Strongest Incubus System-Chapter 205: Meeting in Myrath

The center of Myrath opened before them like a living organism.

The large square was wide and circular, paved with light-colored stones worn by time, forming irregular patterns that told a story no one else fully remembered. In the center, an ancient fountain gushed crystal-clear water from the mouths of sculpted lions, and children ran around it, laughing, wetting their hands, completely oblivious to the political weight that city carried on its shoulders.

The air was a mosaic of smells—freshly baked bread, warm spices, grilled meat, cheap incense, human sweat. Sounds overlapped: vendors hawking wares, musicians improvising melodies, lively discussions, hurried footsteps.

Morgana slowed her pace without realizing it.

Her eyes scanned everything with almost reverent attention.

"So..." she murmured. "This is what happens when people aren’t kneeling or calculating every word."

Damon walked beside her, his hands in his pockets, attentive to his surroundings without seeming tense. "Myrath is like that," she replied. "Too noisy to conspire in silence. The plots here need to shout to survive."

She gave a small smile.

"You speak like someone who’s gotten into trouble in this square."

"Once or twice," he admitted. "Nothing very heroic. Usually involving food or stupid bets."

Morgana gave him a curious look.

"Betting on what?"

"Absolutely anything," he replied. "Who could drink the fastest. Which musician would miss the next note. Whether a merchant was lying about the origin of the silk."

"And you won?"

"A few times. Other times..." he made a vague gesture. "I learned to run away."

She laughed.

It wasn’t restrained. It wasn’t discreet.

It was a genuine, light laugh that seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised him.

Damon glanced sideways for a moment, as if confirming that it was real.

"It’s strange," Morgana said, resuming her walk. "You know this city better than I do."

"You knew Myrath as a concept," he replied. "I knew it as a place."

She pondered this silently.

"Maybe I’ve spent too much time looking at maps," she admitted. "Maps don’t smell like this. They don’t make noise."

They crossed the square, passing a row of colorful stalls. One vendor offered "blessed" amulets, another shouted about imported fruits, while a woman haggled over prices with an intensity that seemed almost like a martial art.

Damon discreetly pointed to a side street.

"That’s where the old district is. Less noble, more honest."

"Honesty is often overrated," Morgana commented.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But it’s usually more fun."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Then guide me, connoisseur of questionable amusements."

He gave a slight, overly formal nod.

"As you wish, my lady."

She rolled her eyes.

"Don’t start with that."

The narrow street opened into a small square filled with outdoor tables. An old tavern occupied the corner, its stone walls darkened by time, a wooden sign swaying above the door: "The Laughing Boar."

The sign creaked slightly in the wind, the boar carved on it displaying a crooked smile that seemed to promise both good food and bad decisions.

Morgana paused for a moment, assessing the place as if she were facing an unknown enemy.

"That name doesn’t inspire confidence," she commented.

"Nor should it," Damon replied. "But that’s precisely why it works."

She gave him a sideways glance.

"You speak as if this place saved your life at some point."

"Not saved," he corrected. "But it definitely made her more interesting."

Morgana sighed, surrendering.

"Very well. But if I wake up tomorrow with a tattoo or married to someone I don’t remember meeting, it’ll be your fault."

"Noted," said Damon, pushing the door open. "I promise to limit the tragedies to acceptable levels."

The tavern’s interior immediately enveloped them. The heat contrasted with the outside air, and the smell of roast meat and fresh bread seemed to cling to their skin. The wooden floor creaked underfoot, and the constant murmur of conversations created a kind of chaotic music.

Some faces turned toward them.

Not with reverence.

With curiosity.

Morgana sensed it instantly.

Her body reacted instinctively, posture straighter, expression neutral, that mask she’d practiced since childhood. Damon noticed—he always noticed.

"Relax," he murmured, leaning slightly toward her. "Here, nobody cares who you are. Only how much you drink and whether you buy the next round."

She took a deep breath.

And slowly, let her shoulders slump slightly.

They chose a table near the wall, away from the center of the room. Damon placed a direct order with the tavern keeper, without even consulting Morgana.

"You’re too trusting," she commented.

"I trust in fat and salt," he replied. "They rarely disappoint."

She observed the place attentively while they waited. A group was noisily playing dice in a corner. A couple argued in intense whispers near the fireplace. A man slept sitting up, hugging an empty mug.

"All this..." Morgana murmured. "It’s so simple."

"It is," Damon agreed. "And complicated at the same time. People here fight over small things. Precisely because they don’t have the luxury of ignoring them."

She rested her chin on her hand.

"In Arven, the fights were always silent. Smiles. Invitations. Veiled threats."

"Here, if someone doesn’t like you, they usually let you know," he said. "Sometimes with a chair."

She laughed softly.

The food arrived soon after. Steaming plates, generous portions, nothing delicate or refined. Morgana observed as if she were facing something almost experimental.

"If this kills me, at least it will be an interesting death," she said, picking up the silverware.

"That’s the right attitude."

She tasted it.

She stopped. She blinked once.

"This is..." she searched for the word. "Ridiculously good."

Damon smiled, satisfied.

"I told you so."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, a comfortable silence broken only by the sounds of the tavern. Morgana realized she was eating too fast and slowed down, suddenly too aware of it.

"You seem more at ease here than at the mansion," she observed.

"Because here nobody expects me to be impeccable," Damon replied. "Just functional."

She tilted her head.

"And what do they expect of me?"

He thought for a moment.

"Nothing," she said finally. "And this seems... new to you."

Morgana didn’t answer immediately. She just nodded, almost imperceptibly.

After lunch, they left the tavern and returned to the streets. The sun was already beginning to set slowly, painting Myrath with golden hues. The shadows lengthened, and the rhythm of the city shifted—less hurry, more lingering conversations.

They crossed a low bridge over a narrow canal. The water reflected the sky like a broken mirror. A musician played nearby, an old melody that spoke of farewells and returns that were never quite the same.

Morgana stopped to listen.

"Do you know this song?" Damon asked.

"My father liked it," she replied, surprised at herself. "He said it was about choosing the wrong path... and learning to live with it."

"It seems appropriate."

She smiled slightly.

"Do you always say the right thing?"

"No," he replied quickly. "I just learned to speak after thinking a little more than necessary."

She observed him for a few seconds, as if recalibrating her image of him.

"You’ve changed," she said.

"You too," he retorted, without hesitation.

She opened her mouth to reply, but gave up. Instead, she kept walking.

They passed a small artists’ market. Painters, impromptu sculptors, people capturing faces and moments in a few strokes. Morgana slowed her pace, curious.

"Have you ever done a portrait like this?" Damon asked.

"Never," she replied. "They were always... too official."

"Want to try?"

She hesitated.

The hesitation was short, but revealing.

"I do."

They sat side by side while the artist worked. Morgana maintained a rigid posture at first, her eyes focused on a distant point.

"You look like you’re being judged," Damon murmured.

"I always am," she replied.

"Not here."

She took a deep breath.

Little by little, the rigidity gave way. When the portrait was finished, she stared at it silently for long seconds.

"That person..." she said finally. "It seems like someone who can still choose."

"You can," Damon said softly.

She didn’t answer, but carefully held the portrait, as if it were fragile.

The sky was already tinged orange when they returned to the central square. The fountain remained there, unchanged, while the city revolved around it.

Morgana leaned against the stone parapet.

"Today was... unexpected," she said.

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good," she answered without hesitation. "Scary, but good."

They were silent for a moment, too close to be mere coincidence, too distant to be something defined.

"Damon..." she began, then stopped.

He looked at her, attentive.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Not now."

He nodded.

"All right."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dense, full of unspoken things, but comfortable—as if they both knew that any more words would break something too delicate to be rebuilt at the same pace.

The fountain continued to murmur behind them. Children were now being pulled away by their reluctant parents, while vendors began to gather their wares. Myrath shed its skin as day gave way to night.

Damon was the first to move away from the parapet.

"The city is different after dark," he commented. "Less noisy... but no less alive."

Morgana followed the movement, adjusting her cloak on her shoulders.

"In Arven, the night has always been dangerous," she said. "Not because of thieves. Because of conversations."

"There are dangerous conversations here too," he replied. "But they’re usually honest about it."

They walked again, now without a clear destination. Lanterns were lit one by one, creating islands of warm light among elongated shadows. The city seemed to breathe more slowly.

Morgana observed the people with a different gaze than before. No longer as pieces on a chessboard, but as individuals—imperfect, noisy, real.

"Damon..." she said, this time without pausing. "You don’t look at me like the others do."

He stared at her, serious.

"Like they do?"

"Like I’m a piece of paper," he replied. "A title. A future deal. A political weapon that hasn’t yet been unsheathed."

He looked away for a moment.

"I look at you like someone who’s tired of being all of that."

She stopped walking.

Not abruptly. Just... stopped.

Damon realized too late and took two more steps before turning around. She stood there, motionless, her eyes fixed on him as if trying to decide something important.

"This is dangerous," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"Seeing me like this."

He held her gaze.

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But pretending not to see would be worse."

The distant sound of laughter echoed down the street. A couple passed them, hand in hand, oblivious to the silent tension between them.

Morgana took a deep breath.

"Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?" she asked, her voice lower.

"I have a suspicion," he replied honestly. "But I prefer not to name it."

She let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Wise."