Strongest Incubus System

The second day of travel was drawing to a close, and the sky was beginning to take on the warm hues of dusk. Oranges and reds mingled on the horizon, while the weary sun slowly sank behind the distant hills. The cold persisted, but it was no longer the biting chill of the ambush—now it was just the steady breath of winter, carried by the wind that blew across the road.

No other incidents had occurred since the massacre of the Hounds. No suspicious shadows, no figures among the trees. Only the constant sound of the horses’ hooves, the creak of the carriage’s wood, and, occasionally, Garrick’s low whistle to keep the animals’ pace.

After that day, silence became the group’s most faithful companion. Garrick and Caelan spoke little, only enough to exchange shifts or check the route. Esther’s maids—who had previously whispered discreetly among themselves—now limited themselves to quick glances and restrained gestures. Even the noise inside the carriage seemed muffled, as if the walls held the weight of what everyone had witnessed.

Everyone... except Damon.

He didn’t say much, but his mind wouldn’t rest. Between bumps in the road and the next, his eyes occasionally sought Ester. Each time he remembered her speed and precision, he felt that strange mixture of fascination and unease. It wasn’t fear he felt. On the contrary... it was almost like watching lightning strike—dangerous, yes, but also beautiful.

As the first buildings appeared on the horizon, Damon realized they had already arrived. Yindhar slowly revealed itself: gray stone walls, simple but sturdy towers, and red and gold flags that fluttered gently in the cold breeze. At the main gate, the line of travelers, merchants, and guards formed a bustling corridor, each going about their business. The smell of burning wood and hot food filled the air, a welcome change after two days of breathing ice and blood.

The carriage passed through the gate without difficulty, the coat of arms on the side banner guaranteeing immediate passage. The guards merely saluted, some casting curious glances at Ester through the window—and quickly turning away when they realized she was watching them too.

Soon, Yindhar’s main street opened up before them: stone houses with sloping roofs, shops with hand-painted wooden signs, children running among hurried adults, and the sound of hammers coming from the forges in the distance. It was a lively town, bustling with activity, yet at the same time marked by a certain heaviness of overlong winters.

The carriage finally stopped in front of a sturdy inn with wide walls and a sheltered inner courtyard. The smell of hay and polished metal betrayed that it also served as a stable for travelers.

Damon was the first to move. He pushed open the carriage door, feeling the cool wood under his hand. The noise made the two maids raise their heads, and Ester merely glanced up, unhurried. He descended, his boots slapping against the stone floor of the courtyard, and then turned, extending a hand to help him out.

Ester was the first to descend. Her impeccable posture seemed out of place in the courtyard, smelling of hay and leather. She ignored Damon’s hand and touched the ground lightly, as if it were her rightful place, regardless of the setting. The two maids followed close behind, one holding the hem of her dress to keep it from getting dirty in the mud, the other carrying a small bag.

Ester stopped before him, her cold eyes scrutinizing him for a moment. Damon stood still, holding the door. It was then that she spoke, as if giving a matter-of-fact order:

”You will sleep in the stable tonight.” Her voice held no overt cruelty, but there was an authority there that left no room for argument. ”By the horses.”

For a brief moment, Damon considered protesting. But as he looked at her, he knew it wasn’t worth it. This wasn’t a gratuitous humiliation... or, if it was, it wouldn’t change anything if he complained. He simply nodded, accepting his fate without question.

”Understood.”

Without another word, he turned and walked back to the carriage, pulling out a thick leather bag. The sound that came from inside was dry and heavy—the sound of stone hitting stone. The Hounds’ leader’s frozen trophy lay inside, enveloped in the cold that hadn’t yet left its hardened flesh.

The weight of the bag didn’t bother him. On the contrary, there was a strange satisfaction in feeling the solid bulk of the head, as if it were a bargaining chip he hadn’t yet used.

As Esther and the maids entered the inn, Damon headed the other way, crossing the courtyard to the stable. The smell of dry straw and fresh manure greeted him, mingling with the damp warmth of the carriage’s two horses. One, a thick-maned black stallion, snorted at his approach. The other, an older bay, merely nodded lazily.

He hung the sack with his head on the wooden hook near the corner, where the blacksmith’s tools were kept. There was no rush to hand it over. First, he needed a place to settle down.

He chose a spot in the corner of the stable, between the two animals. There was enough hay to make a decent bed, and the proximity of the horses would help keep the chill at bay.

He removed his heavy cloak, laying it on the pile of straw, and sat down.

”First she killed them all, then she started being bossy... Wow, what a cold woman.” Damon laughed as he lay down in the hay.

The smell of straw and the warmth of the horses lulled him better than he expected. The steady sound of slow chewing, the click of hooves against the wooden floor, and, in the background, the distant murmur of the city falling asleep formed a strange kind of lullaby.

He couldn’t say how long he slept, but when he opened his eyes, the light streaming through the cracks in the roof had already changed. It was no longer golden—it was pale, cold, the bluish-gray of a winter morning. The air was chilly enough to make breath visible, and the sound of the city was different now: hammering, hurried voices, and the rhythmic clop of horses leaving for deliveries.

Damon was just beginning to stretch when he felt something tugging at his ear. First a light touch, then an insistent pressure. The next moment, a sharp crack and a painful sting.

”Ouch!” He jumped to the side, putting his hand to his ear.

The black stallion watched him with that typical horse expression: a mix of innocence and pure malice. He chewed slowly, as if savoring the moment, while the tip of Damon’s ear burned.

”Seriously? You had a lot of hay to eat and decided to taste my ear?” Damon grunted, but the horse responded only with a warm breath and a slow shake of its head, as if saying yes, and would do it again.

The old bay horse beside him seemed to let out something like a sigh of laughter, wiggling its ears.

Damon stood, stretching his entire body. The hay clinging to his cloak and hair fell away in flakes, and he brushed the dust from his clothes with his free hand. He picked up the sack containing the Hound leader’s head, feeling its solid weight again.

”Time to earn some coins, before you decide to rip my nose off too.” He gave the stallion one last warning look, which responded with a short whinny.