NOVPUBThe crystal screen flickered once, then steadied.
Erina's image returned, clutching his chest, trembling, her face half-buried in his shoulder. She looked small in that moment. Unmade. Beautiful in her ruin.
Leonhardt sipped from his glass, the wine deep red, nearly black in the dim light of the citadel chamber.
"She ran to you," Zafira murmured, stretched across the lounge couch beside him, legs crossed, golden eyes half-lidded. "Didn't even hesitate."
"Of course she didn't." Leonhardt tilted the glass, watching the liquid swirl. "The Church brought the knife. I just took it away."
The pair were watching the current situation from the throne room created in the goblin citadel, massive mana stone screens that showed moments of the past and the current situation in Arlet, the temple and places where Griv set them up in Astrea.
It was a miracle he hacked the existing mana stone lights to grant more visuals on the city, which was now in chaos.
Sylvie sat on his lap, resting her head against his chest while using her cold, icy aura to chill his wine and the heat from Asuka, who sat on the other side, burning with a fiery heat.
"Master, is this the best choice?" She asked, while watching the screen beside him, her breath slowing as she saw Erina in her new room crying.
Asuka leaned back on the opposite end, bottle in hand, legs spread unapologetically wide. "So she's yours now?"
Leonhardt's lips curled.
"Not yet," he said. "But she's past the edge. She has nowhere else to fall."
Zafira hummed, lifting her glass. "And when she breaks?"
Leonhardt raised his own.
"I'll be the only one left to catch her."
[Leon, I don't think you should forget that humans are dangerous.]
Ifrit's voice rolled hot, edged in scorn. She appeared in flickers of flame and crimson silk, arms folded beneath her chest, scowling at the screens.
[That woman—Erina—she's soft. She'll falter. And then she'll cling. You already know what kind of mess that makes.]
(Mmm… but isn't that exactly why he likes her~?)
Dravanna's voice drifted in smooth and slow. Her black scales coiled like ink around Leonhardt's soul, wings folded like a waiting breath.
(Watching her mind crack… watching her tremble while begging not to like it… It's adorable. And you enjoyed it. Didn't you, my little Leo?)
Leonhardt exhaled once through his nose.
"She'll come to me on her knees," he said aloud. "But not because I demand it."
He tilted his goblet, finishing the wine.
"She'll offer herself," he said. "Because I'll be the only truth she has left."
Zafira didn't smile. But she didn't argue.
Sylvie closed her eyes again, resting quietly.
And Asuka only muttered, "Just don't make her cry too much..."
Leonhardt couldn't forget that Asuka and Sylvie adored Erina, but they also wanted her to be free of the church.
However at this rate, her fixation to the church would become a fixation to Leonhardt or his Incubus cock.
"I promise, she isn't Dia..."
He paused while groping the soft, meaty thighs of the jealous and worried dragonoid.
"I don't want to break her too much, just enough that she'll accept everything."
——
The door closed with a sharp click, but when she checked, there was no bolt or way to lock it, and neither did the outside lock it.
Erina's eyes widened as she stood in place, her fingers stroking the wooden door, with trembling fingers. She hadn't asked to be left alone. No one told her whether the door would lock. No one told her anything.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
She stepped forward cautiously. The stone beneath her feet wasn't rough like she expected. A thin rug covered most of it—wool, hand-woven, probably goblin-made, but clean. Soft.
Her eyes moved across the room.
A bed—modest, but neatly made. A nightstand. A table with a single chair. A folded blanket. A basin of warm water that still steamed faintly. A teacup. A book.
She recognised the title.
She used to read it during her temple nights, curled near the window, heart too restless for sleep.
Her breath hitched.
It wasn't a coincidence.
Leonhardt clearly prepared everything before she arrived. Not for a guest. Not for a prisoner.
For her.
Erina walked to the chair and touched the cup. Her fingers hovered above the rim. It was still warm. Her favourite tea. The scent was exact—ginger and wildfruit. She pulled her hand back.
Her stomach turned.
She looked around again. Slowly. The walls were unmarked. No sigils. No magic shackles. No iron bars. She wasn't trapped.
And yet she had never felt more watched.
Why is everything so clean? So… gentle?
She didn't want comfort. She wanted clarity. She wanted someone to shout, to strike her, to remind her she was still at war with herself.
But this wasn't punishment.
It was worse.
This was seduction.
"Why is he doing this…?"
She sat at the edge of the bed. Her fingers curled in her lap. The pillow beside her was down-stuffed, the kind nobles slept on.
She bit her lip.
She didn't cry.
But her throat ached.
Erina stared at the door.
Not because she wanted to run.
But because she couldn't tell if part of her wanted it to open again.
And bring him back in.
Time passed. She wasn't sure how much.
The tea went cold.
The basin's steam faded.
Erina didn't move, still sitting on the bed. Her hands remained pressed flat against her thighs; she rubbed the fabric of her robe in anxiety. Although she sat with a perfect posture, Erina's heart and mind were anything but ideal.
But she didn't feel holy anymore.
Her heart beat slower now, but heavier. Each thump in her chest felt like guilt echoing in her bones.
I drew a weapon on the Church.
She'd never done that before. Never even imagined it.
Even when they lied, even when they judged without hearing her, even when they called her father a traitor—
She had still hesitated.
Until he appeared.
Until Leonhardt caught that blade, effortless. As if the knights were nothing. As if the world had bent to him, and she had simply followed.
No… I didn't follow him. I…
But her throat caught on the next thought.
She had run to him.
She threw herself into his arms.
Because he felt safe?
No.
Because he was the only one who hadn't condemned her.
Her eyes burned.
Not with tears, but with shame. Because somewhere inside Erina, past the fear and the grief, there was a small, unwelcome whisper:
He warned me.
She clenched her fists tighter. Her nails bit into her skin.
He knew. He always knew.
And worse—he had made her want to believe him.
Even now, in this room he'd prepared, with her favourite book, her favourite tea, the quiet comfort of a place that felt more like home than the temple ever did—
She didn't know if she could fight it.
Because he hadn't forced her.
He hadn't touched her.
He just waited.
And she… came willingly.
Her knees trembled as she stood.
The room swayed in her vision, causing her to lean on the table, almost spilling the fresh tea on the floor as it dripped into the basin, cold and wasted. She watched the golden liquid flow through the drain as it vanished.
Erina gazed at her reflection in the still water, with wide eyes, pink cheeks, and a pair of bright blue eyes, a woman who didn't know what to do anymore.
Not a Saintess.
Not a servant.
Just a lost woman...
——
Meanwhile, as Erina suffered, Leonhardt finally made a move.
The citadel gates opened to the cold morning wind.
Leonhardt stepped through first, boots striking the stone path with a rhythm that didn't slow. A long black cloak trailed behind him, open over a high-collared tunic that shimmered with dungeon thread. Sunlight hadn't yet reached the lowlands. But the goblins were already moving.
Ranks formed—dozens at first, then more. Painted armour. Jagged blades. Their eyes glittered in the low light—no two faces the same, yet all watching him.
Gobbolas and Gobomir both stood behind, with bright faces. Their squires and trainees formed two small units.
Above, the horns blared.
Below, the ground rumbled.
Behind him, Dia followed with heavy steps—chains tight around her wrists, collar locked to the iron loop at the back of his belt. She didn't resist. She didn't speak. Her head stayed low, hair covering her eyes. The mark on her neck still glowed faintly where his magic had touched her.
She was silent.
But he could feel her staring at his back.
Not in hatred.
In hunger.
[Leon, don't forget what she did. If she falters, she dies.]Ifrit's voice smouldered through his chest. [A tool that cracks isn't a tool anymore.]
(Let her fall a little more, darling~)Dravanna's whisper slid under his skin. (She's already addicted. Why not break her in public?)
Leonhardt said nothing aloud.
He didn't need to.
They reached the final slope that overlooked the outpost road—below them, the muddy stretch toward Astrea, still smoking in the distance. The city was choking on blood and fire, just as planned.
"Dia," he said without turning.
She twitched.
He felt the chain pull slightly.
Her breath quickened.
"You're going to help me find Endo," he said. "You're going to smile for the nice guards. And when he opens the door... you're going to walk through it."
Dia didn't answer.
He stopped walking.
Turned.
She froze.
Then met his eyes—slowly, trembling.
Leonhardt smiled, calm as ever.
"Which one felt better?" he asked softly. "Your lover's little thing... or the cock that made you drink from your knees?"
Dia's lips parted—but no sound came out.
Her cheeks flushed, as she turned red, her body reacting to the incubus pheromones as she dropped her eyes.
And she whimpered the moment Leonhardt's fingers slid across her thigh.
Just once, softly, almost painful. 𝘯𝘰𝑣𝘱𝑢𝘣.𝑐𝑜𝑚
He turned again and continued walking.
The chain rattled behind him.
