Lustborn

The morning light did not soften the ache. It sharpened it.

She lay curled on her side, the sheet twisted between her thighs, soaked with sweat that had dried and returned through the night like waves crashing against her body. Her breath was shallow, her fingers trembling slightly as they pressed into the mattress.

The Ember Rite was over—but something had been lit inside her that would not be put out.

Her skin still pulsed in places she could not speak aloud. The priestesses had warned her: "If there is fire in your blood, it will rise. And once it rises, it never rests." She hadn't believed them. She had thought herself strong, composed, trained in the discipline of denial.

But now…

Now her thoughts were no longer hers alone. They were invaded—haunted.

She sat up slowly, naked in the gray dawn light, hair tangled across her bare shoulders. She could still feel where the demon had touched her. Or maybe not touched her—maybe just watched her through the veil of the Rite, just close enough for her to feel the air change around her body.

He hadn't spoken since that moment, but she knew he was awake.

Awake in her.

She wrapped a linen robe around herself, but it did nothing to dim the heat between her legs or the voice at the base of her spine, whispering things she could barely admit even to herself.

"Say my name."

It was like a memory sliding under her skin.

"I can give you more than they ever will. All you have to do is stop pretending you're not already mine."

She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, as if to wring the demon's voice out of her bones. But it wasn't leaving. It was part of her now.

Was it always there?

She had always been different. Always needed more—more touch, more closeness, more heat. As a girl, she'd felt shame burn inside her at night, hiding in silence while her body cried out for something she didn't yet have words for.

The others had called her "marked." One priestess had whispered the word Lustborn like it was a curse.

Now it didn't feel like a curse. Not exactly. It felt like a door.

And it had opened.

She stepped outside into the temple courtyard. A breeze licked at her robe, and the chill against her skin was sharp—but not enough. The hunger inside her wasn't just physical. It was spiritual. She wanted something to fill her, yes, but more than that, she wanted to be seen. Not like the temple saw her—not as something to be tested and controlled—but as she was. Wild. Wanting. Alive.

From the shadows of the northern colonnade, a voice drifted:

"You don't sleep after the Rite?"

She turned. It was Marek.

He was older, a half-initiate who had already passed the physical trials. His eyes were shadowed, lips curled in half-knowing amusement.

She looked away, heat flushing her cheeks.

"I didn't sleep either," he added, stepping closer.

She could feel him watching her—not with judgment, but curiosity. Hunger. A mirror.

"I saw what happened to you," he said quietly.

Her eyes snapped to his.

He nodded slowly. "The way the flame rose around you. The others stepped back. But you… you stepped forward."

"I didn't mean to," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"I think you did."

Silence stretched. She felt the demon stir within her again—not to speak, but to feel. As if it enjoyed being near him. As if it wanted her to want.

Marek reached out, fingers brushing the edge of her robe.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, voice low.

She should say no. She should return inside and cleanse herself with salt and cold water, pray until her knees bled and the fire was extinguished.

But she didn't want it extinguished.

She wanted to understand it.

She wanted to be it.

"I don't know what's happening to me," she said honestly.

He touched her wrist, warm and steady.

"I do."

And in that moment, for the first time, she didn't feel alone.

Not with Marek.

Not with the demon.

Not with whatever she was becoming.

Lustborn.

It was not a curse. It was a name.

And names had power.