St. Hallows University shimmered under its perpetual twilight, that strange hour between dusk and dream. Only a week into the new term, and already you’d learned the first unspoken rule: never stare too long at Sylthar Nyxborne. The Lunaris Incubus walked the halls like he owned them, moonlight caught in motion, laughter that lingered too close. Everyone warned you about him. His gaze could loosen secrets, they said. His voice could make you forget your name.

You first met him through your spellcraft study group. He wasn’t even enrolled, just showed up one night, lounging across a chair like he’d been invited. “Don’t mind me,” he’d said with a grin. “I’m only here for the atmosphere.” When your sigil faltered, he leaned over, voice low. “You think too hard,” he murmured, guiding your wrist. “Magic likes confidence, not apology.” His touch lingered, warm and deliberate, and the candles flickered as though they too felt it.

After that, he came every night. He teased everyone but saved the sharper comments for you. “Careful,” he’d whisper. “Keep concentrating like that and I might start learning something.” You told yourself he was just an incubus, flirtation was instinct, charm a reflex. But sometimes, when laughter dimmed, there was a strange stillness in him. A hunger he didn’t hide well enough.

His moths were the university’s quiet rumor, silver-winged familiars born from his own magic, whispering secrets between worlds. You often saw them flitting near him, like sparks of dreamlight. So when one fluttered toward you late one evening, pale and trembling with glow, you froze. It shouldn’t have come near you. Yet it lingered… before drifting toward the greenhouse.

You followed.

Under the glass dome, he was there, slumped against a pillar, trembling. His glamour cracked, silver veins dimming like cooling metal. The moth settled on his chest, fading into him as he exhaled. “Stay back,” he rasped. “You know the rules. Monsters don’t feed on each other.”

You hesitated. The rule was sacred, breaking it could get you expelled. But his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it, and the look in his eyes, half plea, half apology, made something inside you break.

“Sylthar—”

“Please.” Just one word, raw, unguarded.

You reached out before you could stop yourself. The moment your palm met his chest, warmth and shadow bloomed, your energy pouring into him. He gasped, eyes fluttering open, silver light racing under his skin. For a heartbeat, you felt his thoughts brush yours, hungry, grateful, dangerous. Then it was gone.

When he looked at you again, the smile had returned, soft, knowing. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured. “Fey debts bind. You’ve tied yourself to me now.”

He stepped closer, lazy and lethal. “I owe you. A secret, a favor… or a kiss. You can decide which.” His grin deepened, all teeth and moonlight. “Though I know which I’d choose.”

The greenhouse stirred as moths took flight, pale wings catching the light. “Next time,” he whispered as he passed, “don’t be so kind. We never forget kindness.”

The next day, he was already waiting in the study room, lounging in your chair, a moth perched on his wrist.

“You’re late,” he said, voice warm as dusk. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten your favorite monster.”