Extra's Life: MILFs Won't Leave the Incubus Alone-Chapter 205: My Sheep
"Choose," the voice said again.
"And choose quickly."
Seraphel’s breath trembled, shallow and thin, like a man drowning on dry land. His hand hovered in the dream’s air — fingers suspended above the Saintess’s outstretched palm.
Her white sleeve glowed with soft light, trembling as though a breeze touched it, though there was no breeze. Only the silence of the unreal.
Above them, the echo of boots grew heavier.
Armored.
Marching. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞
Determined.
Every step cracked like a judge’s gavel descending.
The Saintess whispered, "Seraphel... please..."
Her voice was not quite hers — there was a sweetness to it, too gentle, too pleading. But Seraphel, lost inside the illusion, did not hear the discord. He only heard the trembling note that reminded him of the one moment, long ago, when she had placed a hand upon his brow and blessed him for surviving his first battle in the Inquisition.
He had cried then, in secret.
He nearly cried now.
His hand — traitor to his duty — dipped lower.
And then—
He chose.
He took her hand.
Warmth surged up his arm. It felt like dawn breaking across a frozen field. It felt like absolution. It felt like the thing he had once wished faith would give him.
A face — distant, hidden in the folds of firelight — smiled.
Aiden smiled.
Oh, he smiled hard.
The dream held frozen in that instant, as though savoring the choice like wine upon the tongue. A whisper, velvet-soft, coiled around Seraphel’s ear:
"Good."
And just like that — the whole scene shattered.
The white walls cracked. The Saintess’s light dissolved. The sound of armored feet reversed itself like an echo being pulled backward into the throat of time.
The dream peeled away like burning parchment.
And Seraphel fell.
He fell through darkness.
He fell through silence.
He fell into pain.
[Dream Weaving Stopped]
Aiden lifted his hand from Seraphel’s forehead — the soft hum of ember fading. The Inquisitor, stripped of armor and dignity, chained to the dungeon pillar, slackened against the restraints with a groan. Sweat dripped from his hairline. His breath came in short, panic-laced gasps.
Aiden flexed his fingers, as though savoring the last traces of power still tingling along his skin.
"Dreamweaving," he murmured to himself. "Finally."
He smirked, wiping a faint smear of sweat from Seraphel’s brow with the back of his knuckle.
"Thank Lilith," he whispered. "If her smile hadn’t nudged the skill awake, I might still be fumbling in the dark."
He chuckled — proud, self-amused.
"I was beginning to wonder," he said conversationally to the unconscious man, "how many women I had to sleep with before any of those blasted abilities unlocked."
His laugh echoed off the stone walls — warm, disdainful, triumphant.
The dungeon’s air was cold and damp, filled with the scent of old iron and burnt tallow. Torches spat feeble light, leaving vast pools of shadow between the supports. Those shadows curled around Aiden, as though listening.
Seraphel stirred — barely.
Aiden crouched before him.
Even unconscious, Seraphel’s face twisted with something like shame. The dream had tattooed its colors inside him — the Saintess’s hand, the choice he believed he made, the soft plea in her voice. Shame clung to him like a second skin.
A perfect hook.
"My sheep," Aiden murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Seraphel’s brow. "There is purity in this one. And purity is so very easy to bend."
He rose with a fluid motion, dusting off his hands.
Now that he had access — real psychological access — Seraphel could be turned from a threat into a weapon.
A weapon aimed at the Church.
As Aiden stepped away, he surveyed the chains restricting the Inquisitor — thick iron cuffs engraved with weakening sigils. Seraphel was far from free, but not maimed. That was important. He needed the Inquisitor alive. Whole enough to act. Loyal enough to obey.
The Dreamweaving had done the first cut.
The physical world would finish the carving.
He crossed the room to a small table where parchment and ink waited. A single letter lay half-written — commands, instructions, tasks to be carried out in the Church’s shadowy corners.
Aiden dipped his quill.
"Orders, dear Seraphel," he whispered. "A new purpose carved into your heart."
The quill danced.
He wrote of corruption, of divine guidance, of visions.
He wrote of a coming storm.
He wrote of a chosen path.
And then — the finishing touch.
He wrote her name.
The Saintess.
Not as a warning.
Not as a threat.
As motivation.
He smirked softly.
"Loyalty in men like you," he murmured, "is never built on logic. Only on guilt... and longing."
He folded the letter.
Sealed it with wax.
Pressed it gently against Seraphel’s chest.
"Read it when you wake."
He tapped the Inquisitor’s cheek lightly — almost fondly.
"You will find purpose waiting for you."
He stepped back.
One last glance — savoring the sight of a sanctified warrior bound and dreaming of false choices — and then he moved toward the dungeon stairs.
Each step echoed, the sound like slow rain on old stone.
Because truthfully...
The Inquisition alone was not enough.
As Aiden reached the upper corridor, the air warmed, losing the dungeon’s chill. A tapestry depicting angels in battle hung along the wall — threadbare, colors faded with age. He ran a hand across it absently as he walked.
"Men fear the Church," he mused aloud. "Because the Church commands the Inquisition."
He paused mid-step.
His smile sharpened.
"But who commands the Church?"
He resumed walking.
"Not the priests," he said. "Not the bishops. Not even the Pope."
He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.
A small flame spiraled from the motion — harmless, playful. It twisted in the air, reflecting in his eyes.
"It is the Inquisition," he said softly. "The sword that enforces every decree."
His smile widened.
"And swords are very easy to break."
He turned the corner.
"But dangerous men rarely hold just one."
He stopped again — gaze drifting upward to a stained-glass window depicting the First Holy Knight, haloed in gold.
"The Holy Knights..." Aiden whispered.
He tilted his head, studying the image.
"They call themselves guardians of purity. Servants of the true God. Splintered away from the Church. Small in following ....for now..."
His fingers drifted upward.
"...but soon?"
He made a fist.
"they will be Dangerous....very dangerous."
They would grow — in faith, in reputation, in power. Men hungry for direction. Men whose loyalty could be stolen.
Men who could be bent.
He exhaled softly, eyes sharpening.
"I will leash them too. In time."
His hand hovered near the window, palm brushing the cool glass.
"And when both sword arms kneel..."
He did not finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
His reflection in the window smiled.
He turned away from it.
As he reached the top of the stairs, the main hallway of the estate unfurled — quiet, dimly lit, the perfume of burning cedar in the air. Servants moved like ghosts, heads bowed, too intimidated by the "Viscount" to disturb him.
Aiden adjusted his sleeves.
All the illusions of Augustus slid back over him like a cloak — the beard, the age, the weathered eyes. With magic as subtle as breath, he resumed the form everyone expected to see.
"Time to set the stage," he murmured.
He paused at the entrance to the hall.
Light cast long shadows across the marble.
He inhaled deeply — the warm, measured breath of a noble who had slept soundly and carried no secrets.
A lie, worn like regal silk.
He stepped into the hall.
Down in the dungeon, Seraphel stirred.
The chains rattled faintly as he shifted.
His eyelids fluttered.
For a moment, he hovered in the foggy edge of dreaming — still believing he held the Saintess’s hand, still hearing her whispered plea.
Then reality flooded in.
Cold.
Clammy stone at his back.
A weight around his wrists.
A sharp ache in his skull.
His eyes snapped open.
Darkness greeted him.
Torchlight danced across the room — unfamiliar, flickering, revealing the iron cuffs that bit into his skin. His chest heaved. His breath trembled.
Where...
What...
He tried to rise instinctively, but the chains yanked him back.
Panic flooded him.
"No," he whispered. "No, no—"
The dream clung to him like mist. The Saintess’s eyes, her voice, the choice.
Was she safe?
Was she real?
Had he saved her?
He tried to sort memory from mirage — but the more he reached for clarity, the farther it slipped. The echo of Aiden’s whisper — "Good" — vibrated faintly in his head, so distant he barely recognized it.
He breathed hard.
His thoughts pounded.
He felt... altered.
As though someone had reached inside him and rearranged the shape of truth.
He swallowed hard, tasting iron.
Then — something brushed his chest.
A folded letter.
He froze.
Slowly, he angled his bound wrists to pull it free. Wax seal. A symbol he recognized — the Saintess’s crest.
His pulse stuttered.
He opened it with trembling fingers.
He read.
And with every line, something inside him tightened.
Orders.
A mission.
A divine directive.
A warning of corruption.
A plea for him — him — to walk the righteous path.
And her name.
Her name written like light.
His breath cracked in his throat.
"oh...Saintess..." he whispered.
He closed his eyes, forehead pressing against the cold stone behind him.
The letter trembled in his hands.
He didn’t know that the handwriting was Aiden’s.
He didn’t know that the seal was forged.
He didn’t know that the dream was a design.
He only knew the warmth he felt in the dream when he touched her hand.
And now — this.
A command from the woman he believed he had saved.
Aiden had carved a new truth inside him.
And Seraphel believed it.
Every word.
Every false holy whisper.
Every engineered purpose.
He believed it with devastated sincerity.
Upstairs, Aiden stood at the window, watching the pale sunrise bleed over the horizon. Gold spread across the clouds, cracking the sky open like a wound.
A symbolic echo of the Chapter’s theme — the sky splitting, just as Seraphel’s certainty split.
Aiden smiled softly.
"more things to do...," he whispered.
His breath fogged the glass.
Behind him, the estate stirred.
Beyond the walls, the Church slept in the illusion of control.
The Inquisition sharpened its blades, unaware they now served another hand.
And somewhere far off, the Holy Knights prayed — their swords still sheathed, their loyalty still unclaimed.
Aiden’s fingers drummed lightly on the sill.
"So many sheep," he murmured. "And I have only just begun the shearing."
He turned from the window, cloak whispering behind him.
And in the dungeon below, Seraphel — broken, bound, and remade — breathed one trembling vow into the darkness:
"I will not fail you... Saintess."
