The veils of her domain rippled like a sea of silk.
Each breath made the draperies shiver, and every shiver answered her desire.
Evelyne didn't need to speak: her realm arranged itself to her thought.
Shapes wandered in the mist, molded by her hands.
Men with burning eyes, women with unreal curves, faceless bodies saturated with whispers.
They lived for her. They breathed for her.
Every smile she sketched became their ecstasy.
Every frown, their agony.
A snap of her fingers.
And already, the shadows bowed.
Some crawled, others entwined, all drunk on her presence.
She didn't need to demand: they guessed.
They knew they existed only to satisfy her slightest whim.
Evelyne watched the scene, draped in black veils.
A translucent throne rose beneath her, a pedestal born of mist.
Legs crossed, fingers idly grazing the armrest, she savored the moment.
Her smile did not tremble.
Why would it? Here, she was absolute.
A sigh slipped from her lips.
The silhouettes imitated her at once, dozens of voices in echo, like a servile choir.
She laughed softly, a crystalline laugh, and that laugh became a law.
The shadows began to dance.
Some twisted with passion.
Others shattered themselves on purpose, begging her hand to be remade.
Here, Evelyne was not an emissary.
She was a goddess.
The only one.
And no will but hers could trouble this sanctuary of whispers and silk.
Everything bent to her will.
Not a breath, not a shadow, not a spark could exist without her say-so.
Her realm was no backdrop: it was an extension of her flesh, her thought, her desire.
Every curtain undulated to her rhythm.
Every silhouette bowed at her approach.
Every murmur was born from her lips before it was spoken.
She was sovereign.
Her gaze was enough to mold matter.
Her breath to engender ecstasy or suffering.
There was no resistance, no doubt, no unforeseen.
Nothing but her, sole queen of a world where all things had one purpose: obey.
Evelyne reveled in it like a goddess on her altar.
Each instant confirmed her station.
Every cry of shadow, every murmured prayer, every offering of desire fed her pride.
She saw herself above every race, above every hierarchy.
An untouchable elite.
The right hand of the Succubus Queen.
An incarnation of lust and dominion.
Her smile stretched, slow, cruel, satisfied.
This realm was living proof of her superiority.
As long as it existed, she had nothing to fear.
Here, Evelyne had no rival.
Here, Evelyne was absolute.
The silk veils froze.
The whispers died.
A glacial shiver ripped the air.
Then... the black wave fell.
It wasn't a crack.
It wasn't a breeze.
It was a sentence.
A gash in the very flesh of her realm.
The mist-born columns exploded, reduced to dust.
The shadow-silhouettes screamed before dissolving, devoured by a force they had never dared to imagine.
Even the translucent throne beneath her legs shattered like glass.
Amid the carnage, a sigil flared.
Red.
Scarlet.
Every incandescent line throbbed like a vein of magma, carved in the Queen's name.
Evelyne no longer smiled.
Her laugh died in her throat.
Because she knew.
Only one entity could stamp such a mark: Lilith.
The summons.
The direct order.
A divine hand pressed to her nape.
Refuse?
Impossible.
Even to think of resisting was suicide.
The sigil twisted on itself.
Light burst, red and black.
A gaping portal opened, pulsing like a hungry maw.
It pulled everything in.
Her veils. Her illusions. Her shadow-slaves.
Nothing resisted.
Every fragment of her realm was swallowed, erased, annihilated.
Evelyne rose slowly.
Her fists trembled, but her carriage stayed proud.
Her face, impassive.
If she had to bend, it would be with dignity.
A red breath brushed her lips.
Her frosted eyes locked on the scarlet maw.
And without a word, she advanced.
One step.
Then another.
Her veils whipped the air, caught by the storm.
She crossed the threshold.
Compelled.
Broken in silence.
Behind her, her sanctuary collapsed in a roar of scarlet flame.
The portal closed behind her.
A glacial breath swept her skin, chasing even the scent of her domain.
The hall opened before her.
Cyclopean.
Endless.
Columns of obsidian rose like roots torn from the void.
Crimson draperies hung high, undulating like wings ready to close.
Every stone, every shadow throbbed with an intoxicating perfume—sweet, heady—yet laden with an indefinable threat.
Evelyne walked on.
Her step echoed, solitary, in the immensity.
Her heart pounded, but she raised her chin.
And then she saw her.
The throne.
Not a seat, but a mountain sculpted from living obsidian.
On its steps, shadows writhed like chained souls.
At the top, draped in scarlet veils, sat Lilith.
Her gleaming horns curved back like twin blades.
Her eyes, abyssal, swallowed all they crossed.
A gulf.
An eternity.
An abyss where another's will burned away before existing.
Evelyne knelt on instinct.
Not by choice.
By survival.
Silence weighed.
Then the voice fell.
— You will be the warden of the Second Floor.
Not an order.
Not a request.
A law.
A decree engraved in the flesh of the Tower.
Evelyne's breath hitched.
She understood at once.
This was no honor.
No ascension.
It was an assignment.
A task.
A chain.
She wanted to protest.
Her lips parted.
But Lilith's gaze slid over her.
And all courage went out.
Like a flame denied air.
Her shoulders barely trembled.
She lowered her eyes.
— Yes, My Queen.
A slow smile curved Lilith's lips.
Cruel.
Implacable.
The verdict was sealed.
Evelyne was bound.
The scarlet veil closed behind her.
A stone silence greeted her.
A bare world, cold, without splendor.
No silk, no whispers, no molded silhouettes.
Only gray walls, a smothering fog, and a hard floor that rang like a tomb.
Evelyne took a step.
And at once, she felt it.
Her charms went out, like flames drowned.
Her illusions blurred, fissuring at every pulse.
Her aura of dominion, usually crushing, dispersed into the air like useless ash.
She brought a hand to her throat.
Her veins thrummed with a dull pain.
Her essence was being drawn, filtered, amputated.
As if every fiber of her being had been scissored by an invisible hand.
A ragged breath escaped her lips.
Rage, not fear.
She, the Emissary of Lust, reduced to a lesser version of herself.
A shadow of her own name.
She clenched her teeth.
Was this the role Lilith had given her?
A mark of honor, to test the Conquerors of this tutorial?
Or a veiled punishment, a way to abase her, chain her to an unworthy part?
Evelyne raised her eyes to the fog pressing like a ceiling of stone.
Her smile returned, cold, keen, tinged with spite.
It didn't matter.
Honored or punished, she would find her own way to rule here.
Silence broke under a first scream.
A brief flare, strangled, swallowed at once by the mist.
The Conquerors were arriving.
One by one, they fell into the Floor, their gazes still full of ignorance and fear.
Each was caught, sucked into an invisible cage: an illusory dimension shaped by succubi.
Evelyne straightened on her throne of haze, her icy eyes fixed on the spectacle.
She didn't need to intervene.
The illusions closed on their own, wrapping these insects in invisible chains.
The lucky ones had their Magia siphoned, slowly emptied until they were hollow shells.
The others... lost far more.
Their veins withered, their flesh evaporated, and their vital essence dissolved drop by drop into shadow, like a useless offering.
A smile curved Evelyne's lips.
She could have been content to watch, to let the succubi work mechanically.
But no.
Her frustration still boiled.
Her humiliation demanded a victim.
So she involved herself.
Her fingers lifted, and the illusions darkened.
Chains tightened.
Whispers became howls.
What might have been a simple siphoning became torture.
She savored it.
Every torn breath.
Every spasm.
Every spark of vitality consumed beyond what was needed.
It was no longer a trial.
It was a vent.
An outlet.
A petty revenge on the invisible cage that bridled her.
Evelyne crossed her legs, her cruel smile lit by the mist.
Punished or honored—no matter.
Here, she would rule through suffering.
Then another came.
A new intruder.
But not like the rest.
The moment he crossed the veil of the Floor, Evelyne felt the difference.
A shiver ran through the air.
His essence vibrated like an overheated forge.
Dense.
Insolent.
Inexhaustible.
Her eyes widened.
Her smile widened.
Her mouth watered.
This wasn't an insect... but a flame.
A flame she longed to smother, to consume, to savor to the last ember.
With a languid gesture, she spread her fingers.
The succubi inclined their heads.
She indicated the other Conquerors, those still reeling in ordinary illusions.
— Take them.
Her gaze, however, never left the new prey.
— This one is mine.
A crystalline laugh slid from her lips, thrumming with hunger and desire.
This Conqueror would not leave this place.
Not intact.
Behind his screens, the Guide watched.
A slanted smile cut his pale face.
He shook his head slowly, amused, almost weary.
— Éla, éla...
His voice rolled into the void, an echo no one could contest.
— A girl too sure of herself. Always eager to play with flames she doesn't understand.
He clicked his tongue, mock-compassionate.
— If she picks the wrong person... this will end badly.
His laugh lost itself in the mist.
Evelyne raised her hand.
Her fingers traced a circle in the void.
The fog wound itself at once, twisted, molded, sculpted to her will.
A world was born.
A world shaped for a single being.
Veils fell from the sky like cascades of silk.
The ground became a sea of undulating mist, soft, welcoming.
Black marble columns rose, adorned with caressing silhouettes, with lascivious murmurs that hummed like promises.
A heady perfume filled the air, saturated with desires and mirages.
She smiled.
This was her most refined canvas.
Never had she spread such a perfect setting.
Every detail thrummed with manic care.
Every nuance was a trap, every breath an invisible hook.
And he, at the center.
Already captive.
Wrapped, smothered, swallowed by the web she was weaving around him.
Evelyne straightened, her veils undulating about her like black flames.
She advanced, hips sculpting the mist, her gaze piercing the veils of the illusion.
She convinced herself there was no way out.
That he was already caught.
That a smile, a word, a caress would be enough to break him.
Her lips parted.
Her voice slipped into the air, smooth, poisonous, irresistible.
— Here, there is only you... and me.
She curled into her role as temptress.
Convinced that nothing, ever, could resist her charm.
Not him.
Not this intruder.
Not this fire she would smother between her hands.
A shiver passed through the air.
Barely perceptible.
Like a low vibration, foreign.
Evelyne frowned.
Her perfect world quivered.
A column cracked, laced with light.
A veil tore, its threads scattered into the void.
Impossible.
She sped up, tightening her claws on the weave.
But already, a fissure was spreading, shattering her illusion like a pane of glass.
At the center, the intruder raised his head.
His pupils...
Golden.
Bright as two blades in fusion.
They pierced the web, ripped through her traps, slashed her invisible chains.
Evelyne stepped back.
A breath failed her.
Panic—dry, brutal—raced through her veins.
No.
She could not waver.
Not before an insect.
She growled, lips peeling into a cruel smile.
Rage took over again.
One gesture, one touch, and she would rip everything from him.
She advanced, placing an icy hand on his chest.
His essence pulsed beneath her fingers.
Insolently powerful.
She drew...
A howl tore through her palm.
A dry, implacable burn bit her veins.
She yanked her hand back with a strangled cry, eyes wide with disbelief.
He would not be siphoned.
He pushed her back.
He burned her.
Her illusions fractured in cascade.
Columns fell, veils flared, the ground shattered into fragments of mist.
Everything collapsed.
A cold breath swept her hair.
And then, he moved.
With an implacable motion, the intruder seized her.
Fingers hard as steel closed around her throat.
Evelyne choked, her nails raking his wrist, her legs kicking uselessly.
She met his eyes.
Golden.
Cold.
Ready to annihilate her.
In the unseen heights of the Tower, another gaze followed the scene.
Lilith, her throne draped in shadow, watched her Emissary's failure.
Her slender fingers tapped the armrest, each gesture saturated with impatience.
Evelyne's throat was already caught.
One moment more, and her Emissary of Lust would be nothing but forgotten dust.
Lilith's voice split the air, sharp, relentless.
— Guide. Intervene.
A screen lit, translucent.
Behind it, the Guide's pale silhouette leaned in, amused.
A smile slid across his lips, almost weary.
— No.
Lilith slowly turned her head, abyssal eyes boring into the image.
The Guide shrugged, careless.
— A being superior to me accompanies this Conqueror.
His voice rolled, calm, as if stating the obvious.
— I will not risk my skin.
Silence thrummed, heavy.
Lilith's gaze darkened, her nails scoring the obsidian of her throne.
Superior... to him?
Impossible.
Her breath grew heavier, thoughts colliding.
What did this riddle mean?
Who could stand behind this intruder, close enough that even the Guide would back down?
Her anger rose, but behind it, a spark of unease.
Lilith closed her eyes.
Her breath became a blade.
Her essence unfurled—dark ocean, vast, irresistible.
The aura of the Queen of Lust, the one that made heroes kneel, that crushed the purest wills.
She brought it down upon the intruder.
Without warning.
Without mercy.
A black-and-purple torrent, saturated with invisible chains, crashed over him.
But the expected effect did not come.
Instead of bowing, the air vibrated.
The aura fragmented, dispersed, sliding over a smooth, intangible surface.
Like rain on glass.
Like teeth into emptiness.
Lilith opened her eyes.
Her gaze blazed, incandescent with disbelief.
She tightened her grip, forced, intensified.
Every beat of her heart made her realm tremble.
Her essence roared, seeking a breach.
In vain.
The intruder remained motionless.
Indomitable.
Unseizable.
Lilith drew back slightly, her smile fading.
A hairline doubt—imperceptible—passed through her abyssal eyes.
She inhaled, fingers clutching the armrest.
No.
She would not yield to a mystery.
Not like this.
Her voice cracked, icy:
— Then... another way.
Her aura recoiled, like a wave pulling back before it strikes again.
She changed tactics.
Lilith's gaze combed the scene.
If she could not reach the intruder directly, she needed a weakness.
And she saw it.
Not far from him, a frail silhouette.
A child.
Her essence vibrated with a strange clarity—subtle yet present.
Close enough to serve as a relay.
A cold smile curved Lilith's lips.
— Through you, then.
Her aura folded, then sprang, targeted, honed like a blade, passing through the girl.
An invisible filament drawn toward the Conqueror.
On the Floor, Evelyne was suffocating.
The intruder's hand strangled her, implacable, golden eyes burning with an irrevocable sentence.
The motion came.
His arm rose.
A strike to annihilate her, to break her neck, to reduce the Emissary of Lust to nothing.
But then...
The girl moved.
With a gesture.
Simple.
Pure.
She stepped between them.
The world seemed to freeze.
The invisible blade, suspended, stopped a breath from Evelyne's throat.
A heavy silence fell, saturated with unreal tension.
Evelyne, eyes wide, felt air rush back into her lungs.
Her nails loosened, her legs kicked weakly.
A fraction of a second from death, she had been saved.
Lilith, on her throne, no longer smiled.
Her gaze hardened.
For even this detour, even this maneuver... had not been entirely hers.
Something in the child had slipped her control.
Evelyne dropped to the floor like a broken doll.
Her knees struck stone, her veils scattered around her.
Her fingers still trembled, clenched on her ravaged throat.
Each breath was a tear.
Each heartbeat, a humiliation.
She lowered her eyes.
She knew.
Her survival had nothing to do with her strength.
Nor with her illusions.
Nor with her charms.
She was alive only because an alien, unforeseen hand had reached out.
An outside miracle.
A pity that wasn't hers.
Above, Lilith remained motionless.
Her abyssal gaze lingered on the scene.
There was no anger left in her eyes, but a cold unease.
A doubt.
She had glimpsed something that escaped her—a truth buried in shadow.
And even she, the Queen, could not fully grasp it.
Behind his screens, the Guide watched in silence.
A thin smile barely split his face.
A smile laced with irony and certainty.
As if he knew more than all the rest.
As if the scene's conclusion were only one piece of a puzzle whose whole image only he could see.
Evelyne, meanwhile, remained on her knees.
Her eyes trembled, her breath stuttered.
She was no longer the triumphant Emissary who had ruled her realm of silk.
She was nothing but a broken shadow.
A humiliated pawn.
A survivor by pity.