Devour Vol 2 Ch 18: The Care Of A Mortal!

Flying through space has always been a kind of meditation for me. The silence between stars. The stretch of time folding softly beneath my b

Flying through space has always been a kind of meditation for me.

The silence between stars. The stretch of time folding softly beneath my body. Light-years peeled away like strands of silk as my form drifted, immeasurable and serene, through the dark.

But this time... this time was different.

He was with me.

Conrad.

Somewhere around my lower back—close to the gentle slope where skin curved into the base of my spine—he walked. I couldn't feel him exactly. No tingles. No tickles. He didn't weigh anything at all to me. Honestly, if it weren't for my cosmic senses, I might've forgotten he was even there.

A mortal on my body.

I had never done this before. Most of my sisters had. They boasted about it—some kept mortals as traveling companions, like clever pets or strange curiosities. Others saw it as a game, daring one another to see how long their human could last without dying of fear or stupidity.

But I wasn't one of them. Until now.

I tilted slightly as I glided past a collapsed star, its gravitational echoes humming across my collarbone. In my periphery, the universe twisted and shimmered with colorless flame. And still, beneath it all, the soft sensation—not of touch, but of awareness—reminded me Conrad was still there.

Alive. Small. Fragile.

I slowed my thoughts and focused inward. Food, I recalled. That was a thing mortals needed.

"Oxygen, food, and comfort," I murmured aloud, mostly to myself. "Three things they can't go long without."

Conrad hadn't said much since we left the last system. He'd walked, quietly. Observed. Maybe he didn't want to distract me. Maybe he was afraid.

I concentrated, letting my thoughts curl like mist through the invisible thread that linked me to him. I allowed words to form—not with my mouth, but in that shared space between minds.

"Conrad," I asked, my mental voice softer than my true one ever could be. "Are you hungry?"

There was a pause. A moment of stillness. Then his voice returned, tired but clear.

"Now that you mention it... yeah."

I blinked, amused. It was strange—this human honesty. No posturing. No fear of looking weak.

Just yeah.

I adjusted course.

"There's a planet nearby," I said, my real voice speaking into the cosmos. Not that Conrad could hear it—space doesn't carry sound. But the words grounded me. "I sensed it a few cycles ago. Developed. Moderate population. Civilization at least a few thousand years old."

I felt his presence shift slightly, like he was kneeling or settling into a new spot.

"I'll drop you there," I continued. "You'll get food. I'll give you local currency. I'll scan the ecosystem first. You'll be fine."

I could almost feel his skepticism before he said anything. "You're just gonna... drop me off? On a random planet?"

"It's not random," I said. "I calculated it twenty minutes ago."

"You calculated it," he muttered, probably shaking his head. "Right."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The truth was—I didn't know how to care for a mortal. Not really. But I'd scanned his body enough to understand what it required. And I'd observed his patterns: sleep, food, air, warmth. He wasn't that different from other organics.

Still, the longer he was with me, the more I noticed the other things he needed.

Companionship. Stability. Purpose.

I wasn't sure I could give him any of those.

The planet came into view—a beautiful sphere of blue-gray and pale gold, dotted with chains of floating islands. Three moons orbited lazily around it like children half-asleep.

I slowed.

Flicking my hand forward, I opened a portal the size of a grain of dust in my palm—a tether between my skin and the world below.

"Conrad," I called out again. "Get ready. I'm lowering you."

There was a long pause, followed by a cautious, "Lowering me how?"

"You'll see."

With an exhale of thought, I guided a platform from my skin—barely perceptible to me, but stable enough to hold his weight—and sent it drifting down toward the atmosphere like a dandelion seed.

As he descended, I pressed a small energy signature into the pocket of his clothing—a condensed unit of local currency, disguised to match native material. He would be able to trade it easily.

I watched his form shrink in the distance, smaller than a mote of light. Yet even then, I kept the thread of my senses wrapped gently around him, like a string tied to something precious.

"Don't get distracted," I whispered to myself. "In and out. Food only."

And then, quieter, "Please don't die."

Because for all my strength, and all the stars I've shattered... I wasn't sure what I'd do if something happened to him.

Not anymore.