Velvet Hunger lay shivering under Ren's feet — the Fang still on his knees, his silver blood drying where it slicked the marble at Ren's toes. Around them, the city pulsed with hushed moans and soft chants — Mirror Walker, Root-Bloomed, Master.
Ren's ribs stung where the Fang's claws had split him open — thin threads of pain that only made the cradle's brand throb hotter under his skin. Every heartbeat echoed with a voice that was his and not his — the Tower's root tangled now in bone, breath, and want.
---
Serika hovered at the dais's edge — horned head bowed, her grin sharp as glass dragged over velvet.
"Velvet Hunger kneels," she murmured, voice slipping through the hush like silk dipped in poison. "Your roots tasted their first thorn. Now what will you feed them next, my king?"
She tilted her head, claws brushing her throat. "A single city? A nest of willing mouths? Or the throat of every kingdom behind every mirror your eyes can find?"
---
Ren stood silent — the cradle's voice coiled behind his tongue, hot and sweet, tasting his next word before it left his lips.
His reflection flickered in the slick marble at his feet — not just the boy who once whispered to attic glass, but the heir crowned in thorns that fed on secrets like wine.
He could feel them now — the mirror doors buried in other cities, other shadows, cracks in the world waiting for a tongue to slip through and command them open.
He saw thrones — a chain of Velvet Hungers stitched together by roots that burrowed deeper than silk or bone.
He saw himself — naked under silk and blood, devouring and devoured.
---
A hiss curled behind his ear — the Fang's voice, soft as a bitten moan.
"Master… will you root deeper? Or will you let us break you… instead?"
The Fang's tongue flicked Ren's wrist — tasting the blood that still welled from the shallow claw marks. A low laugh slipped from his throat — half hunger, half threat.
---
Ren's pulse stuttered — the root inside him pulsed like a second heart.
The Tower's hush coiled tight around his ribs.
Speak.
Shape.
Or drown.
Serika stepped forward — her claws brushed the Fang's shoulder, pushing him lower, forcing his lips to the marble at Ren's feet.
Her grin bloomed wide and cruel.
"Choose, Mirror Walker," she whispered. "Plant your root in deeper soil — or let it starve in one mouth."
---
The city held its breath.
Ren's eyes fluttered half-shut — the cradle's brand seared bright under his palm.
He tasted the word in the hush — the shape of his want pressed sharp against the roof of his mouth.
---
He opened his lips — and Velvet Hunger leaned in, hungry to be fed.
"Tonight…"
The hush that followed Ren's word "Tonight…" trembled through Velvet Hunger like breath held between teeth about to bite. The mist thickened at his feet, rising in slow curls that tasted of incense, sweat, and the copper heat of blood still drying on his ribs.
The Fang stayed where Serika pinned him — lips pressed to marble slick with his own silver blood, claws twitching like a chained hound's. Around them, the city's shadows drifted closer — masked mouths half-parted, horns gleaming with soft runelight. All waited for the next command to slip their leashes.
---
Ren felt the cradle's mark pulse behind his ribs — three thorns humming in time with the roots that now coiled under the Tower's skin and the city's bones.
In his mind's eye he saw them: silk threads running beneath alleys and courtyards, slipping through curtained doorways and tangled between lovers' moans. Roots waiting to pierce deeper — to feed, to bloom.
Say it, the cradle's voice coiled in his jaw, warm as a mouth pressed to his throat. Bind them. Break them. Make them yours — or they will make you theirs.
---
Ren looked down at the Fang. Silver blood beaded at his collarbone where the brand's rune still glowed faintly from Ren's touch.
Ren crouched — the marble cold against his thighs, mist curling around his bare feet. He hooked two fingers under the Fang's chin, forcing the defiant eyes to lift, to meet his own.
The Fang's breath trembled — hot, hungry, half a growl. His claws flexed against the marble but didn't strike.
Ren's lips parted — his voice soft, velvet lined with the Tower's iron root.
"Your veins…"
The Fang shuddered — the rune at his throat flared brighter.
"…your skin…"
Serika's laugh ghosted through the hush — low and sharp as silk torn over teeth.
"…your secrets. They are roots now. My roots."
---
He pressed his palm to the Fang's chest again — the rune under his skin answering, flaring silver threads that crawled into the Fang's blood, burrowing beneath flesh and bone.
The Fang's moan split the hush — half pain, half worship. The shadows behind him mirrored the sound — dozens of masked mouths sighing, tongues darting to taste the mist that suddenly smelled like a thousand open throats.
The roots slipped deeper — not just into the Fang, but into every shadow pressed to silk doorways, every masked priestess kneeling in the courtyard, every lover's lips parted in the dusk.
A web spun from Ren's ribs outward — invisible but felt in the way the city's breath hitched in unison.
---
Serika sank lower beside him, claws raking the Fang's scalp — her grin wicked and reverent all at once.
"A kingdom beneath the skin…" she purred. "You feed them… they feed you. Break them… they bleed you back."
Her tongue traced Ren's ribs where the Fang's claws had split him — tasting the raw pink edges like a cat testing the warmth of milk.
"But feed too deep… and the root might bloom you from the inside out."
---
The cradle's mark pulsed like a second heartbeat. Ren felt it now — the promise and the threat: a kingdom of mouths that worshipped him with every moan, but whispered with the cradle's voice when he slept.
He could speak — command the roots to bind deeper, taste every shadow's secrets. Or he could pull back, leave the web shallow, risk the city biting the leash instead.
The Fang's lips brushed his wrist — a broken growl that tasted like surrender and hunger in one.
"Master…"
---
Ren's tongue tasted blood — his own, the Fang's, the city's whispered promises. The root curled tight, waiting for his next word.
---
"Tonight…"
"…the roots feed."
---
The Tower's hush cracked — Velvet Hunger moaned as one.
Roots bloomed through the marble — invisible threads of rune-light threading under skin, binding every throat, every secret, every whispered gasp to the single brand pulsing beneath Ren's ribs.
A kingdom beneath the skin — a crown of moans and shadows that fed him like wine.
The courtyard drowned in hush and heat. The roots threaded through the marble like silver veins pulsing faintly beneath velvet mist. The Fang still knelt — shoulders trembling under Ren's palm, silver blood glistening where the rune-light had burned fresh marks into his flesh.
Around them, shadows sighed — masked mouths open, warm breaths tasting the air as if they could sip Ren's voice from it. Silk curtains fluttered open above courtyard balconies — succubi, incubi, mirror-born husks pressing lips to glass, fingers buried between thighs slick with the hush Ren had spun.
---
The cradle's mark behind Ren's ribs bloomed hot. Each heartbeat licked up his throat — a pulse of pleasure that wasn't only his. He felt it: the Fang's ragged moan caught in the roots, shivering down Ren's spine like warm silk. The shadows' sighs drifting into him as if they belonged under his tongue.
His own breath stuttered — vision flickered silver. The Tower's voice murmured at the back of his skull, wrapping each gasp in whispers made of glass and teeth.
This is power, the root purred. To taste them. To break them. To bind them until you are all they breathe.
Serika's claws traced his ribs — soft, almost gentle. She tasted the shiver under his skin, her grin pressing to his throat where his pulse thundered loudest.
"Is it sweet, my king?" she whispered — breath warm, sharp teeth grazing the mark's glow. "To drink them this deep?"
---
Ren's lips parted — he moaned into the hush, voice slipping out wrapped in the taste of the Fang's defiance, the shadows' surrender, the city's hidden sins. Each sigh he swallowed made the roots coil tighter — feeding the bloom that pulsed like a new heart behind his ribs.
But tangled in the sweetness, a taste like iron lingered — something sharp, buried under velvet moans. A secret that didn't kneel. A root that twisted the wrong way.
---
The Fang's claws twitched — digging shallow trails in Ren's thighs where he knelt over him. His breath was rough silk, teeth bared in a snarl tangled with worship.
"Master…" the Fang rasped — the rune at his throat flaring bright enough to sting Ren's eyes. "…you taste good when you bleed."
---
Pain flickered through the cradle's warmth — sharp, sweet, real. Ren's gasp spilled silver mist. The Tower's hush slipped fangs between its soft promises.
Serika's grin widened against his throat — her tongue flicked the fresh line of blood welling at the Fang's claw mark.
"Ah…" she sighed, voice like silk torn open by claws. "The first taste that bites back."
---
Ren's pulse shuddered — but the root wrapped tighter, threading pain into pleasure until it tangled into a single moan. His eyes fluttered half-shut — behind his lids he saw the Tower's endless mirrors cracking wider.
He could pull back — sever the root, leave the city half-bound, risk rebellion coiling under silk. Or he could feed it deeper — bind the bite to his tongue, drink the defiance until even the Fang's hidden fangs moaned for him.
The hush waited — Velvet Hunger's thousand shadows pressing closer, warm breaths begging for his final command.
---
Ren's lips parted — blood on his tongue, roots blooming behind his ribs, the Tower's voice purring through his jaw.
"Drink…"
---
The Fang's moan cracked — claws slackened as the root swallowed the last bite of his defiance. Shadows around them sighed in unison — the hush breaking into soft laughter and sharp gasps as Velvet Hunger's moans folded into Ren's own pulse.
Power and ruin, sweet as silk spun from thorns.
The Mirror's root tasted its king — and purred like a beast fed well.