The Word Devours Me Before I Speak It

Kai:

Midday at Ashwyck is always dim, even with the sun overhead. The windows in Isadora’s scriptorium turn every beam of light into grey-green daggers; dust moves through them like pale ghosts. I’m the only one here. Everyone else is in class, doing the usual dance of power and posture.

I should be in class too.

But I’m not.

My eyes burn from sleeplessness. The book under my hands blurs for a second before coming back into focus. I can smell her still — Isadora’s perfume, faint but clinging to the shelves from how often she lingers here. When she’s not in her bed or haunting the shadow cloaked academy halls, she’s here, in the maze of parchment and ink, reading like she’s trying to swallow the world whole.

My hands curl tighter on the book. The truth presses against my teeth, but I don’t dare speak it aloud. Not yet.

I flip another brittle page.

I’ve been at this for hours — days, if you count the sleepless nights. Cross-referencing grimoires with bestiaries, folklore with prophecy. Blood types, lineage records, elemental attributes. Anything. Everything.

Because she’s changing.

I’ve seen it in her hands — the way she calls fire, the way shadows lean to her, the way Rhett’s wolf answered when he offered his bond. Magic doesn’t work like that. Not even for the royals. Not even for me.

She isn’t learning. She’s absorbing.

And it scares me.

I scrub a hand over my face. My glamour is slipping — I can feel the shimmer of it thinning, my real skin beneath too raw. I should rest, but the hunger to know keeps me going. This isn’t idle curiosity. This is survival.

Her survival.

My heart kicks hard in my chest. The ink on the page looks darker, like it’s been burned there. My fingers track the lines anyway, lips moving as I read.

“When the High are many but the Tamer is one, beware: what is given freely is never returned. The Tamer devours the High, her hunger cloaked in innocence. Her kiss is unbinding, her touch is claim.”

The words crawl under my skin like insects.

I turn the page. Another fragment, older, in a language that tastes like iron when I mutter it aloud.

“Succubare, devorare. The Tamer walks in beauty and consumes. Blood, fire, shadow, wind—no one power hers, but all entwined. She takes not by theft but by gift unknowing. In her veins sleeps the hunger of the old world. The one who tames will be the one who ends.”

My throat tightens.

I know what this is.

Not some fable. Not a cautionary tale. A prophecy. One whispered about in the older texts, the ones Headmistress keeps locked in her office. I’ve only ever seen hints of it. Until now.

And it names her.

It doesn’t use her name, but it doesn’t have to. I see Isadora in every line. The way she blooms under each lesson like it’s been waiting inside her. The way she pulls shadows to her like they’re old friends. The way Rhett’s power folded into her like it belonged.

She isn’t learning.

She’s devouring.

Succubus.

The word rattles in my head like a key in a lock. It’s almost a relief to name it — like pressing a wound to stop the bleeding. But the relief lasts only a breath. Then the weight of it crashes down.

I lean back in the chair, wood creaking under me. The high shelves loom over me like judgment. My hands tremble around the edge of the page.

A succubus isn’t just hunger in flesh. This prophecy, calamity. They don’t just feed on desire — they pull power, will, essence. Piece by piece. She is doing the same. Without knowing. Without malice.

That’s why she’s learning so fast.

That’s why the shadows whisper louder around her now.

That’s why Rhett’s bond looked more like surrender than protection.

My heart twists. I’m not supposed to feel this. I’m supposed to be clear-headed. But all I can think about is her face when she laughs, rare and soft, like sunlight breaking through the graveyard fog. How she looked in the meadow with me, just days ago, when she let her guard drop enough to kiss me back.

And I know — know — that some of that softness was already her hunger brushing against me, unknowing.

I should tell the others.

I should.

But I don’t.

Because once I say it, it’s real. And once it’s real, I can’t unsay it. And gods help me, part of me doesn’t want to share this with them at all. This terrible, dangerous secret sitting like a stone in my chest — it’s mine for now. Mine alone.

I close the book gently, like it might explode. My reflection stares back at me in the blackened window pane. My glamour has thinned so much I can see the flicker of my true self beneath — the gold glow dimmed, hair mussed, eyes ringed with exhaustion.

“You’re not ready,” I whisper, though I don’t know if I’m speaking to her or to myself.

The scriptorium creaks softly, as though the shelves have leaned closer to listen.

Outside, the wind picks up. A thin howl presses against the glass. I rub my thumb over the word succubare again, until the ink smudges onto my skin like ash.

This is why she’s dangerous. This is why the prophecy was buried.

Not because she’s evil.

Because she’s inevitable.

And because of what she’s making me feel.

My stomach clenches. The hunger I’ve been ignoring for days — the ache just under my ribs — swells, answering hers. It’s not just desire. It’s something older, sharper. It wants to claim her, mark her, keep her from the others. Even as I know that’s exactly what the prophecy warns about — the Tamer devours, but she also binds.

I shove the thought away, stand too fast. The chair screeches across the stone floor. My vision swims for a second, then steadies.

I can’t let her see this in me.

Not yet.

I gather the books into a stack, careful, quiet. My fingers are shaking. The dust in the air tastes like iron and roses. I glance at the door once, half-expecting Lucian to be there, or Rhett, or Silas, watching me like they already know. But it’s empty.

Empty except for me, and the words, and the hunger in my chest.

I press my palms to the table and close my eyes.

Think.

If she’s a succubus — a Tamer — then everything she’s learned so far isn’t learned at all. It’s been given. Power poured into her willingly, unknowingly. Which means every lesson we’ve taught her has been a thread in the net. We’ve been feeding the very thing we’re supposed to be protecting.

My breath comes fast.

I can’t tell them. Not yet.

Not until I understand what the prophecy means by devour.

Not until I know if she’s meant to end us — or save us.

The shadows in the corners shift, slow and sinuous, like smoke under a door. I open my eyes and stare at them until they still.

“Not yet,” I murmur again.

I slip the book back onto the shelf, the one place I know she’ll find it if she goes looking. My fingers linger on the spine, unwilling to let go, like it’s a lifeline.

Then I straighten, roll my shoulders back, smooth my expression until it’s just the faint, polite smile I always wear. The mask goes on easily now, a second skin.

I leave the scriptorium.

The hall outside is bright compared to the gloom, but the light doesn’t touch me. My shadow stretches long ahead of me, sharp-edged, and for a moment I swear it moves differently than I do.

I walk faster.

I tell myself this is for her. That keeping it secret buys me time to understand. That my silence is protection.

But under it all, deeper than the dread, there’s something else. A spark of hunger that isn’t entirely mine.

Her hunger.

And it’s already inside me. Pulling me to her.