The Tower's throat shivered around him as Ren stepped through its black marble gates. The spiral stairs bled into a wide stone bridge, suspended above the City of Velvet Hunger like a knife resting on trembling skin.
Below, the city simmered — rivers of mist glowed with soft crimson light, shadows flickering behind silk curtains, laughter drifting through streets that never slept. Lanterns pulsed like open mouths — hungry to taste him, taste his word, taste the promise that came with the brand blazing under his ribs.
Serika trailed behind him, silent, bare feet whispering against cold stone. She no longer looked like a mistress — she looked like a hound on a silken leash, her horned head bowed, her lips curled into a grin that promised she'd test him the moment his grip faltered.
Ren's heartbeat thrummed inside the cradle's roots. Each step felt heavier — the echo of his bare feet on the bridge swallowed by the city's sighs below.
---
At the bridge's end, a gate of polished glass waited — no lock, no guards, just two massive panes reflecting Ren's shape back a thousand ways: the attic boy, the garden's confessor, the chained supplicant, the moaning feast, the Tower's crowned heir.
One voice now, the cradle whispered inside him. Speak. Open.
Ren lifted a hand. Silver runes pulsed from the cradle's mark, coiling down his arm like silk spun from living want.
"Open," he commanded — the word laced with the weight that now coiled behind his tongue.
The gate's mirrored surface cracked. Threads of glass split, weaving runes into its skin until it shivered open with a soft, hungry sigh.
Beyond it, Velvet Hunger bowed.
---
The street before him writhed with figures — succubi, incubi, masked priestesses, mirror-born shadows crawling from silk-curtained doorways. They sank to their knees on marble slick with mist and spilled wine. Eyes glowed in the dusk-light — some wide with worship, some narrowed with a promise of rebellion buried in hungry smiles.
They chanted his name — soft, layered, the sound folding into the mists like a secret vow.
"Mirror Walker…"
"Thorn-bloomed…"
"Heir…"
---
Ren stepped onto the marble. The city's heat rose to meet him — scented with sweat, incense, and the copper tang of secrets bled dry.
Serika drifted to his side — her voice barely a purr against his ear.
"Pretty, isn't it? Your first kingdom. Velvet Hunger bows… but it never stays tame."
Her claws skimmed his ribs — tracing the cradle's brand. "Some roots crave new thorns. Some wish to test how deep yours will bury."
She slipped back, eyes gleaming. "Tonight, they'll come — lovers, traitors, dreamers. They'll beg, kneel… and bite."
She bowed low — mocking, reverent, both.
"So, my king — what shape shall your first night take? A feast? A hunt? Or a throne carved from whoever dares to say no?"
---
Ren felt the cradle's voice crawl up his throat, hot and sweet.
This city was his reflection now — and every reflection could be broken, rebuilt, devoured.
He lifted his chin — the shadows leaned closer, waiting.
He opened his mouth.
"Tonight…"
Ren's voice slid through the hush — low, raw silk threading through the hungry moans of the city.
"Tonight…"
"…we feast."
The word cracked open Velvet Hunger like a ripe fruit.
Lanterns flared crimson. Silk curtains tore aside, revealing shadowed courtyards drenched in lanternlight and mist. Succubi and incubi spilled into the marble streets — mouths red, eyes bright, horns crowned in silver rings that glowed faintly with runes bound to the Tower's root.
The city's heart pulsed — a living labyrinth, each twist and stair a den of tongues, teeth, velvet heat. And at its center: a dais of black marble, a makeshift throne draped in silken furs and breathing shadows.
Serika pressed close to Ren's side — her claws slipping into his hair as if to remind him she still could, if he let her.
"A king's first feast," she purred, lips grazing his ear. "How will you savor it? Will you break them sweetly — or taste who dares draw blood?"
---
Figures drifted closer — drawn by the weight of his word. Some crawled on hands and knees across the marble, masks slipping down flushed skin. Some rose tall, proud, eyes burning defiance that only begged to be chained.
A girl with skin like polished obsidian pressed her lips to Ren's bare foot — her voice a hush of warm, trembling worship.
"Mirror Walker… feed us…"
A masked man — silver horns curling back like a crown of thorns — did not kneel. He stepped forward instead, eyes locked to Ren's, his mouth curled in a slow, mocking smile.
He didn't speak — just dragged a claw across his own chest, drawing a thin line of silvered blood that steamed in the mist.
Serika's claws flexed on Ren's shoulder. Her grin flickered like a blade.
"See him?" she whispered. "Velvet Hunger's fang. A thorn that's never bowed — always testing, always biting."
She leaned in — her tongue brushed Ren's throat.
"Break him, and the city melts in your mouth. Fail — and the roots will drink you instead."
---
The crowd parted. The fang stepped closer — the runes on his horns glowed cold, hungry.
"Mirror Walker," he drawled, voice deep as velvet dragged across a blade. "You crowned yourself on your knees in the Tower's throat. But down here…" He spread his arms, silver blood dripping from his claw. "…kings bleed like everyone else."
He licked the blood from his finger — slow, taunting. His eyes flicked to Serika. Then back to Ren.
"Command me, little heir. Or let me taste how shallow your root really runs."
---
The cradle's mark flared under Ren's ribs — the three thorns thrumming together, the Tower's whisper sliding up his spine.
Speak.
Bind.
Or be devoured.
Serika's claws slid from his shoulder — her grin said she would not help this time.
Ren's pulse thundered behind his teeth. His breath trembled in the hush as the city leaned closer, hungry for the first drop of blood.
He stepped down from the marble dais — the mist curling around his bare ankles like silk. He locked eyes with the fang — felt the echo of the cradle's hunger coil tight behind his tongue.
He parted his lips.
"Kneel."
---
The fang's grin sharpened — his claws flexed.
He did not kneel.
He stepped closer — so close their breaths tangled. The scent of his blood and incense rose between them like a promise and a threat.
He leaned in — voice a low, vicious whisper.
"Make me."
Mist curled around Ren's ankles like a living tongue, tasting the hush between his heartbeat and the Fang's breath. They stood so close he could feel the warmth of that silver blood, smell the sharp bite of iron and incense as it steamed in the chill air.
Behind him, the city leaned in — shadows pressed against silk curtains, masked lovers froze mid-moan. Even Serika, draped in her velvet grin, watched in silence — claws coiled in her hair like a cat about to pounce if her king fell.
---
The Fang tilted his head, horns scraping the air between them.
"Your root's shallow," he murmured, voice a low growl that made Ren's brand flare under his ribs. "Your voice's wet. You're a boy who begged to be filled, not a king who breaks teeth."
He dragged his claw across his tongue — silver blood welled at the corner of his lips. He leaned in, smearing it across Ren's throat with a slow, mocking swipe.
"Speak, Mirror Walker. Or kneel for me."
---
The cradle's root pulsed — heat threaded through Ren's veins, so sweet it stung his teeth. He could feel the Tower's voice waiting at the back of his tongue, coiled like a serpent in bloom.
A flicker — the attic mirror. The garden cradle. The Tower's echo.
He'd begged. He'd moaned. He'd bloomed thorns where secrets used to hide.
Now the mirror wanted teeth.
---
Ren's lips parted — breath hot, voice silk edged in ruin.
"Kneel."
---
The Fang's grin widened — mocking. His claws rose, poised to push Ren to the marble by force, to break the voice before it bloomed into command.
But Ren didn't flinch.
The root thrummed through his bones — Speak deeper, the cradle hissed. Bind deeper.
---
Ren's breath turned to frost in the city's hush.
He lifted his palm — pressed it to the Fang's chest, right over the slick cut where silver blood still glowed.
His brand flared — the roots coiling under his skin like living wires.
"Not just your knees…" he rasped, eyes locking to the Fang's, watching the mocking grin falter for a flicker of a heartbeat.
"…your heart."
---
The rune-light sparked — silver veins crawling from Ren's palm into the Fang's chest. The city gasped — shadows pressed closer, moans swallowed by the crackle of runes biting flesh.
The Fang's grin twisted — a snarl breaking through teeth. He shoved against Ren's palm — claws raking Ren's ribs, slicing skin open in thin, burning lines.
Ren didn't flinch — the blood that welled down his side only fed the brand's hunger. The cradle drank both their warmth — pleasure and pain seared into one pulse.
---
The Fang's knees hit marble — not gentle, not willing, but bound. His breath stuttered, chest heaving under Ren's hand. The roots wrapped deeper — coiling around bone, threading heat through his veins.
Ren leaned down — voice a whisper that slipped behind the Fang's teeth like poison and prayer.
"You bleed for me now. Or you do not bleed again."
---
The Fang's claws slackened — his snarl turned to a broken moan as the mirror's root tasted him deeper. Silver blood spilled from the brand's web on his chest, seeping into Ren's palm like wine poured back to the vine.
Behind them, Velvet Hunger trembled — the succubi's sighs rose like a chorus, moans folded into chants of Ren's name.
Serika's laugh curled through the dusk — soft, reverent.
"He kneels."
---
The Fang shuddered — his head bowed, lips brushing Ren's wrist.
"Master…" he gasped, the word more growl than plea.
Ren's ribs still bled — but the pain tasted sweet behind his teeth. His brand pulsed, hunger curling around the city like silk woven from glass.
He leaned closer, lips grazing the Fang's ear — soft and cruel as the hush before thunder.
"Feed my kingdom. Feed my hunger. Or be devoured first."