The forest did not close around him.
It opened.
That was the first thing he noticed as he moved deeper beneath the canopy—how willingly the world seemed to make space. Branches arched aside just enough to let him pass. Roots that should have snarled at his boots lay flat, as if pressed down by unseen hands. Even the air felt accommodating, warm against his skin despite the early hour.
Too kind.
He did not slow, but his awareness sharpened. Every step landed where he intended, yet the ground felt subtly wrong beneath his weight, like a surface pretending to be solid. The distortion was here—not concentrated, not violent, but spread thin and wide, woven into everything.
This was not pursuit.
This was invitation.
He counted his breaths as he walked. In. Out. Slow. Measured. A habit learned long before swords and graves and sins. When the world began to lie, numbers were anchors.
The path ahead bent gently to the left.
He followed it.
After several minutes, he realized he had passed the same twisted birch three times.
He stopped.
Silence settled instantly, heavier than before. No birds. No insects. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if waiting for his reaction.
"So," he murmured, voice steady, "this is how you do it."
No answer came.
Instead, the forest shifted again—not visibly, not abruptly. The light changed. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the leaves at a lower angle, warming his shoulders. Somewhere ahead, he heard the crackle of a fire.
His body reacted before his mind did.
Warmth. Shelter. The promise of rest.
He took a single step forward—then stopped himself.
That was close.
He exhaled and forced his gaze downward, fixing it on the dirt at his feet. Real. Tangible. The smell of soil was still honest, still damp with decay. He focused on that instead of the sound, instead of the way his muscles loosened at the thought of sitting, just for a moment.
The fire sound faded when he ignored it.
Replaced by a voice.
"You don't have to keep walking like that."
It did not come from any direction. It existed inside the space between thoughts, layered gently over his own inner voice.
He stiffened, but did not reach for a weapon.
The voice was calm. Female. Neither young nor old—ageless in a way that felt deliberate.
"You're tired," it continued, not accusing, not mocking. "Anyone would be."
He resumed walking, deliberately choosing a direction that felt wrong, pushing against the slope of the land rather than following it. The ground resisted slightly, as if disappointed.
"I've been tired before," he said aloud.
A soft sound followed. Not laughter.
Understanding.
"Yes," the voice replied. "You have. And you kept going. That's why you're like this now."
The trees ahead thinned, revealing a small clearing.
At its center stood a structure that should not have been there.
A cabin.
Old, but intact. Smoke rose gently from its chimney. The door was closed, light spilling warmly through the window panes. It was unremarkable in every way—and that was what made it dangerous.
He did not approach.
The pressure in the air increased subtly, like hands resting on his shoulders.
"You could stay," the voice said. "Just tonight."
He felt it then—the pull not on his body, but on the space behind his ribs. The part of him that remembered nights spent staring at ceilings, waiting for morning. The part that remembered being small, being alone, being told that if he just endured a little longer, things would get better.
"You've already proven what you are," the voice continued. "You don't need to keep proving it."
Images flickered at the edges of his vision.
A town square. Chains falling away. A woman's tear-streaked face. Dirt closing over his body in silence.
He clenched his jaw.
"You call that proof?" he asked quietly.
The images softened, rearranged.
Now he saw something else.
A version of himself sitting by a fire. Older—but not broken. His hair was still streaked with grey, his skin still marked by sun and battle, but his shoulders were relaxed. Someone sat across from him, face blurred but presence warm. He was listening. Not waiting. Not guarding. Just… there.
"You want this," the voice said gently.
He took another step—then froze.
No.
Not want.
Need.
That was the trick.
He closed his eyes.
His fingers curled slowly, pressing his nails into his palm until sensation cut through illusion. Pain, sharp and grounding.
"I know what you are," he said, voice firm now. "You don't take. You offer."
Silence.
Then, finally, a shift.
The clearing did not vanish, but it lost something—depth, perhaps. The cabin's light dimmed. The smoke thinned unnaturally, unraveling into nothing.
"Well done," the voice said, closer now. Not impressed—but genuinely pleased.
The air ahead rippled.
A figure stood at the edge of the clearing, half-formed, as though the world itself had not yet decided how much of her to allow him to see. She was tall, her silhouette elegant without effort. Long hair cascaded down her back, color indistinct, shifting subtly with the light. Her eyes—those he could see clearly—were sharp and curious, studying him not as prey, but as an answer to a question she had waited a long time to ask.
"You're different from the others," she said.
He did not lower his guard.
"You say that to everyone."
She smiled faintly. "No. I don't."
The pressure intensified—not crushing, but intimate. He felt her magic brush against his thoughts, testing boundaries, mapping resistance. This was no brute-force sorcery. It was precision work, layered and patient.
Caster.
"So," he said, meeting her gaze, "you're Lust."
She inclined her head slightly. "If you need a name."
"I do."
"Then yes."
The distortion around her deepened, symbols briefly surfacing in the air behind her—circles within circles, incomplete and overlapping, vanishing before they could settle. He recognized the pattern instinctively. This was not borrowed power alone.
She understood the system.
"You've been watching," he said.
"I've been listening," she corrected. "Watching is crude."
She took a step forward. The ground did not resist her. It welcomed her.
"You carry grief like a weapon," she continued. "You sharpen it with discipline. You call it resolve."
He said nothing.
"I can give you something better."
There it was.
The true offer.
Not rest.
Not pleasure.
Meaning.
He felt it then—the danger not of losing, but of agreeing. Of accepting that maybe, just maybe, the suffering had been unnecessary.
"That's not yours to give," he said.
Her smile widened, just a fraction. "Everything is mine to offer. Choice is the only thing I can't take."
The forest shuddered.
For an instant, he felt the urge to reach inward—to call power, to force clarity through steel and intent. But he stopped himself. That was what she wanted. A reaction. A commitment.
Instead, he took a step back.
Then another.
Her eyes followed him, unblinking.
"You'll come back," she said softly. "Not because I'll chase you."
He paused.
"But because you're human," she finished. "And humans return to the things that understand them."
The pressure lifted.
The forest released him all at once.
The clearing collapsed into undergrowth. The cabin was gone. The symbols vanished. When he blinked, she was no longer there.
Only the distortion remained—stronger now, clearer.
A path opened ahead of him, unmistakable in its intent.
Not an escape.
A funnel.
He adjusted his pack and stepped forward, heart steady despite the echo of her presence lingering like perfume in the air.
So this was Lust.
Not hunger.
Not excess.
But the promise that suffering could end.
He tightened his grip on the box at his side as he walked.