Lorelai sniffed. The fume of sweat, steel, and a bodily liquid she'd rather not name burned her nostrils. It was foul. Horrid. Enough to make her gag. Worse, metallic dust clung to every damp surface. It coated her lips, sliced her tongue, and jammed her throat. The cracked walls gleamed with an extravagant filler, while the sticky floors sparkled from spilt wine no one bothered to clean.
Lurching with the airship's drunken sways, she staggered down the opulent hall—heels clicking, blistered ankle begging for mercy.
Every step was a slog against the pilot's unsteady hand, her patience running thin.
Lore pressed her lips into a line. Smooth but flaking at the edges.
Give her a crystalline engine, a night to herself, and a not-so-stolen bottle of wine, and she'd rebuild the realm before any greasy demons even lifted a finger.
And anyone who dared get in her way.
She'd slit their throat.
Pull out bones. Sharpen them.
And make herself a new crown.
But instead, Lore balanced a tray of venom wine and charred imp tail for idiots too drunk to smell their own rot. Upper classes—so pure they'd looped back to incestuous sludge.
Her palm slickened.
Cogs in her skull wound tight.
This whole charade yanked her storming tail.
And it all depended on booze, snacks, and her ability to bow to whoever paid best.
One misstep, and the tray—her future—would hit the deck.
She'd spent the last hundred years, on and off, saving for a single strip of paper. A ticket out. A scholarship. A real advancement. A life where she could study instead of serve.
Not a dream. A plan.
A plain life, outside of politics.
Lore rubbed her temple, fingers brushing the hairline where her horns had cracked—the last time she fell. Steel denser than her skull. The taste of carpet, black and oily, still ghosted her tongue.
She wasn't a young princess anymore.
Not by a long shot.
She sighed as she reached the upper deck.
Made no effort to hide the exhaustion.
One last job. Then maybe—just maybe—she could rest.
Take her musky slippers, her dusty tomes, and a bottle of centuries-old rot to bed—a reward for surviving the night.
So she kept her gaze sharp, dodging the hollow-eyed stares that clung to her like bile. Groveling demons slimed the walls like moist mats. One she-wolf drooled on herself, whatever thoughts she'd had leaking in slow, syrupy strands.
Lore shivered. Her cheek still remembered Amara's slap—the last warning she'd ever get.
One more mistake, and she'd end up like them.
The nerve-burn.
Having your mind overwritten, synapse chains fried to a husk—reduced to a glorified silicone doll, a body, a sex toy without will?
She clutched her arm, breath sharp. Whimper barely audible.
"Anything but that."
Then suddenly, a noise ahead snapped her focus. Her tail twitched, instinct tightening—the twins. They stood like identical witches, smirking as if they'd owned the space. The windows frosted over behind them, welcoming her into their icy little nest. Lore grimaced. She usually went out of her way to avoid them.
But tonight, they were lying in wait—slippery, stupid, and born to be kicked.
"Didn't you say you were too good for this?" one twin purred.
"The great Lorelai, at beck and crawl," the other scoffed.
Lore resisted the urge to slap the snake. They flanked the brushed-metal hallway, Voltite torches casting a buzzing electrical glow over their Durg silk dresses. The fabric shimmered like living glass, their sleek silhouettes outlined in glitter.
The women, descendants of the Rokgar, had inherited all the best traits of their aquatic bloodline—minus the usual slime. Glistening metallic scales traced their pale skin like delicate armor, catching flashes of pink and emerald that matched their jewelry.
Lore's lip twitched as their grins latched onto her. Honestly, she wasn't sure if all sirens were utter bitches, but these two certainly made the case—elegant, entitled, and absolutely determined to rub it in her face.
As if summoned by bile, Cassian appeared, blocking her path with a grin sharp enough to bleed. She struck a pose somewhere between bouncer and stripper—arms crossed, one leg kicked back against the wall. Cass, her younger sister, made no secret of where Amara's favor fell. The outfits alone said it all—laced-up, stitched and stuffed with jewels.
"Fuck off, the both of you," Lore said.
"Lore…" Cass, the younger sister, nudged her twin. "We were joking. Weren't we?"
But Cassian didn't move—unhinged and bolted to the spot.
"Did Amara find your boring textbooks?" the lizard asked, smug.
Lore gritted her fangs and pushed forward, tail flicking with irritation. Just one more delivery. One more fucking job, and she'd be free of these snakes—and Amara.
"Just think of the paycheck," Lore whispered, "I can kill them later."
"Lore!" Cass shouted again. "Come on, can you listen to me? I'm sorry! I'll buy you more books, I promise!"
Lore didn't stop. She didn't slow down. But she did glance at her so-called bunkmate. Still not halting, and certainly not accepting Cass's bribes, she stepped forward—one shoe probing the panel before committing.
But her leash-mates had other ideas.
A sticky grip yanked her tail, and a yelp escaped her fangs. Her heel twisted in the mesh, momentum pitching her forward as the tray teetered.
She tried to steady her grip. One hand caught the base—too late.
The venom wine tilted. Teetered. Tipped.
Then shattered across the titanium floor. The imp tail landed with a wet thud.
Heat flooded her cheeks as the crimson drained away, her last chance dripping through the cracks. Amara wouldn't care about excuses. Failure wasn't allowed. One more slip, and she'd be brainless—her scholarship, her only chance to escape, gone. Everything, her last thread, her tiny scrap of hope in this unsavable world.
"Lore, I'm sorry, I—" Cass started.
A twitch hit Lore's eye. Her fingers trembled toward a boil. Her breath, molten.
"That's what you get!" Cassian snapped. "You're always causing—"
Before the wet bitch could finish, Lore spun on her heel.
"Let me skin her," Lore said. Calm, almost too calm.
Cass jumped forward, "Wait, don't, we can fix this."
Lore pushed the she snake to the side.
"Lore!" Cass shouted.
But words didn't matter anymore.
She sank her claws into Cassian's bodice. Felt the fabric give, nails brushing skin. One pull—and she'd bleed.
Cassian grinned, her scales flickering hues of pink and pale.
"Trying to seduce me? Won't work—even for a succubus like you."
Lore flinched at the slur.
"Cassian!" Cass snapped. "That's too much."
"What? It's true. Look at her. If she weren't so busy reading, she'd be whoring herself out—it's what she's built for."
Lore's fingers clenched, ready to close around that smug little throat.
"I hear the nerve-burn is rather painless. Good for you." Cassian laughed. "A proper fate for a slut like you."
Her cackle echoed off the walls. Her words too true to joke about. Cass's mouth opened. Then closed. She looked away. Silence. Another nail. Another reminder.
Lore's heart-tipped tail twisted. Her fangs quivered. It wasn't fair. It had never been.
She could take one whiff and know exactly what they were doing behind those doors—kinks, positions, finish times. And still, she was the one they shamed.
Just her. Was she not allowed to have desire? To seek even a shred of pleasure in this wretched life?
Sure, she was old, tired, worn.
But did that mean no one would ever want her?
Need her?
Love her?
Her tail sagged, drooping beneath her dress. But she already knew the answer.
Kneeling, Lore's trembling fingers scraped shards of glass into her palm. The carved sigil on the tray leaked what was left of the wine. Just clean it up. Just finish before—
"Lore, don't listen to her," Cass said, crouching beside her. Her hands hovered, unsure where to land. "I still believe you'll get out, you have so much saved up." Her eyes curved, soft and pleading. "We said we'd get out of this together, right?"
Lore pressed her lips into a line and turned to Cass.
Could she give Cass her stash? Every chip. Every counted token. What good were savings after a mind wipe?
Cass hesitated. The wobble in her lips was answer enough.
Could Cass runaway on her own?
Lore didn't want to know the answer.
Because it would mean she was already gone.
Before either of them could speak, the hallway split with a Voltite thunderclap.
The lights above her flickered. A charge buzzed through the floor grates—like the air knew something was coming.
"Again!"
Both women froze, wide-eyed. Cass's breath hitched as she scrambled back, dragging Cassian with her. Without another word, they slipped through the copper doors. The locks clicked shut behind them.
A chill climbed Lore's spine. But her ears—her mind—refused to believe it. There was only one thing those damp, slippery snakes were afraid of.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Amara's voice sliced through the air like butter. Her claws closed around Lore's neck—unnatural, wooden. The pressure coiled tight, a suffocating void that stole even light's breath.
Lore's body quaked before she could stop it. She stifled a whimper, the sting of disappointment binding her voice in her throat. She had felt this void before. Too many times.
Tucking her tail, Lore forced herself to look up. Her employer stood poised above her—a slender Mongal, half Verdantis, half Batrakin—balanced in all the worst ways. Strips of ash bark lined her body like armor, and her long, spiked horns gleamed—sharp enough to slice Lore open without effort.
Her outfit clung like a second skin, putting the twins' dresses to shame with its elegance and vicious daring. Every inch of her had been sculpted by the finest demon surgeons—flawless, ageless, the kind of beauty that could only be crafted in soggy plastic.
Amara slapped her. Hard.
"Aren't you meant to be a Valkar? A purebred succubus, no less. Do you have any idea how much I paid for you?"
The word stung, just like her cheek.
Amara growled—low, menacing—the sound like gravel rolling underfoot. Whatever she wanted, sulking wasn't it. Nothing Lore did was ever good enough—not even hurling herself into the void had spared her another beating.
Then, slowly, the growl ebbed… shifting into something worse. Like a predator catching scent, Amara's lips curled—inch by inch—into a bite. Her antlers lifted with the motion, mimicking her face like some living crown. Then came the fangs, gleaming sharp in a mockery of warmth.
No. This wasn't right.
Whatever this monster had in mind, Lore had to get out. Now.
Her heel twisted against the floor, the polymer groaning under pressure. Titanium against plastic—she already knew which would give first. All she had to do was—
"Don't be frightened, dear," Amara purred, voice silk-wrapped and laced with venom. "I won't hurt you. I would never."
Before Lore could flinch, a palm cupped her cheek. Deceptively gentle. Warm. Too warm. It disarmed her. Pulled her in—like a collar.
Gold eyes locked onto crimson—and Lore crumbled.
She knew it was a lie. A trick. A carefully crafted fabrication. And still, somehow… she couldn't pull away.
Amara's gaze drifted to the floor. To the mess—the crimson puddle oozing toward her pristine stilettos. The soles sinking into the wine-dark goo.
"Considering the mess," Amara said, her voice smooth as honey, "how would you like an opportunity? A job better suited to your… skills."
The words clicked like a drumbeat in Lore's skull. She locked up, her breath stuttering like a broken engine. It sounded simple. Innocent.
But she knew better.
If she said no… Her skin crawled. Bruises still ghosted her thighs. Fingers tangled in her hair. There, laugh—her screams.
And if she said yes? She looked into that grin—serpentine and dripping rot—and her legs tightened.
Nothing good.
Her gaze darted. She was so desperate that—if demons could pray—she would've done it. Anything to escape. Absolutely anything.
Her hair itched with phantom pain, memories flooding until—
"I know you must be tired of all this busywork," Amara cooed. "But I'm under special orders. To keep a Valkar entertained."
Lore perked. "A Valkar?"
Amara's grin widened. "Like you, he's one of the last of his kind." A pause. A twist of her lips. "And the rest? You don't need to know."
Lore frowned. Whatever Amara was hiding, it wasn't praise.
But another Valkar… Could she resist? Probably not.
Not all Valkars were alike—some had horns and tails like hers, others bore pointed ears, sharper fangs. But they shared two truths.
First—they were the first bipedal demons. The ones who built the first demon empire.
Second—what lubed her gears: Surge. An overclocked core. A next-step evolution. A primal tap that could push her past her limits. Beyond this hellhole. Maybe even beyond the reflective void skies above.
The thought ignited a flicker. Fragile, but burning.
She had to learn it. She had to earn it. This might be her only chance.
"Does he have a Title?" Lore asked.
A Title marked a demon as a legend. But for a Valkar? It was diamonds among grime.
She tried to tighten her tail to stop the wag, but the damn noodle sprang out behind her like an excited puppy—her dress fluttering with her.
Amara sighed, shaking her antlers with the kind of exasperation that only made Lore's anticipation worse.
A roar thundered through the hull as a passing ship rattled the deck. The lights flickered, buzzing in protest as the Voltite stabilizers struggled to steady the vessel's suspension field.
Amara waited—letting the moment stretch taut.
Seconds. Minutes. A long rasping breath.
Then, at last, she spoke. Deliberate. Ashen.
"Dragon Slayer."
The words hung in the air—heavier than the ship, heavier than iron.
Lore's breath hitched. Eyes widened.
A Title like that was reserved for the most formidable demons. But more than that—
She perked up, unable to hide her excitement. He had to be an Archdemon. A Demon Lord. A knight of Hell. A symbol of the founding demons' power.
A chance. A fucking hope.
And in that instant, it wasn't a question. She would meet him. No matter the cost.