Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

They didn't bow. Didn't need to. None of them said a word when they appeared, because they understood what her voice meant.

The way she had called them—without warning or ceremony—told them everything they needed to know.

And they weren't the type of women who asked questions when they already understood the shape of what was coming.

Lilith turned to face them slowly. Her back was straight, her eyes focused, her expression unreadable—but sharp.

She didn't need to look stern to hold control. Her silence was enough.

One of the women stepped forward slightly. She was tall and lean, with gray eyes that looked like polished slate and a mouth that never quite smiled.

Her voice was calm, just a notch above soft. "You're thinking of calling the righteous gods?"

Lilith didn't blink. "No," she said quietly. "I'm thinking of calling ours."

That one sentence made the whole room feel tighter—not louder, not heavier, just tighter—like the walls understood, too.

Another woman shifted slightly—a broader figure, dark braids wrapped tightly around her head and shoulders squared like someone who never learned to lean on others.

She let out a slow breath through her nose. Not laughter. Not disbelief. Just that sharp exhale people make when they see the first crack in a dam and know what comes next.

Lilith didn't waver. Her voice stayed steady. "If this creature wants to shake old bones and stir up what we buried, then fine."

Her hand lifted slightly, open and calm, fingers spread. She turned her palm toward the blue flame burning quietly at the center of the room.

"Let's remind him what true nightmares look like."

None of the sisters cheered. They didn't nod or whisper. They didn't need to. The air between them already said more than words could because they understood what she meant.

They had seen things no records mentioned. They had walked through wars most people thought were legends.

And they had buried the kind of monsters that should've never existed in the first place.

If something was foolish enough to wake them up again—

Then they would meet it.

No warnings.

No mercy.

No hesitation.

Lilith lowered her hand slowly, the motion calm, final. She looked at each of the seven in turn, her eyes unwavering.

Then she turned back to the stone table, where the memory case still sat untouched, the flame beside it flickering gently.

The light caught her eyes as she turned. It didn't make them shine. But it made something inside her feel brighter—like a fuse had been lit, slow but steady.

Because she wasn't going to wait for the storm.

She was going to walk into it.

And far away, beyond the stone walls of the sanctuary, out in the soft gray light of a distant plain covered in low fog and quiet wind, something else stirred in answer.

No one heard the bell when it rang.

Not out loud.

Not in a way human ears could register.

But it rang all the same.

A single, clear chime that stretched far past sound and cut through the world in a way only the old ones understood.

Elowen heard it.

She sat alone, high above the forest floor in a wide pavilion built into the arms of a tree so old it hadn't been named in ten thousand years.

The wood creaked softly beneath her, not from age but memory. Her robe was a soft green with blue thread woven along the hems—delicate embroidery that shimmered only when the wind passed through it.

Her posture was still. Calm. Legs crossed beneath her, hands resting gently on her knees. Her eyes were closed.

And when the bell rang, they opened.

Slowly.

As if she had been expecting it.

The small mirror at her side shimmered, its surface shifting without a sound. No message appeared. No letters. No numbers. Just a presence. A signature she knew instantly.

Lilith.

Elowen reached toward the mirror and touched it with two fingers. She didn't need to speak. There was nothing to say. The message wasn't a call for help. It wasn't a plan.

It was a truth.

And it was enough.

She stood up, not in a hurry, not with alarm. Just like someone who understood her time sitting still had ended.

She turned and walked toward the back of the pavilion.

And behind her, the tree opened.

It didn't crack. It didn't groan.

It simply parted, like it had always been meant to open, like it had just been waiting for her to move.

Seven steps led downward between the roots.

She descended quietly.

At the bottom, the space wasn't stone. It wasn't sacred in the way temples claimed to be. But it held a silence so deep it felt like even the ground had been listening.

She stepped to the altar in the center, placed both palms flat on its dark surface. The wood was cold at first, but as her skin settled on it, a soft warmth began to spread outward like breath.

She closed her eyes.

Then spoke clearly, slowly.

"I call you now. You who shaped my oath. You who see the roots even when the branches lie."

Nothing boomed. Nothing cracked open.

But the ground below her softened.

And from the roots, small threads of light began to rise—thin and glowing like veins beneath the earth's skin.

And then they came.

Three figures.

They didn't arrive with flashes or noise. They didn't glow or hover.

They just walked.

Slow. Steady. Quiet.

The first had eyes like ice that never melted.

The second had hair like braided willow vines, strands of silver woven between green.

The third didn't seem fully real at all. Her shape flickered, sometimes there, sometimes not. Always just enough to know she was present, never enough to define her.

They stopped in front of Elowen.

The first one spoke, her voice soft but firm. "The message was clear."

The second nodded once. "And timed to the moment. They chose when we weren't watching."

The third didn't speak.

But Elowen looked at her anyway, gaze steady. "Will you stand with us?"

The flickering woman paused, then stepped forward.