Strongest Incubus System

Morgana’s office had become a kind of battlefield without blood, though anyone who entered and stayed there for more than a few seconds could feel that something was being destroyed all the same. Piles of documents occupied almost the entire main desk, spreading over side chairs, improvised shelves, and even the expensive carpet that probably belonged to an era when that mansion had still looked like a home rather than an administrative trench. Old contracts, collection letters, renegotiation demands, production records, property inventories, and falsified receipts formed a wall of paper around her.

Morgana sat at the center of that chaos, her hair tied up any way she could manage and her eyes fixed on a freshly opened letter. Candlelight cast hard shadows over her face, emphasizing the exhaustion accumulated beneath her eyes and the near-permanent tension in her jaw. The letter came from one of the neighboring duchies, written in terms too polite to hide the threat. They demanded immediate renegotiation of debts incurred during the former Duchess’s administration, citing agreements signed by Albert Arven, territorial guarantees, and late fees that multiplied the original amount indecently.

She read the same line three times.

Then a fourth.

Nothing improved.

Her father’s name appeared at the bottom, written with a signature that looked like his, but that Morgana now knew how to recognize as part of that bureaucratic monstrosity left behind by her stepmother. Every stroke recalled a silent violence. There was no blood on the paper, but there was mental control, humiliation, theft, blackmail, and years of a house being dismantled from within while everyone was forced to smile at the woman holding the knife. The Duchess was dead. Arven Mansion had fallen. Even so, she was still biting through contracts.

Morgana squeezed the letter too hard.

The paper almost tore between her fingers.

At the office door, Ingrivid remained motionless like a war sentinel. Her posture was impeccable, her eyes attentive to the corridor, and one hand stayed near the hilt of her weapon, even inside the mansion itself. After the fall of the old Arven house, after the corrupted guards, the dead servants, and the intrigues that continued surfacing from increasingly rotten places, she had simply stopped treating any space as safe. She guarded Morgana like a knight, not like a guest. Like someone who knew that sometimes the hardest person to protect was the one who refused to stop.

Ingrivid watched Morgana from the side for several minutes before speaking. Her voice came low, controlled, but carried that careful insistence only deeply worried people could maintain without sounding desperate. ”You need to rest.”

Morgana did not raise her eyes.

”Do not start.”

”You have been reading the same letter for almost ten minutes.”

”Because it contains five different kinds of threat disguised as courtesy.”

”And you have been awake for almost twenty hours.”

”Tell the duchy of Verden to postpone collection until after I sleep.”

”Morgana.”

The quill on the table rolled a few centimeters when Morgana tapped two fingers against the wood, a small gesture full of irritation. ”Shut up, Ingrivid.”

The knight sighed.

It was not an offended sigh. She had spent far too much time beside Morgana to be easily wounded by words spoken in exhaustion. It was a tired, resigned, almost familiar sigh. Ingrivid knew that insisting at that moment would probably only earn another sharp answer, perhaps some absurd administrative threat involving patrol shifts, but she also knew Morgana was destroying herself. The new Duchess of Arven worked as if every minute of rest were a personal betrayal against her father, against the dead, and against the house itself.

Morgana’s hand moved to another document. She opened a collection memorandum from Halbrecht, read the first lines, and felt a cold stab in her stomach. Another debt. Another clause. Another reference to a shipment of weapons purchased in secret, perhaps for the silent men who had taken the corridors of the old mansion. Everything seemed connected to the Duchess, but proving that legally was a different war. Killing monsters was simple by comparison. Monsters bled when cut. Contracts continued existing even after their creators turned to ash.

Two knocks sounded at the door.

Ingrivid immediately straightened her posture. The knocks were not strong, nor urgent, but in that mansion any interruption had weight. Morgana did not even lift her face. She continued reading, or pretending to read, while the knight opened the door just enough to see who stood outside.

When she opened it, Ingrivid found Elizabeth.

The vampire was impeccable as always, though there was exhaustion deep in her eyes. Beside her were Aria, with an expression far too strange to be casual, and Ester, who looked as if she were standing only out of stubbornness and resentment toward physical weakness. Her blue hair had still not recovered its former shine, and the dark circles beneath her eyes remained marked and deep, but there was something different in her face. Not peace. Ester would probably never allow herself something so generous. But a relieved tension. A postponed collapse.

Ingrivid narrowed her eyes, immediately suspicious. ”What are you seeking?”

Elizabeth looked at the small opening of the door and then at Ingrivid, with the cutting calm of someone who had mentally prepared the scene before arriving. ”Open it a little more.”

Ingrivid frowned.

”Why?”

”Open it.”

The order was not loud, but there was a firmness in it that admitted no discussion. Ingrivid hesitated for only a second before pulling the door a little farther. First she saw only the corridor. Then she saw the side of a chair. Then she saw a pale hand holding the armrest. And then, when the opening widened enough, she saw Damon.

He was sitting in an improvised wheelchair, covered by a dark cloak too heavy for the mansion’s climate, though everyone knew the cold came from him and not the environment. His white hair fell over his shoulders and part of his chest, long in a way that completely altered his appearance. His skin was still pale, and his movements seemed carefully controlled, as if each gesture were calculated not to reveal too much fragility. Even so, his eyes were open. Alive. Conscious.

Ingrivid forgot how to speak.

Damon slowly raised his right hand, without enough energy for any true theatricality. Still, he tried. Because, apparently, surviving six months in a coma was not enough; he needed to be irritating immediately afterward.

”Surprise,” he whispered.

The word came out hoarse, low, almost ridiculous, but it struck Ingrivid with the force of a blow. She remained motionless for an instant, staring at him as if expecting that vision to dissolve if she blinked. Her face lost part of its martial rigidity, and something raw crossed her eyes. Relief, shock, disbelief. Perhaps even anger, because Damon had the special talent of making people worry until they were nearly insane and then appearing with stupid comments.

Aria sniffed behind him. ”I told you the dramatic entrance would work.”

Ester answered with no patience whatsoever. ”You also suggested pushing him through the door while shouting ’walking miracle.’”

”It was a valid option.”

”It was a criminal option.”

Elizabeth placed a hand on the shoulder of Damon’s chair, not exactly to guide him, but to prevent him from trying to move on his own. ”Ingrivid, may we come in?”

The knight finally seemed to remember she possessed motor functions. She opened the door completely, still staring at Damon as if the corridor had produced a particularly ill-mannered ghost. Then she stepped aside, allowing the small group to enter. Morgana, however, still had not looked up. She remained bent over the documents, brow furrowed and one hand holding the renegotiation letter as if she intended to strangle it until it offered better terms.

”If you came to tell me Ester needs to sleep, tell her to sleep,” Morgana said, without raising her head. ”If you came to tell me Aria dropped another vial of dragon blood, put it under medical expenses. If you came to tell me Elizabeth found another noble trying to buy our debts, tell them to wait their turn in the line of people I intend to legally destroy.”

Aria opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it.

Ester looked almost impressed. ”She got worse.”

Elizabeth answered quietly. ”I told you.”

Ingrivid closed the door behind them carefully, as if too loud a noise might break the moment before it happened. Damon watched Morgana for a few seconds, and something inside him tightened. She looked different. Not because of the clothes, the title, or the desk full of documents. It was the posture. Her body was there, but part of her seemed buried beneath those papers, as if each contract stole a little more air from around her.

Morgana turned a page with irritation. ”Well? Speak already.”

No one answered immediately.

The pause finally bothered her.

She raised the quill, ready to write some marginal note on a contract, but Ingrivid took one step forward. The knight’s voice came lower than usual, almost careful, though it carried an emotion she was clearly struggling to control. ”Morgana, I think you need to see this.”

Morgana exhaled through her nose, still out of patience. ”Ingrivid, if this is another attempt to tell me to rest, I swear I will transfer you to guard the coal storage until the end of winter.”

Before she could continue, the soft sound of wheels over the carpet crossed the office. Damon did not wait for an invitation. Elizabeth pushed the chair to the front of the desk, and he leaned slightly to the side, analyzing the piles of paper with a tired expression. His body still looked far too fragile to challenge anything, but there was something familiar in the way he looked at the chaos. As if, even broken, he was still searching for where to place a blade.

He stopped before the chair opposite Morgana’s.

Elizabeth locked the wheels.

Damon breathed slowly.

Then he sat there before her as if he had merely arrived late to a meeting instead of waking after six months on the edge of death.

Morgana sensed the presence before she recognized it. First, it was the shadow over the documents. Then the different cold in the air. Not the dead cold that came from reports of destruction, nor the ordinary cold of night. It was a known cold, deeply known, but transformed. She slowly raised her eyes, already irritated by the interruption.

And saw Damon.

The quill fell from her hand.

It did not roll.

It fell.

The small sound against the table seemed absurdly loud.

Morgana locked up completely.

Her eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking, as if any movement might undo the image. For several seconds, nothing in her body reacted. She did not breathe properly. Did not speak. Did not rise. She only stayed there, caught between recognition and impossibility, before someone her heart had probably already buried in different ways over six months.

Damon tried to smile.

It came out weak.

Crooked.

But real.

”Hi, Morgana.”

His voice broke something.

Morgana stood so quickly that the chair struck the wall behind her. Papers near the edge of the desk flew with the movement, scattering contracts and demands across the floor like dead birds. Ingrivid took half a step by reflex, perhaps to prevent a fall, perhaps to protect the desk, perhaps because she did not know what to do either. Elizabeth remained still, only watching.

Morgana walked around the desk in silence.

She did not run.

Not at first.

But each step was too unstable to be controlled. When she came close to the chair, she stopped less than an arm’s length away. She looked at his white hair. At the paler face. At the open eyes. At the still-weak hands. At the chest rising and falling. As if she needed to verify every detail before allowing her mind to accept it.

Damon slowly raised a hand.

”I know I look a little more dramatic than before.”

Morgana hit him.

It was not a slap strong enough to truly hurt him, especially considering his condition, but it was fast, dry, and loaded with six months of fear, anger, and helplessness. Her hand struck his shoulder, not his face, as if even in that outburst she still had too much care to wound him. Damon accepted the blow without moving much, only closing one eye with a grimace.

”Fair,” he murmured.

Morgana breathed once.

Then again.

Then she held his face with both hands.

Her fingers trembled.

She said nothing.

The anger disappeared too quickly, swallowed by something much rawer. Her face twisted, and for an instant Morgana seemed to fight with all her strength against her own collapse. She had faced monsters, ruins, opportunistic nobles, impossible debts, her father’s illness, and her own house undone. But Damon awake before her, fragile and alive, crossed every defense work had not yet managed to bury.

”You...” she began, but her voice failed.

Damon carefully held one of her wrists. His fingers were cold, but not dead. ”I am sorry.”

Morgana squeezed her eyes shut.

The word seemed insufficient.

Ridiculous.

Too small for six months.

Too small for the nights when she must have looked toward that room and wondered if he would wake. Too small for the times she had needed to sign documents, negotiate with creditors, and pretend authority while part of her waited for bad news from the medical wing.

”I thought you were going to die,” she said at last, so low it barely sounded like the voice of a duchess.

”So did I.”

She opened her eyes, and there was damp fury in them. ”That does not help.”

”I know.”

”You spent six months motionless.”

”So they told me.”

”Six months, Damon.”

”I know.”

”You do not know.”

The sentence came sharp, and Damon did not try to contest it. Because she was right. He did not know. Not the way they did. For him, those months were an impossible memory of ice, Xue Lian, an elemental root, and a broken story. For them, they had been real days. Real hours. Real breaths counted beside a bed.

Morgana released his face and took a step back, as if she needed distance not to collapse on top of him. Elizabeth, noticing the sway, discreetly approached, but Morgana raised one hand without looking. She did not want help. Not yet. Or perhaps she could not bear to receive it in front of him.

Damon looked at the desk behind her.

At the papers.

At the renegotiation letter.

At the ink stains, the nervous notes, the piles too organized for someone who was clearly drowning in them.

”Elizabeth told me part of what happened,” he said.

Morgana hardened immediately.

The duchess returned to her face before the woman finished breathing.

”Then she also told you that you should be resting.”

”Everyone told me that.”

”And yet you are here.”

”I am bad at obeying.”

”I noticed.”

”But good at listening, sometimes.”

Morgana let out a humorless laugh, almost aggressive. ”I do not have time for this.”

”For what?”

”For you to wake up and try to fix everything.”

Damon fell silent.

The sentence struck the target because that was exactly what he wanted to do. Stand, understand the debts, discover the creditors, threaten whoever needed to be threatened, investigate contracts, cut political heads if necessary. The urgency was there, burning beneath his skin. But he also remembered Ester trembling in his arms, crying that she had spent six months without sleep. He remembered Elizabeth crossing her arms to hide fear. He remembered Xue Lian telling him to be whole.

So he breathed.

Slowly.

”I did not come to fix everything today.”

Morgana stared at him, suspicious.

”You cannot even stand.”

”That helps with the promise.”

Aria released a short laugh and immediately covered her mouth when Morgana looked at her. Ester, beside her, kept the expression of someone ready to drag Damon back down the corridor if he showed any intention of physical heroism.

Damon continued, now looking directly at Morgana. ”I came because I needed to see you.”

The hardness in her face wavered.

Only a little.

But it wavered.

”You should have waited.”

”Probably.”

”You should be in bed.”

”Technically, I am still in a chair, so it is a controlled improvement.”

”Damon.”

”I know.”

He held the edge of the chair with his hand, not to rise, but to keep himself steady. ”I heard you took over Arven. Heard about the debts. Heard about your father. Heard you are trying to carry everything alone and pretending that is government.”

Morgana looked away first.

That was answer enough.

”Do not speak as if you understand.”

”I do not understand everything.”

”Then do not speak.”

”I understand enough to recognize someone sinking into work because stopping means feeling.”

Silence fell over the office.

Ingrivid looked at the floor.

Aria pressed her lips together.

Ester closed her eyes for an instant.

Elizabeth simply watched Morgana, not with judgment, but with an ancient sadness.

Morgana remained motionless before Damon, and for a moment it seemed she would shout. Perhaps order him away. Perhaps say something cruel enough to push everyone out before any crack opened. The Duchess of Arven had enough arguments, authority, and exhaustion for that.

But she said nothing.

She only breathed irregularly.

Damon spoke more quietly. ”I do that too.”

Morgana laughed once, without joy. ”I know.”

”Then you know it does not work.”

”It works for a few hours.”

”And then it charges interest.”

The phrase seemed to pass directly through the subject of contracts and strike something far more personal. Morgana looked at the papers scattered across the floor, then at the desk, then at her own hands. Perhaps she realized, in that instant, that she was surrounded by the same kind of debt she was trying to negotiate: accumulated obligations, delayed suffering, emotional interest growing while she pretended to control everything.

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them, there were tears in them, but none fell.

”I cannot stop.”

Damon answered without hesitation. ”I did not ask you to stop.”

”Then what do you want?”

”I want you to sit.”

Morgana looked at him as if the suggestion were offensive.

”That is ridiculous.”

”Yes.”

”Childish.”

”Maybe.”

”It solves nothing.”

”Probably not.”

”Then why?”

Damon raised his hand and pointed to the chair beside him. The movement was slow, but firm. ”Because I just woke up after six months, crossed the corridor in a chair with three medical jailers and an authoritarian vampire, and I am asking you to sit with me for five minutes before you go back to pretending you can defeat the financial system alone.”

Aria whispered to Ester, ”He is better than I expected.”

Ester answered in the same tone, ”Unfortunately, his mouth remains functional.”

Morgana heard.

And somehow, that broke the last piece of resistance.

She released a trembling breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob, and then sat in the chair beside him with a weight that seemed far greater than her own body. The moment she sat, her posture collapsed just a little. Not completely. Morgana was still Morgana. But enough to reveal that she was too tired to continue pretending in front of everyone.

Damon said nothing for a few seconds.

He only extended his hand.

Morgana looked at it.

Then took it.

Her fingers were warm.

His were cold.

Neither of them seemed to care.

Elizabeth discreetly turned to the desk and began collecting some papers from the floor, giving them a little space without truly leaving. Aria helped, trying to organize documents without understanding half the notes. Ester remained close to Damon, because apparently medical trust was still suspended until further notice. Ingrivid returned to the door, but her eyes were less hard than before.

Morgana held Damon’s hand tightly.

”You are alive,” she said, as if she still needed to confirm it aloud.

”I am.”

”You came back.”

”I came back.”

”Idiot.”

”Also.”

She finally allowed one tear to fall.

Only one.

Then another.

And then, without warning, she leaned forward and rested her forehead on his shoulder, careful not to press too hard. Damon closed his eyes when he felt her weight there. It was not a full hug, not yet. It was something more tired, more broken, more true. As if both of them were merely trying to prove they still existed in the same world.

”I cannot do this,” Morgana murmured against him.

Damon squeezed her hand.

”You can.”

”Not like this.”

”Then do not do it like this.”

She was silent.

He continued, low enough that it seemed like a conversation between the two of them, though everyone in the office could probably hear. ”You do not need to carry Arven like a punishment. Not your father. Not the dead. Not the guilt for what she did. You took over as duchess, not as a tomb.”

Morgana trembled.

It was small.

But he felt it.

”You do not know what she left.”

”Then show me. After I rest. After you sleep. After everyone here stops pretending collapse is strategy.”

Elizabeth, collecting papers near the desk, commented without raising her eyes, ”That phrase should be embroidered somewhere in the mansion.”

Aria nodded with exaggerated seriousness. ”I support it. Maybe in the office. In big letters. With threatening glitter.”

Ester looked at her. ”Threatening glitter does not exist.”

”It does if you throw it in someone’s eyes.”

Damon let out a low laugh, and so did Morgana, though hers came mixed with tears. The sound was small, almost wounded, but it changed the office noticeably. For a few seconds, the room stopped being a battlefield. It was still full of debts, threats, and horrible documents, but there were people there. Living people. Tired people. People who could, perhaps, share the weight.

Morgana slowly raised her head and wiped her face with the back of her hand, immediately looking irritated that she had cried. ”I hate all of you.”

Aria raised a document. ”That is fair, but this contract here hates you more.”

Elizabeth took the paper from her hand. ”Aria, you are holding an inventory of apples.”

”Apples can be politically aggressive.”

From the door, Ingrivid murmured, ”In this duchy, apparently everything can.”

Morgana took a deep breath and looked at Damon again. The fragility was still there, but now there was something different in her face. Not a solution. Not complete relief. Only the first crack in the wall she had built around herself.

”You are going back to bed,” she said.

Damon nodded. ”Yes.”

”You are going to rest.”

”Yes.”

”You are going to obey Ester.”

He hesitated.

Ester immediately tilted her head, threatening.

”Yes,” Damon corrected more quickly.

Morgana squeezed his fingers one last time. ”And afterward...”

”Afterward,” Damon said, ”you are going to tell me everything. Without trying to look invincible.”

She looked down at his hand still holding hers.

”I cannot promise I will manage.”

”I also did not promise to walk by myself today.”

”That does not reassure me.”

”We are all working with low goals.”

Morgana laughed again, weak and real.

And in that office suffocated by debts, contracts, and ghosts, that felt like a victory too small to save Arven, but large enough to save that night.