I’ll watch over her as she recovers.

You kneeled next to her. Her bottom lip was split open, seemingly from a heavy blow, while a thin red line through her left eyebrow hinted at the swing of a blade; strands of sweaty nut-brown hair clung to her flushed skin. Her pale blue eyes seemed to be cracking like an icy lake at the coming of spring. But she held your gaze.

You reached inside your travelbag, pulling out your alchemy kit. In it was a salve you’d prepared a week ago. You dipped two fingers in the grassy paste and held them up to her:

“This’ll ease the pain and help with the bruising,” you explained.

She stared at you, still unable to speak, but her head twitched in an almost imperceptible nod. You applied the salve, and a moment later, she exhaled softly as its soothing magic took effect. After stowing your kit, you unhooked a gourd from your shoulder strap and poured water over your hand. With damp fingers, you wiped away the excess salve already hardening into a brittle crust. Carefully, you cleaned the blood from her brow and the delicate skin around her eye. Having done all you could with what you had,

While waiting for her body to shake off the imp’s venom, you counted seven golden armours splayed around you, splattered in a crimson that grimly matched their cloaks. Your aura couldn’t feel theirs, which meant the spark of magic that ignited any and all living beings had left their bodies.

A ragged breath from the soldier beside you pulled your attention back. Her skin was still flushed, her forehead still hot. Was this an effect of the imp’s stinger? Or simply shock from the battle (or what had followed…)?

You lifted the gourd.

“Water?”

To show her it was safe, you took a swig, then offered again. She nodded feebly. You rested the gourd on her lip, and she tilted her head slightly. Water dribbled down her chin, but swallowing motions in her throat indicated she was drinking.

Good, you thought.

She was regaining mobility. She sucked in a big breath; her shoulders shivered, her fingers stretched. Soon, her booted heels pushed at the dirt; she sat straighter against the tree trunk, wiped water and saliva off her chin, and took another big, laboured breath.

“Th-thank you,” she managed, her mouth still lethargic.

“Are you okay?”

“I… I will be. Thanks to you.”

You shrugged.

“Don’t mention it.”

“No,” she insisted, “I… I mean it. Thank you. I owe you my life.”

A small smile touched your lips. You'd spent so much of your life fearing the Royal Guard… You hadn't expected such genuine gratitude from one of them.

“Anyone would have done the same,” you said.

“No, they wouldn’t.”

The coldness of her tone stopped you short. Her eyes grazed over her fallen comrades as if seeing something you couldn't. The previous battle, perhaps.

“There were two more of us. Darwyll and Conston. They fled the battle. Left us to die. Left me to be… taken… by these… monsters… Mm-hrm…”

She shook her head at the memory and shut her eyes tight as if trying to shut away her thoughts. Anger, pain and… something else churned on her face. She pushed her skirt flat against her thighs, and as she did, one of her hands lingered over her crotch.

“Can I… can I have more water?”

You handed her the gourd, and she took a long gulp. To give her time to compose herself, you peered at the battleground again. One man’s arm had been cleaved off. Big gashes marked most of the bodies.

“Three imps didn't do this...”

You had spoken to yourself, but she took the comment as a question. Handing the gourd back to you, she gave you a soldier’s report:

“The imps were the lesser of our adversaries. The party we faced comprised a dozen armoured goblins, led by a vicious demon woman…”

You frowned. You’d fought imps before and seen goblins, but never…

“A demon woman? What did she look like?”

The soldier opened her mouth to answer, but her breath caught as she met your eyes. A flush came over her cheeks. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Take your time,” you said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

She swallowed and let out a long exhale. Then, she went on with her report:

“Purple skin… Horns. Wings. Claw-like nails. A tail. With a stinger, just like the imps… Mhmm...”

A succubus, you guessed.

Her description matched what you’d read and the few images you’d seen in your studies. But succubi were scarcely seen in their true form. And why would this one be scouring the woods with a band of goblins? This didn’t fit their usual behaviour.

“She stung me,” the soldier added.

She turned her leg to show you a thin scar, one you hadn’t noticed, on the back of her thigh.

Oh…

While an imp’s stinger could incapacitate its victims, a succubus stinger was a whole other ordeal. As you understood it, succubi were cousins to vampires—though instead of sucking blood, they fed through sex. Equally dreadful, both types of lower demons lorded over their own host of fiends, fed on their victim’s life **** and held the potential to ascend to full demonhood. And, like their vampire cousins, succubi could corrupt mortals to create more of their kind…

“I’m not feeling… myself…,” said the soldier, and as she looked at you, her discomfort turned into lust before your very eyes.