The forest did not erupt into violence.
That was the first lie.
Branches creaked as he moved forward, boots pressing into damp soil that swallowed sound more readily than it should have. The footprints ahead continued for a time, then vanished—not scattered, not masked, simply gone, as if the people who had made them had stepped out of the world instead of turning aside.
He slowed.
The silence deepened.
Not the natural quiet of a forest holding its breath, but something curated. Maintained. Even the wind seemed reluctant to pass between the trees, leaves hanging motionless despite the open sky above.
He reached inward—just enough to sharpen his awareness.
No distortion surged in response.
No pressure.
No hostility.
That unsettled him more than any ambush could have.
He advanced another dozen steps before the terrain changed.
The trees thinned without warning, opening into a shallow hollow cradled between low hills. Grass grew there—green, untrampled, impossibly healthy compared to the blighted land he had crossed since leaving the town. A narrow stream cut through the clearing, its water clear and slow-moving, catching the light in soft, broken reflections.
And at the center—
A fire.
Small. Controlled. Recently tended.
Someone had built a camp here with care.
His hand hovered near where a blade could be called forth.
"Come closer," a voice said.
It did not come from behind him.
It did not echo.
It simply existed, woven into the space itself, as though the clearing had decided to speak.
He did not obey.
Instead, he scanned the perimeter, eyes tracing the treeline, the hills, the stream. There were no signs of struggle. No blood. No broken branches. No bodies.
The people who had been tracking him were not here.
Or—
They were, and no longer mattered.
"You're safe," the voice continued, warm and unhurried. "You've been careful all night. You can stop now."
That was the second lie.
Safety was not something given. It was something endured long enough to notice its absence.
"I don't know you," he said.
A figure stepped into view near the fire.
She looked human.
That, too, was a choice.
Her clothes were simple—travel-worn but clean, the kind worn by someone who knew the road well but did not fear it. Dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, catching the firelight in soft strands. Her expression held no hunger, no malice, no urgency.
Only recognition.
"You don't need to," she replied. "I know you."
He felt it then.
Not a pull.
Not a compulsion.
A familiarity that slid into place where exhaustion had hollowed him out.
"You were buried," she said gently. "Not by the earth—but by people who told themselves they had no other choice."
His jaw tightened.
She did not press.
Instead, she crouched by the fire and adjusted a piece of wood, careful not to let sparks rise too high. The flames responded eagerly, settling into a steady glow that warmed the clearing without threatening it.
"They won't follow you here," she added. "They already made their decision."
"And you?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "I make offers."
That was the first truth.
He took a step forward before he consciously decided to.
The ground beneath his foot was solid. Real. The air smelled of clean water and smoke and something faintly sweet—flowers, perhaps, blooming somewhere beyond sight.
No illusion collapsed.
No trap snapped shut.
She gestured toward the fire. "Sit. Or don't. Either way, you look like someone who hasn't rested since the world decided he was useful."
The words struck closer than any accusation.
He remained standing, but he did not retreat.
"You took the people who were following me," he said.
She nodded. "They wanted to do the right thing. That doesn't always require survival."
His eyes sharpened. "Are they dead?"
"Not yet," she answered honestly. "And not by my hand."
That answer carried weight.
He studied her more closely now. The way the firelight bent subtly around her silhouette. The way the clearing seemed… attentive. As though everything within it was angled toward her presence without being forced.
Caster.
The realization surfaced quietly, without alarm.
"You're one of them," he said.
She did not deny it.
"Yes."
No grand declaration. No name. No mask slipping away to reveal something monstrous.
Just admission.
"You don't feel like the others," he continued.
She tilted her head. "That's because I don't want something from you."
That was the third lie.
But it was a careful one.
"What do you want?" he asked.
She stood then, closing the distance between them until the warmth of the fire brushed his skin. Not invading. Not demanding. Simply present.
"I want you to understand something," she said softly. "You keep walking because stopping feels like surrender. But you are not being chased right now."
He felt the words settle into him, heavy with implication.
"You're tired," she went on. "Not of fighting. Of being necessary. Of only being seen when the world is already breaking."
Images stirred unbidden.
Chains.
Hands shoveling dirt.
A town that had rung bells only when it was too late.
"You don't have to choose anything tonight," she said. "You don't have to give me your name, your loyalty, or your future."
She gestured toward the fire, toward the clearing, toward the stream.
"Just stay until morning."
The offer hung in the air, gentle and dangerous.
He could feel it now—the weave beneath the words. Not domination. Not compulsion.
Desire shaped into refuge.
Lust, not of the body, but of connection. Of being wanted without condition.
This was how she hunted.
Not by force.
By kindness placed exactly where it would hurt to refuse.
He closed his eyes briefly.
In that moment, he understood.
This Sin did not break people.
She kept them.
When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was steady.
"If I stay," he said, "you'll want more."
Her smile was soft. Almost sad.
"Yes."
"And if I leave?"
She stepped back, giving him space again. Truly this time.
"Then you'll walk away carrying the memory of a place that didn't hurt you," she replied. "And that will make the road heavier than it's ever been."
The fire crackled quietly between them.
He reached to his side and felt the box beneath his cloak. The weight of the Rider card was absent now—but its echo remained, reminding him what it meant to borrow comfort and pay later.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned away from the fire.
"I can't afford that," he said.
She did not stop him.
As he stepped back toward the treeline, the clearing did not vanish. The warmth did not fade. The scent lingered.
"You'll see me again," she said, not as a threat, but as certainty. "When you're more tired than you are now."
He did not answer.
The forest swallowed him once more, branches closing overhead, the silence returning—but thinner now, strained by what had almost been.
Behind him, the fire continued to burn.
Ahead of him, the road waited—colder, harsher, honest in its cruelty.
And somewhere between the two, Lust watched him go,
already certain
that no one walked forever without wanting to stop.