Chapter 2: The Witch's Reluctant Bargain
The goblins came through the trees like roaches, low and fast and wrong.
Candice counted seven. Maybe eight—hard to tell in the shifting shadows, their small bodies moving with that unsettling coordination she'd noticed before. They spread out as they ran, flanking without needing to communicate, cutting off her escape routes with practiced efficiency.
These weren't ordinary goblins. Ordinary goblins panicked. Ordinary goblins charged in screaming mobs and died on her staff like wheat before a scythe.
These ones moved like soldiers.
Her mana surged before she could think, flooding her channels with familiar heat. The magic came easy—it always did—but something was different. The power that answered her call wasn't the cool blue she'd known her entire life. It was pink. Blushing, pulsing, obscenely bright pink.
The goblins hesitated.
Candice didn't.
She swept her staff in a wide arc, channeling a wave of force that caught the nearest two and sent them tumbling into the underbrush. Their squeals were high and sharp, more anger than pain. She'd barely bruised them. Level 30 magic against goblins that were probably Level 20 at best—it should have shattered bones. It should have killed them.
But her mana was wrong. It felt thick, syrupy, like trying to cast through honey. The power was there, more power than she'd ever felt, but it didn't want to obey. It writhed in her channels like something alive, something with its own ideas about how it should be used.
The remaining goblins recovered fast. Two charged her from the left, spears leveled at her ribs. She sidestepped, brought her staff down on the first one's skull—a solid crack that should have dropped it—but the creature just grunted and kept coming, blood streaming from a gash above its eye.
"What the fuck," Candice breathed.
A third goblin vaulted onto her back.
She felt claws dig into her shoulders, felt hot breath against her neck, felt teeth graze her ear. She twisted hard, slamming her elbow back, and the goblin flew off with a shriek. But the others were closing in now, emboldened by her failure to put them down.
Her mana pulsed again. Pink light bled from her skin, illuminating the clearing in soft rose tones. The goblins slowed, their yellow eyes fixed on the glow, confusion flickering across their brutish faces.
They could see it. They could feel it. Whatever was happening to her, it wasn't just internal anymore.
Candice didn't wait to find out what they'd do about it.
She dropped into a crouch, pressed her palm flat against the mossy earth, and pushed. The magic fought her, bucking and twisting, but she forced it out anyway—a shockwave of pink energy that rippled through the ground and knocked every goblin within twenty feet off their feet.
They landed hard. Two didn't get up.
The rest scrambled upright, chattering to each other in their harsh language. Candice caught a few words—"marked," "demon," "cursed"—and realized with a cold start that they understood what they were looking at. They knew the symbol burning on her stomach. They knew what it meant.
The goblins exchanged glances. Then, as one, they turned and fled into the darkness.
Candice stood alone in the shrine, chest heaving, staff still raised. The pink light faded slowly, leaving her in the dappled moonlight. Her hands were shaking. Her entire body was shaking.
She looked down at her stomach.
The mark glowed through her tunic, faint but unmistakable. A sigil she didn't recognize, complex and alien, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Every pulse sent warmth spreading through her belly, her thighs, her—
She felt it now. The heat that had been building since Lilith touched her, that she'd been too focused on survival to notice. It pooled low in her core, insistent and hungry. Her nipples had hardened against her bindings, sensitive enough that the brush of fabric made her want to squirm. And between her legs—
She was wet. Soaking, actually. Her smallclothes clung to her skin, slick with something that had no business being there while she was standing in a goblin-infested forest with the corpse of a forgotten goddess watching from the shadows.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
This wasn't her. This wasn't the disciplined, controlled mage who'd spent twenty years perfecting her art. This was someone else, someone with needs she'd never allowed herself to acknowledge, someone who—
Someone who wanted.
Candice pressed her thighs together and bit down on her lip until she tasted copper. The pain helped. It gave her something else to focus on, something other than the ache between her legs and the way her skin tingled like it was too tight for her body.
She needed help. She needed someone who understood what was happening to her.
She needed Morgana.
The thought made her stomach turn. Morgana—lazy, shameless, frustrating Morgana—was the last person Candice wanted to see. They hadn't spoken in three years. Not since that night at the harvest festival, when Morgana had shown up in a dress that left nothing to the imagination and spent the entire evening flirting with anything that moved.
Candice had told her she was disgusting. Had called her a whore in front of half the village. Hadn't spoken to her since.
But Morgana knew things. Dark things, secret things, things she'd learned from the succubus texts she collected like some people collected butterflies. If anyone could tell her what was happening, could help her control these—these feelings—
Candice's jaw tightened. She was going to have to apologize. Years of silence, years of pretended indifference, and she was going to have to walk into Morgana's brothel and ask for help.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
---
The Crimson Lotus sat at the edge of the village, far enough from the main square that the respectable folk didn't have to acknowledge its existence. Three stories of dark wood and red lanterns, it glowed against the night like a ember waiting to catch.
Candice stood outside for a full minute, just breathing. The walk back had taken longer than it should have—she'd had to stop twice, pressing her back against trees and trying to talk her body down from whatever edge it was teetering on. The heat hadn't faded. If anything, it had gotten worse, a steady throb that kept time with her pulse and made it hard to think about anything else.
She'd considered going home. Taking a cold bath. Jerking off and hoping that would satisfy whatever Lilith had woken inside her.
But she knew it wouldn't work. The mark would pulse, and the pleasure would build, and at the last moment the feeling would slip away, like trying to grab smoke. Even before she'd opened the brothel door, she understood in her bones that she'd never be able to get off alone.
Something else had to push her over the edge.
Candice pushed open the door.
The inside of the Crimson Lotus was exactly what she'd expected and nothing she'd prepared for. Candles everywhere—hundreds of them, casting dancing shadows across walls draped in crimson silk and black velvet. The air was thick with jasmine and something darker, burnt sugar and musk and the unmistakable scent of sex. Women in various states of undress lounged on velvet settees, their eyes tracking Candice with lazy interest.
A woman with silver hair and a dress that was more suggestion than garment approached. "Welcome to the Crimson Lotus. How can we—"
"I need to see Morgana."
The woman's eyebrow arched. "Morgana doesn't take walk-ins. You'll need an appointment, or—"
"Tell her Candice is here."
The name landed like a slap. The woman's expression shifted—recognition, wariness, and something that might have been amusement. She nodded once and disappeared up a curving staircase, her heels clicking against the wood.
Candice waited. The women on the settees whispered to each other, their gazes heavy on her back. She could feel their curiosity, their assessment. She was wearing her adventuring gear—practical leathers, muddy boots, a staff that had seen better days. She didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere anymore.
"You look like shit."
The voice came from the staircase. Candice looked up and felt her breath catch.
Morgana had always been beautiful. Even when they were children, before the curves came in and the confidence settled over her like a second skin, there had been something about her that drew the eye. Now, at twenty-six, she had grown into a woman who demanded attention—tall and generous, her body all soft curves and dangerous angles, showcased in a gown of purple silk that matched her eyes and clung to every inch of her.
Her long purple hair fell past her waist, loose and gleaming in the candlelight. Her lips were painted dark and shiny, and her eyes—those purple eyes—gleamed with vindictive delight as she took in Candice's disheveled state.
"Morgana." Candice's voice came out hoarse. "I need your help."
"I assumed as much." Morgana descended the last few steps, her movements fluid and unhurried. She looked Candice up and down like a trader assessing livestock, her lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You've got goblin blood on your boots, your mana is leaking pink all over my carpet, and you're standing like you've got a stick up your ass. Which, knowing you, you probably do."
"I don't have time for—"
"You never have time for anything, do you, Candice?" Morgana stepped closer, close enough that Candice could smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker, something that made her already-aching body pulse with fresh heat. "You didn't have time to be my friend. You didn't have time to apologize for calling me a whore in front of the entire village. You didn't have time to treat me like a human being."
Candice flinched. "I was—"
"A self-righteous bitch. Yes, I know." Morgana waved a hand dismissively. "But now you're here, standing in my brothel with a mark on your stomach that I've spent years trying to replicate, and you need my help. So let's skip the part where you pretend you're better than me and get to the part where you beg."
Candice's fists clenched. Every instinct screamed at her to leave, to find some other way, to not give Morgana the satisfaction of seeing her brought low.
But the heat inside her flared, and she felt fresh wetness between her legs, and she knew she didn't have a choice.
"Please." The word tasted like ash. "Please help me."
Morgana's smile widened. "There. Was that so hard?"
She turned and ascended the stairs without waiting for an answer. Candice followed, her legs trembling, her heart pounding, her entire body screaming for something she couldn't name.
---
Morgana's private chamber was a decadent, candlelit sanctuary draped in crimson silk and black velvet. The air hummed with the scent of jasmine and something darker—like burnt sugar and sin. The walls were lined with mirrors that reflected not just faces, but whispers of desires too shameful to name. And the bed—gods, the bed—was a throne of twisted ivory and velvet, its sheets stained with something that wasn't quite blood.
Morgana lounged on the edge of that bed, one leg crossed over the other, her purple eyes gleaming as she watched Candice stand awkwardly in the center of the room.
"Show me."
Candice hesitated. She knew what Morgana wanted to see, and somehow that made it worse—the idea of exposing that part of herself, the part she'd spent her whole life hiding, to someone who had every reason to hate her.
"I said show me." Morgana's voice hardened. "You came here for help. I can't help you if I don't know what I'm working with."
Candice pulled up her tunic. Her fingers fumbled with the laces of her trousers, her skin flushing with something that wasn't quite shame. She lowered the fabric past her hips, past the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs, and exposed the mark.
Morgana went very, very still.
For a long moment, she just stared. Then she rose from the bed and crossed the room, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving the glowing pink sigil burned into Candice's skin.
"It's perfect," she whispered. "Absolutely perfect. The lines, the symmetry, the color—I've never seen a mark this clean."
"I don't know what that means."
Morgana laughed, but there was no humor in it. "It means you weren't branded with some half-assed ritual and a stolen book. It means a demon god took personal interest in you. It means—"
She reached out and touched the mark.
Candice gasped. The contact was like lightning, pleasure and pain and heat all tangled together, spiking through her body and leaving her breathless. She staggered, catching herself on Morgana's shoulder, and the witch didn't push her away.
"It's Lilith's mark," Morgana breathed. "The real thing. Not an imitation, not a copy, not a poor attempt at binding power you don't understand. The actual, divine brand of the Demon God of Succubi."
"You know about Lilith?"
"I've read every text this village has on succubi. Every relic, every scroll, every fragment of forgotten lore." Morgana's hand was still on Candice's stomach, her fingers tracing the edges of the mark with something like reverence. "This village was built on the ruins of a succubus settlement. Did you know that? The barrier that protects us, the texts I've studied, the rituals I've tried—all of it comes from them. All of it comes from her."
Candice's head was spinning. The touch of Morgana's fingers against her skin was driving her crazy, sending pulses of heat straight to her core. "How did you—"
BRANDED MYSELF WITH AN IMPERFECT SUCCUBUS MARK."
The words came out sharp, bitter. Morgana pulled up her own gown, exposing her stomach, and Candice saw it—a scarred, twisted sigil burned into her skin, nothing like the clean lines of her own mark.
"Took me three years to find the right ritual. Another two to work up the nerve to do it." Morgana's voice was flat, emotionless. "Five years of studying, of experimenting, of letting men fuck me for their magic so I could grow stronger. All so I could have what you were just handed."
Candice swallowed hard. "I didn't ask for this."
"No. You never have to ask for anything, do you? Everything just comes to you." Morgana pulled her gown back up, covering her scarred mark. "The village loves you. The council respects you. You're Level 30 at twenty-six, the strongest mage anyone's ever seen, and now you've got the perfect succubus mark from an actual goddess while I'm stuck with this half-rotten cursed thing."
"Morgana—"
"Don't." Morgana stepped back, her purple eyes burning. "Don't apologize. Don't tell me you're sorry. You made it very clear what you think of me three years ago, and I've been doing just fine without your pity."
Candice's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to explain, to say all the things she'd never been able to say. But the heat was still building inside her, the mark still pulsing, and she couldn't afford to waste time on old wounds.
"What does it mean?" she asked instead. "The mark. What does it actually do?"
Morgana studied her for a long moment. Then she crossed to a bookshelf against the far wall, her fingers trailing over rows of leather-bound spines until she found what she was looking for. She pulled a tome from the shelf—thick and ancient, its cover worn smooth by centuries of handling.
"This is the original text," she said, flipping through yellowed pages. "Translated from the succubus tongue about two hundred years ago. Most of it's nonsense, rambling praise to Lilith and warnings about the 'unworthy,' but there are sections that are... useful."
She found the page she wanted and turned the book toward Candice.
"Succubus mages grow stronger through pleasure," she read aloud. "Through desire, through lust, through the willing embrace of their own depravity. A mage with a perfect mark—like yours—can theoretically reach Level 100 if they fully surrender to the power of the mark."
"Level 100," Candice repeated. "That's—"
"Impossible. Yes, I know." Morgana closed the book with a snap. "But the text is clear. The mark connects you directly to Lilith's power. Every time you experience genuine pleasure, genuine desire, you draw on her strength. The more you give in, the stronger you become."
Given in."
"To what?"
"To your own desires." Morgana's eyes gleamed. "To the part of yourself you've been suppressing your whole life. The part that wants to be touched, to be wanted, to be the kind of woman men dream about when they're alone in their beds."
I'm not that kind of woman."
"You're exactly that kind of woman. You've just been too afraid to admit it." Morgana set the book down and crossed back to Candice, her hips swaying with every step. "There's one more thing you should know."
What?"
The witch stopped inches away, close enough that Candice could feel the heat radiating from her body. Close enough to see the faint mocking glint in her purple eyes.
"You can't cum by yourself anymore."
The words hit Candice like a physical blow.
What?"
"You heard me." Morgana's smile turned predatory. "Succubus mages can't achieve release on their own. The mark won't let them. It needs someone else—a partner, a lover, a witness to your desire. Without another person to push you over the edge, you'll just build and build and build until you're so desperate you'll beg anyone to touch you."
Candice's legs gave out. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, her hands shaking in her lap.
That's—that's not possible."
It's absolutely possible. I've tested it." Morgana sat beside her, close enough that their thighs almost touched. "You can touch yourself all you want. You can bring yourself to the brink a hundred times, a thousand times. But you'll never fall. Not without someone else."
Candice closed her eyes. The heat was unbearable now, a constant thrum of want that had nowhere to go. She thought about her cold bath, her desperate hopes from earlier, and felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.
What do I do?"
Morgana was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer than Candice had ever heard it.
You let me help you."
Candice opened her eyes. "What?"