Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

The edges of Elowen's silver-green hair caught the fading light, glowing faintly as the last threads of sun slid through the high windows.

Across from her, Lilith's crimson eyes reflected that same light, though in them it looked more like fire.

The tea on the table had long since cooled, the candles burned low, yet the air inside the warded room remained steady, as if even the walls of the Nocturne mansion knew what they were meant to guard.

Outside, the world shifted restlessly—pawns moving, shadows whispering, debts older than memory stirring again—but within these walls, there was no storm, no gods pressing their weight down, only the kind of silence that women like them had learned to create and defend.

Evening fell slowly across the estate. The gardens darkened into velvet shadows, and the warding torches in the courtyard sprang to life one by one, their flames steady despite the faint wind threading through the stone corridors.

Runes curled faintly across the walls, glowing soft as embers, anchoring the fire so it would not bend or die.

The courtyard itself carried that rare stillness that belonged only to twilight, the brief hour when day had not fully gone and night had not fully claimed its place, when the ground still held warmth from the sun but the sky already hinted at stars.

A wide table stood at the courtyard's heart. The surface was scattered with scrolls, parchment stained with faint ink, and cups half-drained of their tea and wine—remnants of earlier talks.

The marks of strategy lingered in the air, but neither woman reached for them now. Lilith sat with her posture as sharp as ever, one leg crossed elegantly, her long nails tracing the rim of her cup before falling still.

Elowen reclined with practiced ease, her frame relaxed but her gaze steady, silver-green eyes holding the torchlight as though they had captured pieces of the flames.

The silence between them stretched on. It wasn't brittle or awkward. It wasn't the silence of strangers, but the silence of two who had shared too many battles and too many long nights to feel the need to fill space with needless words.

The silence itself was a kind of conversation. Still, it was Elowen who broke it first, her voice low but strong enough to cut through the quiet like the first note of a song.

"The storm outside grows faster than the children realize," she said.

Lilith's crimson eyes narrowed, though her reply came smooth, cool, her tone like velvet stretched over steel.

"Storms always come," she said. "The only question is whether we allow them to touch this house."

Her words weren't loud, but they carried a sharpness that made them sting. The calm of the courtyard softened them to anyone else's ears, but both women knew the edge hidden beneath.

Elowen's lips curved slightly, though her eyes didn't waver. "Talk is soft armor," she said.

"We've planned, and we've planned again. But I find myself restless. The cults, the awakening god, the endless schemes of the Association—they circle and circle.

I don't want to only plan. I want to feel the weight of steel again."

Lilith's smirk curved faintly, sharp as a knife but touched with something almost playful. "And you think your rivers and vines can reach me?" she asked.

The words were said lightly, but not entirely.

Elowen tilted her head.

The torchlight glimmered against the faint strands of silver in her hair as she answered, her tone calm, stripped of boast or challenge, carrying only the certainty of someone who had lived too long to need either. "Not reach you," she said. "Test you. It's been too long since we last crossed paths."

Lilith leaned back in her chair, her smirk widening, her crimson eyes glowing faintly in the flicker of firelight.

"Centuries ago," she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of memory, "before he was even born.

Your forests flooded the battlefield, your rivers dragged soldiers away, while my illusions bent every shadow until you couldn't tell what was real. Do you remember how it ended?"

Elowen's lips curved faintly, calm as ever but carrying just a hint of mischief. "A stalemate," she said softly. "But I remember your illusions breaking first."

Lilith laughed at that. The sound wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to cut the quiet. "Only because your vines were choking on smoke and you were too stubborn to admit it," she said.

The torches flickered as if caught by their laughter. The sound cracked the silence without breaking it, leaving something lighter behind.

Elowen's voice softened, though her words carried the same steady weight. "We both remember," she said.

"And yet the world forgets. Perhaps we should remind them before the storm does."

Lilith leaned forward slightly now, her crimson gaze narrowing, her smirk curling sharply at the edges. "Fine," she said. "But don't cry when the world bends and you forget what's real."

The air shifted at her words. It was subtle, but real—the courtyard seemed to lean in, the torches burning steadier, the wards humming louder, as though the estate itself had heard the challenge and waited for what might come.

Elowen didn't flinch. She carefully placed her cup down, the porcelain clicking against the table.

Her hand brushed against her sleeve, and when she drew it back, something small and faintly glowing was resting between her fingers.

A token. Simple in shape, no larger than a coin, but its glow pulsed with restrained power, humming faintly as though another world pressed against its surface.

She didn't activate it, not yet. She only let it sit there in her hand, the glow spilling across the table, catching in both of their eyes.

Lilith's smirk deepened. Her crimson gaze stayed locked on the token, her fingers curling once against the wood of the table as though they might carve grooves into it.

The wards around them pulsed faintly, steady but tense, like a heartbeat waiting to quicken.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy, but it was sharp, stretched tight like a drawn bowstring.

The courtyard of the Nocturne mansion held its breath. Two women sat across from each other—two mothers, two guardians, two forces who had carried centuries of power and loss alike—while outside the walls of their estate, the world spiraled closer to war.