Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users - Chapter 386

Chapter 386: Then The Feast Begins 2

Deacon kept his forehead pressed against the stone floor. The surface was rough, biting into his skin, but he didn’t move.

His knees dug into the ash scattered across the chamber, and the dust clung to his clothes, coating them in a dull gray film that scratched against his skin every time he shifted the smallest bit.

He stayed as still as he could, trying to make himself smaller, trying not to stand out like a child might hide in the corner of a room.

The gods’ voices had faded minutes ago, but their echo still clung to the air. They were gone in sound but not in weight.

Deacon could feel them in his chest, pressing down on every breath until it hurt to inhale. He thought if he tried to breathe too deeply, his ribs might snap under the pressure.

Even the air tasted heavy, like it carried the edge of iron and smoke with it, reminding him that he didn’t belong here in the first place.

The silence that followed was worse than the voices. The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick, like the whole chamber was holding its breath, waiting for one small mistake.

He didn’t dare let his own heartbeat get too loud. He knew what could happen if he drew their attention again. He’d seen it before—too many times.

The ash around him wasn’t dirt. It was what was left of men who had been noticed for too long, men who thought they could stand steady under the gaze of gods and had been proven wrong in the space of a single breath.

The smell of burned flesh and old blood still clung to the walls. It was strong enough to make his throat tighten.

Every time he inhaled, he wanted to cough, but even that small noise felt like it could get him killed. So he held it down, forcing his lungs to keep quiet.

He had come here to deliver news, but now he carried something else. Something he hadn’t planned to bring.

And as much as he wanted to drop it and run, he couldn’t. Fear wasn’t enough to smother it. With slow, shaking movements, he lifted one hand off the floor.

His arm trembled badly, like it wasn’t even his own. The thing he held almost slipped free, but he kept his fingers open, steadying them with every bit of control he had left.

His voice came out raw and cracked, each word scraping his throat.

“My lords…” He pressed his forehead harder into the stone. “When I came here, this appeared before me.”

A folded letter rested in his palm. The paper was dark and smooth, sealed with black wax that gleamed faintly as though it were wet.

No crest marked it. No design showed where it had come from. Nothing about it looked human.

What made the room colder wasn’t how it looked, though. It was the faint shimmer that rose from it, almost invisible but unmistakable.

It carried a breath that didn’t belong to any mortal. A god’s touch.

It wasn’t a violent force. It didn’t roar or rage. It was quiet. Patient. Steady. But that was worse.

It was the kind of presence that reminded him his bones could snap in an instant, that nothing about his body could resist it if it wanted to press down harder.

The chamber itself seemed to tilt slightly around it, the air bending strangely, the cold spreading deeper.

Both gods turned their attention to it. Their gaze alone made his skin crawl, as though needles had pricked every inch of him at once.

Behind them, the floating map of Earth still hovered, glowing faint red with veins of light. Smoke drifted faintly from the mouths of cultists who had screamed themselves dry.

Even the map seemed weaker now, the glow shrinking back, as though it too knew something greater had entered the chamber.

The silence wasn’t just silence anymore. Deacon realized it was listening.

Valakar shifted first. The massive god lowered his head, his eyes glowing faintly as they focused.

One clawed hand lifted, each talon longer than Deacon’s arm. The letter rose from his palm without touch, floating upward as though it had been waiting for him.

The claws closed gently around it, holding it steady. His voice followed, deep enough to vibrate through the stone floor.

“Divine breath. Open. Unhidden. Deliberate.”

Drosirael moved in response. His cloak of shadows hissed as it scraped against the ground, blades whispering against each other.

His voice was sharp, thin, cutting across the chamber. “A letter? To you, Valakar? Someone without the courage to show themselves, tossing words instead? Perhaps bait.

Perhaps a trick. Perhaps nothing but a waste. Burn it. Let the ash have it. Only weakness hides behind paper.”

Valakar didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed locked on the faint glow of the seal. The wax pulsed softly in his hand, alive in some way that was hard to name.

His words came slowly, each one sinking heavily into the air. “Burning divine words is never simple. Ignore them, and a chain forms.

Tear them, and old debts return. To receive a god’s breath and throw it away…” His other hand tightened on the throne, claws cracking through bone.

“…is to invite burdens even I will not carry.”

The map flickered faintly, as if agreeing.

Drosirael’s smirk shifted, smaller now, but he didn’t move back. The edges of his cloak curled inward, blades pressing close to his form.

“So you would open it,” he said, voice softer. “You, only just risen from centuries of sleep.

What if the sender is someone you forgot? An old debt you buried in dust? What if this is something you cannot face now?”

Valakar’s eyes dimmed to faint embers, then flared bright again like fire catching. His reply was calmer than before, but the calm carried more weight than rage ever could.

“Then I will remember.”

Deacon swallowed hard. His throat felt like it echoed in the silence. His whole body trembled, muscles aching from trying to stay still.

Valakar’s gaze finally broke from the letter and landed on him. That glance crushed him, pressing his chest flat against the stone.

“You’ve done your duty,” Valakar said. The words weren’t thanks. They were final. “When the march begins, you will walk at the front.”

The meaning hit Deacon in two ways at once. Pride surged through him at being chosen, the honor of being seen.

But it was poisoned by terror, because walking at the front meant being the first seen by enemies, the first to fall.

Honor and death wrapped in the same sentence. His voice shook, but he forced it out anyway. “Yes, my lord.”

Valakar lifted one hand. The shadows that filled the chamber thickened and pushed Deacon backward.

They carried him slowly, firmly, toward the bone doors at the end of the hall. He moved with them, head still bowed, never daring to rise. He shuffled backward until the doors closed behind him, sealing him out into the dark.

The silence stretched again. Inside, only the hiss of Drosirael’s cloak and the crackle of burning remains filled the hall.

Valakar raised his clawed hand. The letter floated higher, the seal cracking apart without touch.

Black flakes drifted down like ash, vanishing before they hit the floor. The folded paper spread open in the air, glowing faintly with light that wasn’t fire.

Words formed across the page. They were not written but burned into being, glowing faint gold. They shifted constantly, resisting mortal eyes, but they stayed long enough to be read.

The first line etched itself clear:

“If you do anything to that world again. A few of my close friends and I will make sure that you sleep forever.”

The chamber froze. The map flickered like a breath had gone through it. Even the last cultists alive, their bodies broken and their prayers weak, fell silent under the weight of the words.

Drosirael’s cloak lashed once. His blades scraped together with a hiss like knives on stone. His voice rang out sharp, anger covering unease.

“Empty threats. Nothing more. The same riddles our enemies always used when they were too weak to fight.

Old tricks to keep us staring at shadows. Burn it and scatter the ashes. Riddles hide nothing but fear.”

Valakar didn’t move his eyes from the letter. The glowing words pulsed once, brightening, then dimmed again like slow breathing.

His voice came quieter now, but colder. “No. Not tricks. Not weakness. This is not a challenge. This is a reminder.”

Drosirael tilted his head slightly, lips curling back. “A reminder of what?”

Valakar’s claws dug into the throne, splitting it further under his grip. His eyes burned sharper as he spoke.

“Of debts I have forgotten.”

The letter pulsed once more, steady now, like it agreed.

The silence that followed wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t a victory.

It was the weight of something else, something watching, something they hadn’t expected, stepping into the chamber without asking.

The cultists still alive pressed themselves flat against the floor. None dared to breathe loud enough to draw notice.

Even the map hovered without a sound, its glow dulled as though it didn’t want to interrupt.

Valakar’s claws flexed against the letter, and the faint glow of the words stayed steady, unyielding. The weight in the air didn’t fade.

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