.

He was caught in a tumult of self-betrayal, struggling with desires he couldn't reconcile. In the silence of the night, broken only by the soft rasp of Aurelia's brush through her raven hair, he brooded over these forbidden cravings, a lone figure ensnared in turmoil and contradiction.

"What about the dungeon folk, how are they faring?" Aurelia asked.

The dark elf shifted uneasily, struggling to keep her voice steady as she glanced away from Lysander's exposed, bloodied form. "They... they seem much improved," she managed, her words barely above a whisper. "Especially after receiving the... the jewels you've so generously provided."

She paused, swallowing hard, her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall as though she could see through it to the souls beyond. "I know I shouldn't, but I feel as though they're my burden to bear—their plight, I mean," she confessed, her voice trembling. "I know what happened to them was…" Her gaze flicked to the bloodied duke. "His doing, but I feel like I should be doing more to help them."

Aurelia's response was unexpectedly gentle, her tone devoid of its usual venom. "None of that," she said quietly.

The stillness in her gaze contrasted sharply with the mocking cruelty she typically reserved for others, especially Lysander. This subdued compassion revealed a puzzling tenderness, a vulnerability she seemed to display only around these users. It was an enigma that needled at Lysander's suspicions. Could this be a weakness, a chink in the armor of this ascendant queen, something he might one day exploit?

The dark elf seemed to shrink beneath Aurelia's steady scrutiny, a mixture of relief and conflict flickering in her eyes.

"If anyone is to carry that burden," Aurelia continued, her voice softer still, "it's the wretched creature cowering in the corner, not you."

Lysander flinched, the insult striking home. Curled in his own blood and misery, he felt her words cut as keenly as any blade—a brutal reminder of how low he had fallen.

They exchanged a few more words of little consequence before the dark elf departed, leaving the two vampires alone. Aurelia's posture shifted into something more predatory. Reaching into her robe, she produced a black orb and began rolling it thoughtfully between her claws, her gaze drifting from its shadowy surface to the trembling figure before her.

From his corner, he stared at the orb, a swirl of curiosity and fear churning within him. His fists clenched, pressed against his groin in a futile attempt to protect himself from the raw vulnerability coursing through him. In the hush that followed, a grim clarity crystallized in his mind. Unspoken but blazing like an oath, he vowed, She'll die in blood and agony!

Even if his god had abandoned him, Lysander's silent pledge to the Serpent offered a dark, fragile purpose. Yet that flicker of determination began to gutter as Aurelia stepped closer, the black orb still cradled in her hand, a cruel smile curving at her lips.

"Let's make you more useful, shall we?" she said, approaching with a measured, predatory grace. "I have an old acquaintance I've been meaning to speak with ever since I arrived here."

Whatever ambitions Lysander harbored ended that night.

~

As Heather stepped out of Aurelia's chambers, the heavy door whispered shut behind her. With each footfall on the cold stone floor, she felt a subtle, pulsing reminder of how surreal her existence had become. Earth lay behind her now, left in another life. Her dark gray skin, stark against her robes, symbolized the transformation she'd undergone—reborn as an elf, and not just any elf, but a dark elf. Being summoned into this new world and body—once the stuff of fantasy—weighed heavily on her soul, anchoring her to this strange reality.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Drawing a shaky breath, she still struggled, even after all this time, to make sense of it. As she did whenever she was alone, Heather prayed. She prayed to the Goddess of Dreams—if nothing else, her new existence had confirmed that gods were real. She prayed to the one she had met personally, the one who had given her a second chance, allowing her to respawn after that fatal moment in the dungeon.

At times, Heather could swear she heard the goddess whispering comforting reassurances, soothing her fears and granting her peaceful sleep each night.

With tentative steps and downcast eyes, she navigated the dim corridors. In her peripheral vision, passing vampires cast sneers like shadows, their silent disdain for the summoned ones a palpable force pressing against her thoughts. They seemed ancient, powerful, and untouchable, a gulf she and her kind could never cross.

Yet, unknown to most of these vampires—except Aurelia—the balance of power had quietly begun to shift. System users, if anything, were quick to grow.

But amidst this maelstrom of emotions, one truth stood clear: Aurelia's control over the coven had fundamentally altered the vampires' power dynamics. As Heather passed groups of vampires huddled in whispered conversation, she noted the hushed reverence whenever Aurelia's name arose. It wasn't affection or warmth, but a respect borne of raw power—and Aurelia wielded that power like a master conductor leading an orchestra of darkness. Make no mistake, everyone seemed to be plotting something, yet without the strength to carry out their schemes, they resorted to lurking in the shadows, too timid to challenge true might.

Power. It was all about power.

Heather had to admit, the changes within herself were remarkable, particularly after Rob revealed the art of drawing upon ambient mana. The system—once their crutch—had receded to a mere contingency, a tool for acquiring new skills when a dungeon was available. That was the problem, though: no dungeon was available, so leveling and new skills remained distant memories. Still, mana flowed as naturally as breath, and the few spells they knew now took shape at a thought, no longer bound by the system's mechanical commands.

Heather reveled in this mastery. Ambient mana caressed her senses, bending willingly to her call. Power thrummed through her veins like a steady pulse, eclipsing any previous notion of strength she had known. She felt certain that, given time, she would begin crafting new spells—magic not bound by the system, but formed through her own understanding. She could practically taste the possibilities.

Her steps slowed at the unexpected sight of Lord Demidicus's pet succubus, Niamh, caught in an uncharacteristically fragile state. The demoness, typically a vision of seductive allure, now staggered, one hand clawing at the wall for support. Her complexion was ashen—a jarring contrast to her usual sultry confidence.

Rumors had swirled about why Lord Demidicus, in his abrupt departure, hadn't taken Niamh with him. The common suspicion held that she remained behind as a covert observer of Aurelia. Yet as days blurred together, the once-radiant succubus seemed to wither before their eyes. Even Heather had overheard the vampires, snickering and speculating among themselves, their words tinged with morbid curiosity. The cause of Niamh's ailment was an enigma, escaping even the centuries of dark knowledge these vampires possessed.

Heather studied Niamh from a distance, a frown creasing her brow. A strange vulnerability clung to the succubus now, one that felt out of place in this ruthless world. Heather sighed softly, acknowledging that here, suffering spared no one—not even a demoness once thought untouchable.

Despite never harboring romantic inclinations of a physical nature—a point of contention in her curious relationship with Yua, who obsessively adored her—Heather couldn't deny a certain fascination with Niamh. She and Yua had settled into a comfortable, albeit nonphysical, friendship—or so Heather liked to believe—punctuated by Yua's relentless attempts to cuddle her. Heather knew Yua's obsession wasn't healthy. Yet something indefinable fluttered in her chest whenever she encountered the succubus, a feeling that refused to be named.

She wasn't a lesbian, not like Yua—at least, she told herself she wasn't. And yet, something still fluttered in her abdomen whenever her gaze drifted toward the demoness.

Chiding herself for indulging this concern, Heather approached Niamh with a resigned sigh. "Are you okay?"

"It's none of your business," Niamh snapped, voice still laced with venom that might have sent others scurrying.

"Perhaps not," Heather said quietly, unperturbed by the retort, "but at least let me help you back to your chambers."

"I don't need your help," Niamh growled, her pride bristling even now.

"That may be true," Heather agreed, her voice gentle. "But I'd rather not see an opportunistic vampire seize the moment if you collapse here in the open."

Heather kept her gaze steady, consciously avoiding the succubus's physical allure—the voluptuous curves, the grand black wings fanning out from just above her hips, the horns crowning her head. Niamh's attire, more suggestive than concealing, evoked a fetishist's dream. Yet none of this disarmed Heather's resolve; she remained focused on the succubus's current plight rather than her seductive charms.

Niamh's eyes, usually blazing with infernal pink light, had dimmed. In that softened glow, Heather caught a glimpse of genuine vulnerability lurking beneath the demon's practiced scorn. It was this crack in the armor that solidified Heather's intentions.

"I'm not asking," Heather said, her tone firm but without malice. "I'm offering. You're not at your strongest, Niamh. Let someone else be strong for you, just this once."

A low growl of annoyance rumbled in Niamh's throat. "Courtyard," she hissed, refusing to meet Heather's gaze. A flicker of something—fear, uncertainty—danced in her eyes before she looked away.

Heather resisted the urge to smirk. Instead, she offered a silent nod and extended her arm. Niamh hesitated, then slipped her arm through Heather's. Together, they moved through the coven's halls, a quiet pair resisting the relentless whispering around them.

The courtyard welcomed them with celestial artistry—stars and moons in silent choreography. Völuspá, the largest orb in the sky, painted swathes of pink and blue across the darkness. They settled onto a secluded bench, framed by night-blooming flowers. Even in darkness, the vampires cultivated beauty.

They sat side by side, Niamh's gaze drifting upward, ensnared by the cosmic display. A subtle shiver rippled through the succubus, a trembling note of weakness that invited Heather's concern.

"What is it?" Heather's words parted the quiet softly, carrying concern without intrusion.

"It's finally happening," Niamh whispered, voice hushed with awe and trepidation. "And I... I don't know what will become of me."

"What is?" Heather pressed gently, her curiosity piqued.

"The convergence of my world," Niamh replied, her voice distant, "it's finally catching up to me. It started after the dungeon's destruction, and now it's reached a... crescendo."

Heather let the word hang in the fragrant night air, her mind racing to interpret its meaning. "The convergence," she repeated, tasting the gravity of it.

Niamh's eyes remained locked on the sky. The usual brilliance of her pink irises had faded, replaced by a subdued glow. Under Völuspá's gentle light, the succubus looked strangely diminished, a once-mighty flame reduced to flickering embers.

In that fragile moment, as stars and flowers bore silent witness, the two figures sat in uneasy companionship. Heather watched Niamh closely, her own heart heavy with questions she couldn't yet form, and a sympathy she couldn't entirely understand.

"Demons… our souls are unique among those summoned to this realm," Niamh began, her voice now gentler, its harsh edges dulled. "In death, our souls don't join this reality's pool of spirits. We return… we return to our original realm, to our true bodies." She drew a careful breath, as though each word weighed heavily upon her. "But now, with my world merging with this one, I can't foresee what fate intends for my essence—or that of my people, my fellow demons."

Heather stilled, the gravity of Niamh's revelation anchoring her to the moment. The convergence wasn't just some distant cosmic phenomenon; it was personal, intimate in its terror. It heralded a collision not just of worlds, but of identities. Heather knew the lore—how demons, when summoned, reshaped the vessel they inhabited until flesh and spirit mirrored their truest form. But now, as Niamh's birthplace approached alignment with Völuspá, would the demoness be torn from this existence, her soul dragged back to its authentic body? Or would she remain here—if so, what would become of the life she'd left behind?

"That… that's terrifying," Heather whispered, her voice hardly more than a breath lost in the night's vastness.

"Look there," Niamh instructed, lifting a trembling finger toward the sky.

At first, Heather saw only the familiar tapestry of stars and moons. Then she noticed it: a subtle quiver in the darkness, so faint it might have been imagined.

"It should happen any day now," Niamh continued, her tone a fragile balance of awe and dread. "But if you look over there…" She redirected Heather's attention to another quadrant of the heavens.

Heather followed her gaze, finding a second disturbance, less pronounced yet equally unsettling. A faint ripple, like a whisper across a still pond—a quiet harbinger of change in an otherwise serene night.

"It looks like another one is beginning," Niamh said softly, voice barely steady. "A double convergence… Lord Demidicus spoke of such events as rare, almost mythical." Her words trembled with an undercurrent of fear. "Great changes are coming," she murmured, each syllable charged with reverence and apprehension.

They sat there, side by side, their gazes fixed on the silent prelude unfolding in the sky. In that moment, they were no longer a dark elf and a demoness, but merely witnesses—small, humbled beings before the grandeur of an unfathomable cosmos. Heather inhaled softly, intending to pray for the comfort the goddess so often provided.

But before she could complete her prayer, a sudden notification interrupted her thoughts, cutting through her mind like a blade.

Titan Leveling to Ascension 83

Copyright Primordial of Life 0000-Eternity.

V:\Ascension>SAFE_MODE

 

Admin:\Death>Login_

New Data Accepted.

Initializing Character Data…

Complete.

_

 

V:\Ascension>SAFE_MODE

ClassUpdate

 

New Class Offered.

 

[Priestess of Nightmares]

Description: You've been offered this unique class to become the first Priestess of the Demigoddess of Nightmares, daughter of Duskara, the Goddess of Dreams.

 

Four new selectable skills will become available upon acceptance.

 

Do you accept?

> YES

> NO

 

Admin Note: The Goddess of Dreams gives her blessing of this new class and will reward you with an additional skill upon acceptance.

 

V:\>

A little time later…

Heather awoke with a gasp, bolting upright in bed.

The sheets slid from her dusky elven skin, clinging for a heartbeat before slipping away. Sweat traced delicate lines down her back. Her breath came fast—shallow, sharp. Strands of white-silver hair clung to her chest, half-veiling the soft rise and fall of her breasts, offering little warmth against the sudden chill seeping into the room.

A flurry of whispers clawed through her thoughts, each one a sliver of ice slicing deeper than the last. Panic bloomed in her limbs. She nearly toppled from the bed—if not for the arm coiled tightly around her waist, and the familiar, comforting weight of a demonic wing draped protectively across her hips.

"What's wrong?" came the velvet purr beside her—honeyed and husky, thick with sleep and curiosity.

Heather panted, the words barely more than a breath.

"She's returned."

Niamh propped herself up on one elbow, shadows pooling in her narrowed eyes.

"Who has?"

Heather turned toward her, voice steadier now, but laced with something darker.

"Blake," Heather said, her voice low and grim—the Priestess of Nightmares, now fully awake.

A shadow crossed Niamh's face. Her lips twisted—not in amusement, but with slow, creeping disdain.

"I've never cared for that one," she muttered, voice low and dangerous.

Heather reached up, her fingers brushing against Niamh's cheek, then trailing down to her collarbone. Her touch lingered—tender, deliberate—as she pulled the succubus into a slow, breath-stealing kiss.

"This time," she whispered, lips brushing lips, "things will change."

Niamh exhaled, her breath trembling ever so slightly. She didn't protest.

"Then we must inform—" she hesitated, the name catching in her throat. "Aurelia."

Heather pulled away, reaching for her robes with practiced urgency. But then—she froze.

Niamh's gaze pinned her in place. Intense. Unrelenting.

Predatory.

Possessive.

Desire flickered in her eyes—molten, feral, coiling just beneath the surface. Her gaze raked over Heather's exposed form, slow and claiming. The demonic light in her stare painted Heather in shadows and heat, casting a soft pink glow across every curve—every shiver.

Heather hesitated.

Then smirked—slow, knowing, dangerous.

The robes slipped from her fingers and puddled silently to the floor.

She turned, hips swaying as she crawled onto the bed with feline grace—slow, deliberate, and hungry. There was no pretense in her movements, only intent. She didn't slip beneath the covers.

She claimed the space above Niamh like a promise as she lowered herself.

Heather gazed down her form—eyes trailing past her breasts, her firm stomach, and between her legs—before meeting Niamh's gaze. Holding it. Like she knew exactly where she belonged—and how she intended to be worshipped.

—Devoured.

Niamh welcomed her without hesitation. Hands roamed the dark elf's body—eager, reverent. Mouth hungry.

Thighs locked. Fingers tangled in hair and horned curls.

Nails dragged across skin.

Tongue grazed parted lips.

Breaths became gasps. Gasping turned to moans. Moans faded into silence—broken only by the rhythm of passion rising like a tide and crashing down again and again.

They lost themselves in each other—again.

Not for comfort. Not for escape.

But because the world outside the sheets could wait.

Blake could wait.

Until the first shadows of evening stretched across the floor, and the whispers of night began to stir.

It was a tomorrow problem.

Tonight… they had each other.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.