Morrigan: Succubus Queen by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Morrigan-Succubus-Queen-1213754279

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Soul-Hunger Reflected

The silence was the first anomaly. Morrigan Aensland’s castle was never silent. It hummed with the whispers of lesser demons in the walls, the sigh of displaced air from ghostly courtiers, the low thrum of her own latent power. This quiet was a vacuum, a held breath. She floated through the grand galleries of her ancestral home, her bare feet making no sound on the obsidian floors, the usual shimmer of her scarlet and black leotard seeming muted.

It began in the Hall of Mirrors, a vanity she’d indulged centuries ago. A thousand Morrigans should have greeted her, a legion of smirks and glowing violet eyes. Instead, the reflections were empty. The glass showed the hall, the chandeliers, the trailing philodendron that refused to die—but where her image should have been, there was only a faint, silverish haze, like breath on a cold pane.

“Bored of yourself, darling?”

The voice was hers, yet not. It came from all around, a sonic echo that vibrated in her bones. It had the same honeyed cadence, but beneath it ran a current of dry, ancient frost.

“Who trespasses?” Morrigan asked, her wings—elegant arcs of dark energy—flaring slightly. She kept her tone light, amused. Fear was for mortal things.

“Trespass? I am the most invited guest of all.” The voice coalesced. From the largest, central mirror, the silver haze thickened, pooled, and stepped out. It was like watching her own shadow gain substance and color. There stood Morrigan, or her perfect likeness, save for the eyes. They were not the vibrant amethyst of a succubus drinking life, but the color of tarnished silver, depthless and cool.

Morrigan laughed, a sound like shattering chandeliers. “A fetching mimic. Did Bison cook you up? Or is this Pyron’s idea of a joke?”

“No borrowed science, no alien toy,” the reflection said, gliding forward. Her movements were identical, yet somehow more deliberate, as if savoring the slide of air against skin. “I am a spell older than your castle. A forgotten bit of Aensland lore. When a being of profound power stares too long into the abyss of its own existence… sometimes the abyss finds a way to stare back. I am what you cannot consume, Morrigan. Your own satisfaction.”

“I am never satisfied,” Morrigan purred, circling her double. “It’s what makes life fun.”

“Is it?” The reflection stopped, tilting her head. “You feed on dreams, on desire, on souls. A glutton at a feast that never ends. But have you ever tasted your own dream, Morrigan? Have you ever felt the hunger you inflict?”

The reflection raised a hand, and the world wavered. The rich tapestries depicting celestial battles seemed to bleed their colors into grey wool. The scent of ozone and night-blooming flowers soured into the smell of cold stone and old dust. The castle wasn’t decaying; it was becoming indifferent.

A pang, sharp and alien, struck Morrigan’s core. It was not pain, but its antecedent: emptiness. A void so profound it whispered of non-existence. She shuddered.

“Ah,” the reflection sighed, a sound of genuine pleasure. “You feel it. The truth behind the feast. The hunger that never leaves, because you are, at your essence, hunger given shape.”

“I am pleasure,” Morrigan countered, but her voice lacked its usual conviction.

“Pleasure is just the momentary silencing of hunger. I am here to make the silence permanent.” The reflection lunged.

It was not a physical attack, not at first. She passed into Morrigan, a wave of paralyzing cold. Morrigan’s vision doubled. She saw the glorious hall, and superimposed over it, a barren plain under a dead sky, a single, leafless tree etched against a silent moon. The vision was saturated with a loneliness that gnawed.

“Get out!” Morrigan snarled, forcing her power outward. A sphere of dark energy exploded from her, shattering the mirrors on the eastern wall. The reflection was expelled, re-materializing near the broken glass, unscathed.

“Violence. How predictable. The first recourse of the truly empty.” The reflection gathered shards of glass with a glance, they orbited her like jagged stars. “Let me show you what you are.”

The shards flew, not at Morrigan, but into the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Where they struck, they didn’t embed; they became windows. Not into other places, but into other moments. Morrigan saw herself at a thousand banquets, draining nobles and heroes, their faces going slack wit
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