The deep forest of Melios breathed with a living darkness, an ancient pulse beating between the twisted trees like the ribs of a dead giant. This was the domain of the most dangerous, shadowed, and powerful creatures on the continent; a place where even wolves hunted in silence, fearful of awakening what lurked within the gloom. No sane human would ever set foot there, much less at night, when the air was steeped in seductive whispers and the barefoot steps of succubi echoed through the undergrowth, seeking prey to sate their hunger.
But that night, Mishgal found no trace of a decent male.
She was a masterpiece of her kind: thighs sculpted to coil around hips with the strength of a constrictor, breasts firm and defiant, challenging gravity with each stride, and the face of a fallen goddess—lips like fresh wounds, sharp cheekbones, and a golden mane that flowed like a river of honey down her curves, brushing against hips that had shattered the will of hundreds. Her eyes, shifting between green and dazzling platinum-gray, usually shone like emeralds under the moon, but now seemed dull, stripped of their usual spark.
A guttural growl rumbled in her stomach.
"I'm starving!" she shouted at the forest, unashamed. Her voice, usually melodious as a knife wrapped in silk, came out rough, almost desperate.
Succubi had only two ways to feed: the warm, thick mana of human (or compatible humanoid) males, or the cold, putrid flesh of beasts. The first was a feast; the second, a punishment. For a succubus in her prime like Mishgal, the carnal act was not merely pleasure, but raw survival. She needed to feed properly at least twice a week, but the men brave—or stupid—enough to enter her domain had become rarer than sunlight beneath the forest canopy.
Many of her sisters had fled toward human villages, where drunken peasants and lonely mercenaries made for easy prey. But Mishgal was no weakling. This forest was her home: the place where her mother birthed her among twisted roots, where she taught her to master the Art of Od, to turn desire into a weapon and pleasure into a trap. Here she had grown, here she had reigned. She would not abandon it, even if it meant chewing rancid orc meat until the end of her days.
Though, damn it all, she was sick of it. Three weeks without a decent meal. Three weeks of flavors that made her wrinkle her nose and curse in ancient tongues. Even she, proud to her very core, was beginning to consider the humiliating trek toward the villages nearby.
"Maybe I should go…" she muttered, glancing at her perfect nails, now stained with mud and resin. "A week there and back…"
But then she remembered: the stench of piss, cheap liquor, and men who had no idea what hygiene meant.
A shiver of disgust crawled down her spine.
"Better dead than settling," she spat.
Her splendid wings of jet-black feathers beat with weakening effort. Despite her body's grace, exhaustion overtook her, and she collapsed onto the canopy of nearby trees, panting feebly.
"This may be my end, mother…" she whispered, clutching her belly that roared in agony.
Yet, in her delirium, her senses sharpened. Through the darkness, a delicious scent slipped toward her, stirring her appetite with sudden force. Her mouth watered instantly. That smell… it was so intoxicating it seemed to breathe life back into her. With one final effort, she took flight again, chasing the fragrant trail until she found what she hadn't even known she was searching for.
A man.
A young man, barely into his twenties, was leaning over a large iron pot where a strange stew simmered. Its appearance was questionable, yet its aroma so deeply alluring that for a moment the succubus couldn't decide what tempted her more: the boy himself, or the stew.
A sudden beat of wings tore through the air, snuffing out the pot's fire and startling the cook. He turned at once, surprised by the intrusion. At first glance, he seemed a common man by human standards: long, dark brown hair tied back in a simple black cord; brown eyes that caught the faint night glow; lightly bronzed skin. His clothing, messy but practical, was little more than a gray shirt and black trousers, covering arms and legs with functional modesty.
Then he looked up.
And saw her.
Suspended in the air, she unfurled her wings in a majestic display of splendor. Her sensual body was barely veiled by a feathered jacket that left her stomach exposed, while a second, smaller pair of wings draped her hips like an ethereal skirt. With a playful gesture, she tossed her golden hair, gleaming with moonlit sparkles that danced across her silhouette. Her great eyes, glowing with a supernatural light, locked onto him with predator's intensity, a hunter toying with her prey.
"What a beautiful angel…" the young man whispered, afraid his words might break the spell around him.
"Angel?" she replied with a sly smile, dripping with irony. "Sweet compliment, but you're far from the truth."
The man didn't move. He was trapped, ensnared by the almost unearthly beauty before him. His primal instincts blazed like molten iron as she descended slowly toward him. Though smaller in stature, her outspread wings cast an imposing shadow, like a starving eagle poised to rend its prey. The succubus's brazen smile blended with an elegant, provocative grace as her gloved hand—black as midnight, drinking in the moonlight—reached tenderly toward him.
Up close, he could see her better: her "clothes" were nothing more than two pairs of wings, delicately arranged to mimic fine feathered garments. The man swallowed hard. He knew exactly what stood before him. It was not the first time a creature of the night had come near him… and tonight, in truth, he had come for exactly this. That was why he had left behind his weapons, save for his beloved mithril dagger, resting just a few steps away. For an instant, he hesitated: should he retreat and seize his trusted blade?
He had confidence in his skills, but he also knew that a succubus rarely attacked head-on—unless hunger drove her to devour without restraint. Most preferred to drag their victims into a whirlpool of desire and madness.
But he had no intention of resisting.
That night, he wanted to die.
"Isn't that right, my fair lady?" he said with serene voice, bowing with elegant courtesy. "You are the angel I've been waiting for."
"Huh?" she murmured, puzzled.
The succubus, hovering just a few handspans above the ground, narrowed her eyes at him. The young man, without losing composure, kept smiling.
"Are you insane?"
"Perhaps," he replied, with disarming calm.
She approached slowly. The man showed no resistance. He straightened, ready to receive his personal executioner. Without a word, the creature rose for a moment and descended before him, gently brushing the young man's face with a tender caress. He shivered at her touch, but like a pup he pressed his cheek into the palm of the starving succubus.
A strange sensation coursed through her. She was used to sensing passion, lust, or sheer terror in men when she fed on them. But this young man radiated something else: gratitude, weariness, sorrow.
"Why does someone so young carry such desolation?" she wondered, just before pressing her lips to his, ready to claim his vitality.
But then, an unexpected sound shattered the moment.
A mere stomach growl.
The noise was so absurd that the man smiled tenderly, while the succubus startled and drew back in confusion.
"How can this be? Haven't I already seduced him?"
A single touch from her was enough to drive any mortal mad… but not him. And while she tried to understand it, the young man gently took her hand. The succubus sought to pull away, but when she met his eyes, she found only calm—no threat.
"You're hungry, aren't you? Don't worry. I won't run."
The creature felt even more unsettled. How could he resist her charms so easily? Why was he so willing? When he released her, she instinctively retreated. The young man, keeping his composure, walked toward the pot on the ground. He took two bowls, a pair of spoons, and a pair of dark spectacles, still intact despite the earlier flutter of wings. Without a word, he filled both bowls with the strange stew. Then, as though feeding a wary animal, he set one a few steps away from the succubus and sat down with his own.
He took a long sip and let out a guttural sound of satisfaction.
"Not to brag… but this is delicious."
Mishgal, still wary, watched him like an undecided feline. Was that fragrant stew a trap? The aroma was indescribable, almost hypnotic. Finally, like a stray kitten daring to trust the one who fed it, she touched down for the first time since her descent. Cautiously, she picked up the bowl, sitting in the air as though gravity itself dared not touch her.
The first spoonful was viscous, a gelatinous layer that dissolved across her tongue, releasing a floral flavor—sweet as fresh honey, refreshing as dawn's dew. She had never tasted anything like it. After the first bite, she couldn't stop until the bowl was empty, ending with a sigh of pleasure.
"This… this is delicious."
"Did you like it?" the young man asked, seated cross-legged, still holding his own bowl. "Honestly, I didn't have much faith in it. It's just black slime with some flowers and moss I found on the road… but it turned out amazing, didn't it?"
"Slime!? Did I just eat disgusting slime!?"
Her reaction was immediate: she dropped the bowl, which clattered hollow against the ground, while the young man burst into laughter.
"I didn't know creatures of the night could make faces like that."
"Don't talk to me, human."
"Want some more?" he offered, extending his own bowl.
Mishgal glared at him with disdain, horrified at the idea of eating more from one of the forest's filthiest creatures. But hunger—and above all, the unforgettable taste of the stew—won her over. She snatched the bowl roughly from his hands and devoured it, while he simply lowered his arms and watched her with a calm smile.
"You know, I come from a very distant village…"
"I don't care," she growled, her mouth still full.
"It was a tiny hamlet, barely a hundred people. We all knew each other. I just wanted to do something special for my little sister's big day…"
"I said I don't care," Mishgal shot back, but the man continued as if he hadn't heard.
"She was the most beautiful fifteen-year-old the village had seen in generations. And I was in charge of preparing all the food."
"At least it must've tasted good," she said, still chewing on a slimy mouthful.
"That's what I thought… I cooked trent root with golden moss. What a fool I was."
The succubus froze. She turned the empty bowl over in her hands.
"Golden moss? Mother once told me about it… It's rare, very rare. Properly prepared, it can grant immense longevity."
"Properly prepared…"
The young man's face darkened. Mishgal felt that heavy sorrow envelop him again, seeping even into her.
"You came all the way here for me? Or would anyone have sufficed?"
He nodded silently.
Without thinking, like a beast claiming her prey, the succubus pounced on him. With a beat of her wings, she knocked him to the ground, pinning him firmly. Slowly, she spread her upper wings, revealing her exquisite chest, while coquettishly, as if to tease him, she toyed with the feathers covering her rear, settling herself on his lap.
"Do you like what you see?" she whispered with malice.
"Yes…" he replied calmly. "I think it's a fine way to die. All my life I hunted dozens of beasts to survive. I want my death to give something back to this land I lo—"
"You're boring me." The succubus cut him off with disdain, covering his mouth with her hand.
With no pretense, she bent down and pressed her lips to his in a searing kiss. Her soft lips carried the sweetness of the stew they had shared, a taste so unique it could bend even the strongest. Guiding his wrist to her chest, she let him feel her. The young man hesitated at first, but soon relented, caressing her tenderly. Finally, she thought. He was falling under her power. It was time to feed.
But something strange happened.
As she plunged into his essence, the succubus's mind was flooded with images. She saw laments, grief, a suffocating regret that dragged him down. A path littered with agonizing bodies, the memory of a home where three figures lay: an old man, a woman stretched across his lap, and a young girl on the floor.
[Forgive me…]
"Could you stop wailing in my presence!" the succubus roared in his mind.
"How could you have known that what cost you so much would end like that?"
[Why did they all leave… except me?]
"You're pathetic," she said aloud, gazing down at him from above, naked and bathed in moonlight. Her eyes brimmed with tears she refused to shed, her lips trembling with a broken sob. And yet, his "will" remained firm between her thighs.
"My first proper meal in weeks, and this man ruins it with his misery…"
"Why didn't I leave with them?" he asked, this time with his own voice, not just in memory.
The succubus arched her back, displaying herself in majesty under the moon.
"Because you were strong. It was an accident. You don't have the heart to bear such genocide," she said. Though in the silence of her mind, she added: "And it would be a waste of food."
The boy, already captive to the words of the beautiful creature of the night—angel or demon, he could not tell—was not tormented by her. Deep down, he knew that for her he was nothing more than weak, easy prey. Yet for him, those eyes that did not judge his actions gave him strength instead of condemnation. That single fact made him cling to life with sudden force.
All at once, he embraced her with tenderness.
Mishgal flinched, unsettled by the unexpected gesture. She could feel his masculinity rising from the ashes, filling her insides. It startled her: her body was reacting—not just her prey. The warmth of the embrace, the subtle movements of his hips, and the gentle kiss on her collarbone sparked like fire against her wings. The touch of the boy melted the succubus, even more when his hands, both shameless and delicate, claimed her breast and her loins, caressing them with a softness she had never known.
"What… is this?"
Never, in all her years, had she felt anything like it. She had always commanded the pleasure of others, but never her own. Yet now, beneath the moon, with this strange man who should have been nothing but prey, she found herself exposed—vulnerable.
And when their bodies, entwined, reached a sudden climax, tremors coursed through them both. The succubus's wings closed, wrapping them in a dark mantle, sealing the moment in a nocturnal embrace.
"What… was that?" Mishgal gasped, incredulous, leaving half-eaten a stew that still steamed at the heart of the forest.