Strongest Incubus System

The orchestra was playing the last songs of the evening, those slow, soft pieces, made only to close the event with a lazy beauty. The ballroom no longer had its frenetic glow of before—a few ladies rested on the sofas, lords conversed in small circles, and the drinks table was almost empty.

Morgana and Damon, finally away from the dance floor, were seated on one of the dark wooden benches near one of the ballroom’s columns. The golden light from the lamps above fell softly on them, painting broad shadows on the polished floor.

She was slightly bent over, breathing as if she had run a half marathon—or wrestled a wild animal.

He was... calm. Legs apart, hands resting on his knees, his expression relaxed as if everything had been part of a very well-calculated plan.

Silence for a few seconds.

Then, Morgana let out a heavy sigh—not angry this time, but... exhausted, yet light.

”I... I have to admit...” she began, crossing her arms just to demonstrate some control, because her gaze was still too hot. ”It was... fun.”

Damon turned his head slowly toward her, like someone posing for a painting.

”Even though you’re a complete disaster at dancing,” she added hastily, quickly glancing at the empty ballroom. ”Which, by the way, remains an outrage. A man your size shouldn’t risk knocking over half the guests.”

He chuckled softly, almost inaudibly.

”I told you I never needed to learn,” Damon replied, tilting his head back, letting his chin point toward the ceiling for a moment. ”But I think...” He looked at her again, with that lazy, condemned look. ”...it was a good experience.”

Her eyes narrowed.

”Good...?” she repeated, trying to sound neutral, but failing.

He gave a slow smile—not provocative at this moment, just honest.

— Dancing with you.

Morgana felt her stomach clench.

She tried to speak. She couldn’t.

She took a deep breath, gathered her composure, raised her chin, and tried again:

— Don’t exaggerate.

Damon merely raised his eyebrows, as if to say, ”Do you really believe that?”

She adjusted her skirt, moving some of the fabric that had crumpled during the dance. It was an automatic—almost nervous—movement.

— I mean... — she tried to continue, barely realizing she was saying too much. — It was bearable. Although you almost killed me two—no, three—times.

— Only twice — he corrected. — The third time you saved me before it happened.

She froze.

And turned her face slowly toward him, surprised.

— You... noticed that?

— Of course — said Damon, without hesitation. — I was looking at you.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Morgana looked away so quickly she could have broken her neck.

”Hm. Great. Great.” She cleared her throat. ”I’m... I’m glad it wasn’t a complete disaster at least.”

Damon watched the way she crossed her arms, as if protecting her own heart without realizing it. The corner of his mouth lifted slowly.

”It wasn’t a disaster at all,” he murmured. ”It was fun.”

She bit the inside of her cheek hard, staring at the floor.

And then, lower than she intended, she said:

”...It was fun for me too.”

Damon turned his face completely to her this time.

”Oh?” he teased gently, leaning a little closer. ”Repeat that. Just one more time. Please.”

Morgana raised her hand and nudged his shoulder hard.

”Don’t push your luck, Demon.”

He laughed. He really laughed. That warm way, which made the shadows on his face move as if they were smiling too.

”It’s alright. I just needed to hear,” he said, leaning back again, but still facing her.

Silence again.

But it was a different kind of silence.

Comfortable.

Intense.

Almost intimate.

Then Morgana sighed and looked at the slowly emptying hall.

”You know... tomorrow they’ll probably talk about it, right? About the dance. About us.”

Damon turned his face back to hers.

”Let them talk.”

She gasped.

”You don’t care?”

”I don’t care when they talk about me,” he replied calmly. ”And as for you...” He leaned in just enough so that his face was slightly turned towards hers. ”You can handle anything.”

Morgana turned her face away—not to run, but because the heat rose up her neck so quickly that she needed a second to keep from giving in.

”Don’t say things like that.”

”Truths?”

”Annoying.”

”Same thing,” he replied, with a smile that was half charm, half provocation, and one hundred percent dangerous.

She took a deep breath and stood up.

Damon followed her with his eyes.

”I’m going to... get some water,” Morgana said, trying to sound indifferent. ”Don’t do anything stupid when I’m not looking.”

”Do you want me to wait?”

She hesitated.

”Just a moment.”

But it was enough for him to notice.

Morgana glanced to the side, as if observing the room, but her voice came out low, almost too gentle for herself:

”...Yes.”

Damon smiled. He said nothing—because for the first time since the night began, he knew that any word could make that small surrender disappear.

He simply nodded slowly.

Morgana left, raising her chin, her posture as perfect as ever.

But the hand holding the hem of her dress trembled just a little.

And Damon watched until she disappeared through the side entrance.

As soon as Morgana disappeared behind the side entrance, Damon took a deep breath—not out of nervousness, but to compose himself. She left a very specific kind of chaos in her wake. A chaos he liked very much.

But before he could even decide whether to cross his legs or rest his arm on the back of the chair, the amplified voice of the announcer cut through the hall like a ceremonial blade.

”Ladies and gentlemen! We thank you all for your presence and will now begin the official announcement of this year’s Knights of Arven!”

The echo echoed through the hall, causing the scattered nobles to straighten their posture. Some discreetly tapped their armrests; others finished their last conversations.

Damon raised his head, purely out of politeness—he wasn’t at all interested in the speech, and certainly didn’t intend to pay attention. He only hoped Morgana would return soon so as not to appear to be... waiting for her.

The announcer continued:

”It is with great honor that we celebrate the young men who have distinguished themselves in bravery, discipline, and promise!”

Damon, still seated, leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His eyes began to wander around the hall... and then upwards.

The second floor. The same one Morgana had been in before.

A figure rushed past...

Then another.

And then—the sound that chilled half the hall before anyone even understood what was happening:

—THEY’VE BROKE INTO THE VAULT!—a shrill scream cut through the air.

The voice was unmistakable.

The Duchess.

The entire hall stopped. Breathed together. Cracked.

The presenter froze mid-sentence.

The ladies let out small squeals.

The men stood up as if someone had pulled invisible cords on their backs.

Damon stood motionless for a second—not because he was surprised, but because he very quickly gauged the magnitude of the problem this represented.

The Duchess shouted again, louder:

—THEY’VE BROKE INTO THE DUKE’S VAULT! THERE’S A THIEF UPSTAIRS!

A guard ran down the upper corridor, shouting orders. Another man appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his mouth agape.

The hall turned into a blazing powder keg.

And Damon...

...just ran a hand over his face.

’Shit... they found out.’ Damon thought, as he began to walk, ’I need to get out of here before they start investigating.’

He stood up slowly, as if not wanting to attract attention, but already feeling he had no choice.

Guards were running everywhere. Nobles were shouting. The presenter was trying to maintain order. And, above all, frantic footsteps echoed on the second floor.

Damon raised his head.

And then he saw—up there—the silhouette of the duchess gripping the balcony railing, her eyes wide, her hair beginning to escape from the tension.

—SOMEONE STOLE! SOMEONE ENTERED THE OFFICE! BRING THE KEYS! LOCK THE DOORS!

She was in absolute panic. Damon... narrowed his eyes.

The moment was perfect.

Chaos.

Too many people running around everywhere.

Lost guards.

No order.

The kind of chaos that made doors open, alternative routes appear, and important people get distracted.

And anyone looking at him would only see a rookie standing in the corner, too useless to cause trouble.

He took one deep breath.

’Looks like I’ll have to take advantage of this mess.’

So, without haste...

Without looking around...

Without drawing attention...

Damon simply moved.

Like a shadow that silently decides to change places.

And while the entire hall was teeming, while guards shouted to close exits and nobles fainted in cushioned chairs...

...he walked in the opposite direction.

Damon glided down the side corridor as if he’d been doing it his whole life—invisible amidst the chaos, present without being noticed. What the hall saw was confusion. What he saw... were opportunities.

And, ironically, no way out.

When the first group of guards closed the main doors, crossing spears, Damon realized the obvious:

’They’re locking everyone inside the mansion.’

He kept walking, trying to avoid the crowd that was beginning to push away from the locked doors. Guards shouted for everyone to stay in the hall. Others rushed up the stairs towards the second floor, where the duchess was roaring hysterical orders.

Damon stayed in the dim light of the narrow corridor leading to the back.

He tried the first door: locked.

He tried a second: sealed with an internal lock.

And the third...

Locked as well.

He pressed his tongue against his canine tooth in irritation.

’Great. They have an emergency protocol. Of course they do. Duke’s house, vault breached...’

It was supposed to be a simple infiltration. A quick robbery. An elegant exit.

Now it was him against an entire locked house.

Still, Damon didn’t seem worried.

Annoyed, yes.

Threatened, no.

He discreetly placed his hand inside the lining of his suit, at rib level.

His fingertips touched the hidden leather compartment.

And inside...

The letter.

The one that no nobleman should ever have allowed to exist.

Damon felt it carefully folded, like a secret heart. Like something that could bring down powerful people—or guarantee he would get away alive from any accusation. He pushed the letter further into the compartment, right into the stitched space that no one would ever find without literally destroying the entire suit.

Perfect. Not even the whole of Arven would find this.

Then he took a deep breath and analyzed the possibilities.

Sneak out through the windows?

Impossible—guards patrolled the garden.

Secret passages?

There would be some, for sure, but he hadn’t mapped any. It was suicide to try.

To leave like a thief?

Not that either. A suspect running amidst the panic would be spotted in seconds.

He needed... to disappear into the crowd.

But not only that.

He needed an alibi.

And that’s when the answer came, clear as a whisper:

Morgana.

The woman who commanded her own presence as if she were a natural authority. The only one who could look at him amidst the chaos and say, ”He was with me the whole time.”

And she believed it, if he made it seem real.

He straightened his posture, adjusted his suit collar, and let his face adopt a... neutral expression.

Calm.

Harmless.

As if nothing had happened.

As if he were simply returning to the ballroom after waiting for her.

And Damon began to walk back to where he had come from.

He passed scattered ladies.

By a lord complaining that ”it wasn’t safe to stay here.”

By two guards running to the second floor without even noticing the tall, elegant freshman crossing the corridor in the opposite direction.

He returned the way he had escaped.

And as the sound of voices from the hall began to draw closer, Damon slowed his pace.

Then he slowed even more.

A silent transformation occurred as he walked:

His shoulders relaxed, his jaw loosened, his steps slowed.

He let the tension—the real tension—drain from his body like water.

By the time he passed through the arch back into the hall, Damon looked like just a young man waiting for his date to return.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

And then—as if fate were conspiring—Morgana appeared on the side of the hall, returning with a glass of water in her hands.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw him.

Her eyes traveled down his suit, up to his face, and narrowed slightly, as if analyzing everything.

”It took you a while to get back,” she commented, without suspicion, just surprised. ”I thought you’d left without me.”

Damon gave a half-smile—enough to alleviate any suspicion, but not too flashy.

”Of course not.” He took a step toward her. ”I said I’d wait.”

Her eyes softened.

Just a little.

And in that instant, amidst all the chaos, guards running, people screaming, and the duchess roaring orders upstairs... Morgana became exactly what Damon needed her to be.

His perfect alibi.

Without even realizing it.

He extended his hand to her, in a natural gesture, as if nothing were happening around them.

”Is everything alright?” he asked, as if he were just a gentleman concerned about the lady he had left alone for a few minutes.

She nodded, moving closer.

And nobody—absolutely nobody—could have imagined that at that very moment...

The thief was in the middle of the hall.

Calm.

Breathing normally.

And with the evidence of the crime tucked against his own heart.

Damon tilted his head toward the commotion upstairs.

”Did something happen while you were gone?”

He asked this as if genuinely curious.

And Morgana looked at the scandal with an irritated sigh—not worried, not alarmed, just impatient with the chaos.

”Nothing.”