Ren stumbled through the mirror gate, the confessor's shadows peeling from his skin like ink dissolving in light. The cold hush of the hall fell away, replaced by a heavy heat that sank into his bones the moment his bare feet touched the new world's ground.
He looked up — and froze.
He stood at the edge of an endless city — all dark marble and dripping velvet banners, towers that rose like twisted spires of bone and silk. Warm mist coiled through alleyways lined with crimson lanterns. Strange shapes flickered behind gauzy curtains: shadows of lovers tangled in endless surrender, whispers and laughter that tasted like honey and poison drifting on the scented air.
Above it all loomed a single tower — black stone and mirrors fused together, spiraling up into a sky cracked with veins of shifting silver light. At its crown burned a pale flame — steady, watching.
Ren pressed a hand to his chest. The second thorn pulsed inside the cradle's mark — faint heat threading through his veins, humming low like a voice he couldn't quite hear.
Behind him, the gate sealed shut. No marble garden, no forest, no attic mirror to run back to — only the City of Velvet Hunger ahead.
---
A figure waited for him at the gate's edge.
She lounged against a pillar wrapped in blood-red silk — tall, draped in a gown that clung like wet shadow, horns curling back through hair the color of spilled ink. Her eyes glowed with lazy mischief — a shade of wine and dusk.
When she saw him, she smiled — slow, sharp, hungry.
"Well, look at you," she purred, pushing off the pillar with a languid stretch. "Two thorns in your heart, yet your knees haven't given out yet. Impressive."
Ren's mouth worked, but his voice cracked. "Who… are you?"
She drifted closer — her scent hit him first: warm musk, faint spice, something sweet enough to make his tongue stick to his teeth. She circled him once, fingers trailing up his arm, over the mark that glowed beneath torn fabric.
"You can call me Serika," she said. "Mistress of Velvet Hunger. Keeper of the city's third bloom."
She leaned in, lips brushing his ear — a whisper that tasted like a promise and a threat.
"And tonight, sweet mirror walker, you're my guest of honor."
---
Serika snapped her fingers. The mists stirred. Figures stepped from the shadows — women and men, horns and tails, eyes burning soft and wicked. Succubi and incubi draped in silk and chains, each wearing a mask of pale porcelain cracked with veins of gold.
They circled Ren like a slow tide — fingertips tracing air near his skin, breath warm as they laughed and whispered to each other about the boy who'd brought the cradle's brand into their maze.
Serika pressed a finger to his lips, silencing his breath. Her grin glowed in the velvet dark.
"The third thorn lies at the city's heart — the Thorn of Want Unbound. But you don't just take it. Here, we feed you — until you're too full to lie to yourself again."
Her claws traced down his chest, catching the faint glow of the runes under his skin.
"You will break here, mirror walker. And when you do… maybe you'll finally see what you truly are."
She snapped her fingers again. Chains of soft silk fell from above, slipping around Ren's wrists like living vines — warm, scented, impossible to fight. The succubi drifted closer, lips brushing his neck, his collarbone, his trembling throat.
Serika stepped back — her smile sharp enough to draw blood without a blade.
"Let's begin, little thorn."
Silk chains coiled around Ren's wrists, warm and soft, yet stronger than iron. Each step dragged him deeper into the city's heart — down winding marble stairs slick with velvet drapes, past lanterns that pulsed like living hearts.
Serika led the way — her horns crowned in gold rings, her tail flicking like a lazy cat's. She glanced over her shoulder at him now and then, eyes gleaming in the dusk-light that poured through broken archways above.
Behind him, the other succubi and incubi followed — whispering in low voices, laughter that tasted like warm honey brushing the back of his neck.
At last, they emerged into a vast hall — domed ceiling lined with mirrors that dripped soft crimson light. Cushions and silken beds lay scattered like offerings at an altar. Incense curled in lazy spirals, heavy with spice and something faintly sweet enough to make Ren's head swim.
Serika turned — her smile flashed sharp as a thorn. She snapped her fingers. The silk chains pulled him forward, lowering him onto a low bed of velvet and furs. He sank into the warmth, breath trembling as the masked figures drifted closer.
She leaned over him, claws tracing the cradle's brand that pulsed beneath his chest.
"The Feast of Masks," she purred. "Here, every lie wears a face… until it melts under the heat of truth."
She raised a hand — the succubi closed in. Hands brushed his skin, gloved and bare, warm lips ghosting over his collarbones, his throat, the edge of his jaw. They whispered little nothings, soft confessions he could barely hear above the rush of his pulse.
---
One masked beauty straddled his hips — her mask cracked with veins of gold, her hair like midnight silk. She lowered her face to his ear, voice a breathless moan.
"Tell me, mirror boy… when you touched yourself alone, what face did you imagine between your thighs?"
Her hips rolled against his, pulling a gasp from his lips. Fingers slid through his hair, guiding his mouth to the curve of her throat — tasting her skin, warm and spiced, as if she were made to be devoured.
Before he could answer, another slipped behind him — lips pressed to his shoulder, tongue tracing the line of his spine.
"Did you dream of one mouth… or many?" they teased, breath hot. "Did you wish they'd never stop until you couldn't even beg them to?"
---
Serika's claws scratched down his chest — just enough to make him arch. She watched, eyes burning, as the masked lovers worshiped every trembling inch of his skin.
"You want to wear the cradle's third thorn?" she murmured, voice dripping hunger. "Then prove you are more than a boy with pretty dreams."
The masks bent lower — warm mouths and velvet hands pulling broken sounds from his throat, every breath carrying away the last defenses he clung to. Pleasure blurred his vision — reflections flickered above him in the mirrored dome: Ren pinned beneath a hundred shapes, moaning confessions he'd never dared speak.
Serika straddled him now, hips pressing him deeper into the velvet nest. She ripped the mask from one succubus — revealing a face like living desire: eyes molten gold, lips slick with sweetness.
She kissed him — hard, devouring, tasting his moan as if she'd drink it to the roots.
"Give it all," she breathed against his tongue. "Or the thorn will bury itself in someone else."
---
He tried to hold back — but the masks, the mouths, the heat pressing him down, ripped his resistance away piece by trembling piece. Every moan fed the city's hunger — the marble seemed to pulse beneath him, alive, drinking each broken gasp.
When he shattered — back arching, voice raw in the candle-drenched dark — Serika pressed her forehead to his, nails digging into the cradle's mark.
---
"Good boy," she whispered. "The feast is not finished. But your truth… tastes ripe."
She leaned down, lips brushing his ear — a final promise edged with threat.
"The third thorn is close, Ren Amakawa. All that's left is for you to beg for it."
Ren's breath rattled in his chest — shallow, sharp, his throat raw from moans he hadn't known he could make. Silk chains pinned his wrists above his head; the masks lay scattered around him like broken lies, gold-veined porcelain shards glittering in the candle haze.
The succubi lounged around him now, watching — some still tasting him with lazy fingers, tracing sweat down his ribs, the curve of his throat. Their laughter drifted through the haze, soft and cruel, honeyed with victory.
At the foot of the velvet bed, Serika stood — Mistress of Velvet Hunger, her horned silhouette haloed by crimson lanterns. In her gloved hand, she held the final thorn.
It looked small — delicate — yet it pulsed like a living heart, silver runes curling around its tip. It hummed in the hush, a promise and a threat in one.
Serika tilted her head, her smile lazy, predatory.
"You've been fed," she purred. "You've been emptied, and filled, and emptied again — until you don't know where you end and the mirror begins."
She stepped closer, crawling onto the bed, straddling his hips. The silk of her gown slid over his feverish skin like water too warm to bear.
Her claw traced the cradle's mark on his chest — now webbed with faint silver scars from the first two thorns.
"You want this?" she murmured, holding the third thorn just above his heart.
Ren's lips parted — but the word caught behind his teeth, tangled in the last shreds of shame still coiled in his chest.
Serika's laugh ghosted over his cheek — soft, cruel. She leaned closer, her breath sweet as poison.
"Beg for it."
The command slipped under his ribs like a blade. The succubi pressed closer — soft lips at his throat, his ear, murmuring his own moans back to him like echoes from another self.
"Beg, little mirror walker," Serika whispered. Her hips rolled against him, slow and sinuous. "Beg to be devoured. Beg for the thorn to root in your heart. Prove you're nothing but hunger now."
---
Ren's pulse thundered in his ears. He tried to swallow — the word refused to come. His wrists strained in the silk, his hips trembled under Serika's weight, heat rising, shame burning away under the hands and mouths that coaxed him closer to the edge again.
He thought of his attic — the lonely boy staring at cracked glass, wishing to vanish inside it. He thought of Veluria's garden. Nereza's mask. The mirrors whispering his truths back to him.
And then he let the last lie fall.
---
"Please…"
The word slipped out, hoarse, raw. He shuddered — the silk chains tightened as if rewarding him.
Serika's grin widened — her claws raked his chest, not drawing blood, just heat.
"Louder."
Ren's eyes fluttered shut — a ragged breath. Another word broke loose, half-choked, half-moan.
"Please… please — give it to me."
The shadows around the bed stirred. The succubi pressed closer — their laughter melted into soft, hungry hums. Pleasure flickered along his skin where their mouths traced him open again.
Serika leaned down — lips brushing his ear like a brand.
"One more time," she hissed. "Say you want it — the ruin, the hunger, the mirror's voice."
Ren's back arched, the last coil of fear unraveling in his chest.
"I want it…" His voice cracked — desperate, raw. "I want it — I want to be ruined. I want to belong to the mirror. Please."
---
Serika's purr curled through him like silk and smoke.
"Good boy."
She pressed the thorn to his chest — its tip biting into the cradle's mark. Silver light poured through his veins, searing every nerve raw. He felt it burrow deeper than the first two — roots splitting apart the last pieces of what he was.
The mirrors in the dome blazed — reflections of Ren, bound, begging, breaking — all fusing into one shape: the mirror walker who had no secrets left.
Serika's kiss sealed it — her mouth on his throat, her tongue tasting the final moan as the thorn vanished into him.
---
When the light dimmed, the silk chains fell away.
Ren lay trembling in the velvet nest — marked, filled, claimed. Around him, the succubi watched with soft, cruel smiles — but Serika's grin burned brightest.
She brushed hair from his sweat-damp forehead, her voice velvet and iron.
"You have bloomed three thorns, Ren Amakawa," she whispered. "The Mirror World knows you now. And you… belong to its roots."
She pressed one last kiss to his lips — deep, devouring — before pulling back.
"Next, little mirror walker — you speak with its voice. And then? You make it yours… or it devours you whole."