Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

The whisper didn't echo. It just stayed there, hanging in the air like a breath that hadn't finished.

Like a presence that didn't need to speak again because it had already said enough, the woman in the Crescent robe didn't move right away.

Her eyes stayed locked on the shrine below. Nothing changed on the surface—no movement, no figures passing in or out—but she could feel something shifting underneath it.

The stillness was too neat. Too arranged. The kind of calm that always breaks just before a trap closes.

Her gaze sharpened a little, not out of anger, but because she understood what was coming. It wasn't a question of if. It was only a matter of when.

Then the wind shifted—softly, almost lazily, as if even the air knew what time it was—and she turned her head just slightly, giving the barest nod.

Far from the shrine, across a continent where the border between living and unseen had started to fray, another figure moved quietly beneath a different name.

She didn't go by Kyra here. That part of her life, her real self, was wrapped up and hidden away, like an old coin sewn into the lining of a coat.

Here, she was known as Miren Valith. Thirty-five. Unmarried. Calm and reliable. A mid-tier seer working at a smaller sanctum deep in the cult's web.

People respected her in the quiet way they respected old trees or steady rivers. She didn't speak more than necessary.

Never reached too high. Never left a trace. And that was exactly the way she liked it.

She moved through the sanctum's inner chambers with a lightness that wasn't just physical—it was trained.

Practiced. Her robes were wrapped tightly enough to cover the sleek armor she still wore underneath, not the heavy stuff, just enough protection to survive a bad day.

A charm hummed gently near the base of her spine, tucked under a layer of cloth that made it look like part of a prayer knot.

The energy it gave off didn't make her invisible. It didn't erase her from the world. It just made her forgettable.

The kind of presence your mind skipped over. She didn't want to vanish. She wanted to be ignored.

The sanctum wasn't wide, but it went deep. The farther in she walked, the more the air began to feel tight, like the stone around her had started paying attention.

The ceilings dipped lower, the walls began to curve inward, and the flames lining the corridor didn't behave quite right. They didn't flicker.

They bent—not in response to her movement or breath, but as if the light itself didn't know where it belonged anymore.

The shadows cast on the stone started to stretch in strange ways, and shapes that should've disappeared in the corners somehow lingered.

She didn't let it bother her.

Kyra kept walking, and every step was smooth and certain. The spell she wore—the one that kept eyes sliding past her—worked best when she didn't hesitate.

Doubt or second-guessing could cause ripples in the spell's fabric. Any break in mental rhythm could make someone notice her when they shouldn't.

So she didn't give herself a chance to flinch. She moved like she belonged. And for now, she did.

The masked watchers along the corridor didn't stop her. They didn't even turn to face her.

They just stood there, hands hidden, heads slightly bowed, like statues whose eyes hadn't opened yet. She passed them without a sound. No questions. No challenge.

She reached the gate.

It wasn't made of iron or sealed with locks. Just a single sheet of dark cloth draped from the ceiling to the floor, covered in markings too old for common language and too fresh to be harmless.

She reached out and pulled the cloth aside like she'd done dozens of times already. The fabric moved easily, almost like it wanted to let her through.

The air on the other side was different.

It didn't make her shiver. It didn't raise goosebumps. It just pressed in—subtle but heavy, like she had stepped into a place where even silence had weight.

It wasn't the wind. It wasn't magic. It was the kind of pressure that only ever existed in rooms that were supposed to stay shut.

There were six people inside.

Two sat near the far edge, hands clasped together, their mouths moving in a whispering chant.

One paced in slow, deliberate circles near a stone altar carved with strange grooves, too perfect to have been cut by regular tools.

Another held an unrolled scroll filled with markings that shimmered even though the room's light remained flat and dull.

Two more stood in the center, both completely veiled and motionless.

None of them looked at her.

Good.

Kyra stepped in without drawing attention, moved to the side of the room, and sank to her knees just as expected.

She let her robe touch the stone floor, the edge spreading slightly as she bowed her head.

And then she listened.

The voices weren't loud, but they didn't need to be. In that room, even a breath felt deliberate. Every word carried weight—not because of magic, but because of meaning.

"They arrive next week," said one of the veiled figures. "The shipment passed Port Thirty-Five's inspection. Full clearance."

"Has it been tagged?" asked the other.

"No. Dormant relics only. Signal traces erased. It'll pass as scrap."

There was a short pause.

"Good."

Kyra adjusted her position slightly, careful not to make it obvious, and let the small charm behind her left ear record the details—the tone, the pacing, the exact wording.

Seven days. Shipment confirmed.

Then another question.

"The woman?"

"Still carrying. Estimated forty days until emergence. No interference at the site."

So it was real. The so-called blessed birth wasn't just symbolic. It was planned. Forty days. That didn't leave much time.

Kyra stayed still.

Then the atmosphere shifted.

Not loudly. Not with sound or movement. Just a feeling.

The far wall—which had been blank moments before—began to shimmer, like something unseen was brushing against it from the other side.

Lines of light began to move across the stone, slow and steady, forming a symbol that peeled open like a door between two thoughts.