The hunger was a physical thing now, a clawing emptiness that frayed the edges of her vision and filled her ears with the sound of her own thrumming blood. Veridia stumbled through the blighted woods, each step a testament to her failure. The air was a familiar poison, thick and cloying with the smell of wet rot and the promise of a rain that would never quite fall. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the dry scuttling of unseen things in the dead leaves. The Curse of the Sieve was winning. She was a leaking vessel, and the dregs of her power were swirling down the drain, leaving her thoughts a fractured mess of primal need and acidic self-loathing.
She found him leaning against a dead, skeletal tree, a perfect portrait of languid indifference. An Incubus. He wasn't some tusked beast or slavering monster. He was handsome in a disheveled, bored sort of way, his dark hair falling into eyes that held a spark of ancient competence. He radiated a quiet, contained power that made the entire situation feel less like a primal conquest and more like a degrading business transaction.
There was no flirtation, no seduction. He took one look at her—at the faint tremor in her hands, the dullness in her eyes, the desperate way she carried herself—and understood everything. A flicker of something that might have been professional pity crossed his features, an expression more insulting than any lustful leer. He recognized her kind. He recognized her desperation. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. The deal was struck without a single word, a silent agreement between predators that left her feeling like nothing more than a beggar presenting a coin.
Just as she resigned herself to the joyless necessity of the act, a familiar shimmer distorted the air nearby. Seraphine faded into view, an ethereal, glowing monument to her sister's suffering. She didn't speak. She didn't mock. She simply crossed her arms, her expression one of detached, clinical curiosity, and leaned against a tree of her own. She was a scholar observing a particularly distasteful insect, and her silence was a thousand times more damning than any taunt could ever be. The simmering self-hatred in Veridia's gut ignited into a focused, incandescent rage.
***
The act began without ceremony. He pushed her against the rough, splintery bark of the dead tree, his hands efficient on her ragged clothes, tearing them aside. Veridia's mind was a maelstrom of shame, but her body, starved and desperate, betrayed her with a slick, shameless readiness. The Incubus was competent, his movements practiced and devoid of passion. It was a mechanical, hateful coupling.
Every sensation was filtered through the lens of her sister's silent judgment. His fingers parted her slick folds, probing her readiness with a detached expertise that made her skin crawl. The musky, sweet scent of her own arousal felt like a confession of her weakness, a smell she was certain Seraphine was cataloging with contempt. His cock, thick and hard, pressed against her weeping entrance. There was no kiss, no prelude. He simply drove into her with a single, deep, business-like thrust.
Veridia gasped, her back arching as he filled her completely. The raw, physical friction was a shock to her system, a desperate relief her pride refused to acknowledge. He began to move, a steady, grinding rhythm that was purely functional. The wet slap of their skin echoed in the dead quiet of the woods, each sound a new verse in the litany of her humiliation. Her eyes refused to close. They were locked on the shimmering form of her sister.
Seraphine began to circle them, her steps slow and deliberate as a predator inspecting its kill. Her gaze was analytical, taking in every detail. She tilted her head, a flicker of what looked like boredom crossing her perfect face as she watched the Incubus's hips piston against Veridia's. The sight of it—the raw, animal act of being fucked against a tree—was being dissected by the one person whose opinion was a razor blade to her soul. The approval of the Patrons, the very reason she had learned to perform, felt distant and meaningless. Seraphine's silent rebuke was the only audience that mattered. Veridia's internal monologue fractured, a mess of pure, focused hatred for the glowing figure who watched her every sordid convulsion.
The pressure built, a purely physical thing. The Incubus grunted, his pace quickening. Veridia's head fell back against the tree, her gaze still fixed on her sister. She could see it all from this angle: the sheen of sweat on his back, the clenching of his ass with each thrust, the way he held her hips pinned, denying her any agency. It was a tableau of pure, pathetic degradation, and Seraphine was drinking in every detail.
At the peak of it, as her own body threatened a release she did not want, her eyes met her sister's. She saw the faint curl of disgust on Seraphine's lips, a look of ultimate victory.
And then, the world shattered.
The Incubus, his face over her shoulder, broke his bored facade. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips. He looked past Veridia, his eyes making direct, unmistakable contact with Seraphine's intangible form.
And he winked.
***
The encounter finished a moment later, a final, shuddering release that felt like an afterthought. Veridia was frozen, her mind reeling, the physical sensations fading into the background noise of a new, profound horror. The wink. He could see her. He could see Seraphine. He had been watching them both the entire time.
The Incubus pulled out of her and stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a casual air that was utterly devastating. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "You two have a weird thing going on," he said, his voice laced with an amusement that cut deeper than any insult. "Entertaining, though. Keep it up." He gave them both a final, dismissive nod and sauntered off into the woods, leaving a silence that was heavier and more terrifying than ever before.
Veridia stared at her sister. For the first time since the exile began, Seraphine's smug, untouchable composure was gone. In its place was a look of pure, undisguised shock, mingled with a flash of fury at having been seen, at having her role as the invisible tormentor so casually exposed.
The foundation of Veridia's private hell had just cracked. The one constant in her exile, the one intimate humiliation she endured with only her sister as a witness, was not private at all. He had seen her. He had been a spectator to the spectacle. The dawning horror was a cold, spreading stain. If this stranger could see her, who else could? How many of her most degrading moments had been witnessed not just by her sister, but by others? The game she thought she was playing had been a lie. There were more spectators than she knew, and she had never even seen them.