Lustborn

Chapter 10 – What the Fire Remembers

The morning wasn't gentle.

No sunlight slipped through her window. Only a cold gray smear stretched across the floor, dulling the air. Her body was warm, flushed even—but it wasn't from comfort. It was a lingering heat. A memory burned into her skin.

The dream—if it was even that—had left her in a pool of sweat. Her nightgown clung to her like a second skin, damp and twisted, her legs tangled in the sheets. She didn't dare move for a long while.

Because part of her was afraid she wasn't alone.

She could still feel him. Not in the room. But under her skin. On her lips. In her chest.

The demon hadn't just come to her. He'd carved himself into her.

And now, she couldn't tell where he ended and she began.

She sat up slowly, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her inner thighs ached—emotionally more than physically. Her breath trembled. It wasn't shame she felt. Not even guilt.

It was… need. Terrifying in its honesty. A hunger with no name she could give.

Her hand reached instinctively for the necklace — the one the temple gave her to "protect" her from temptation. It had fallen off sometime in the night, now lying cold and lifeless on the bedside table. The crimson stone at its center had dulled to a muddy, dying red.

Almost black.

Like it had lost faith in her.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or laugh, maybe — because none of it made sense anymore.

Because she liked what happened. And hated that she liked it.

"Why me?" she whispered aloud, not expecting an answer.

But something shifted behind her. A whisper of breath against her ear — or maybe the wind brushing the curtain. She turned, heart in her throat.

Nothing.

But she didn't believe that anymore.

She stumbled into the bathhouse behind her room, turned the water as hot as it would go, and stood naked in the steam. Letting it scald the edge of something inside her.

The silence felt sharp.

And then, faint—soft—his voice.

"You woke me... now you'll never be alone again."

She pressed her palms to the marble tiles, eyes closed, steam coiling around her ribs.

She wasn't imagining him. Not anymore. He had crossed over.

And that meant something in her had invited him.

The temple bells rang too loudly that morning. They dug into her skull.

The walk to the inner sanctum felt heavier than usual, like the cobbled paths knew what had happened. Or what she had become.

Acolytes bowed in passing, their eyes avoiding hers. Or maybe too much on her. Either way, it felt like shame.

Or projection.

The High Priestess was waiting — tall, severe, wrapped in robes that shimmered like they were made from moonlight. Her eyes were lined in ceremonial black, her lips a shade of rose so muted it almost looked bruised.

"You look unwell," the woman said coolly. "Did you sleep?"

She hesitated. "Enough."

The priestess studied her face too long. Then turned. "Follow."

The sanctum was colder than usual. Not physically, but in atmosphere — like the very air distrusted her. She followed the priestess through a tight stone corridor that opened to a room she had never seen before.

Candlelit. Circular. No doors. No windows. Only symbols etched into the floor — old, jagged, aggressive ones. Not the temple's usual grace.

There were five figures already waiting, cloaked in red, heads bowed.

"Remove your clothing," the priestess said.

Her breath caught.

"I—I wasn't told—"

"This is the Ember Rite," the woman cut in. "Your body must be bared. The truth must be seen. There can be no shadow."

Her hands trembled as they reached for the ties of her robe. The cloth slipped from her shoulders. She stood naked in the middle of the room, skin flushed, throat dry, every inch of her exposed under the slow spiral of candlelight.

She had never felt more seen. Or more judged.

The five figures began to chant.

Not in temple tongues.

This was older. Rougher. Her bones remembered the sounds.

The floor beneath her feet pulsed. The glyphs shimmered.

And then it started.

Heat. Not fire. Not flame.

But him.

She felt him—inside the ritual. As if they had conjured him without meaning to. Or worse — they were testing her by letting him near.

Her knees buckled, but she didn't fall.

She couldn't breathe.

The chanting grew louder.

And all at once, it stopped.

A silence too sharp. Too complete.

"You are not untouched," one of the robed figures said.

Her lips parted. She couldn't form words.

"You have tasted what should not be tasted," another added. "You have let the hunger speak."

Tears welled up, uninvited.

"You are Lustborn," the High Priestess said. Not with anger. But cold finality.

"No," she breathed. "I—I didn't mean—"

"But you did."

They stepped closer. Each one in turn, surrounding her.

"Lustborn," they whispered in unison. "Daughter of heat. Child of sin. Born not of womb, but want."

She collapsed to her knees, arms covering her chest as if that could protect her.

They didn't move.

Just stared.

Until the High Priestess knelt beside her and placed something in her palm.

A small, black stone. Warm to the touch. Pulsing.

"You cannot undo what you are," the priestess said softly. "But you can decide what it becomes."

Her fingers closed around it. The warmth seeped into her.

And the demon's voice, faint but certain, brushed her mind once more.

"I'm waiting."