The temple was almost finished.
It rose behind the palace like a monument to sinful salvation—spires carved in obsidian, walls pulsing faintly with embedded crystal veins that shimmered in pale gold. The Temple of Dripping Grace, they called it. Subtle wasn't on anyone's mind.
Solara stood on the altar platform, hips cocked, robes loosely tied in a knot that teased more than it covered. Her hair was wild today, cascading down like a waterfall of lust, and her expression screamed confidence.
The cultists—her Nectarborn—were gathered below, chanting, swaying, bodies painted with thin lines of her divine fluids like holy ink. A few were already moaning in ecstasy, having simply inhaled the potent scent that lingered wherever she walked.
"Brothers, sisters," Solara began, her voice like velvet soaked in honey. "You've licked, prayed, and moaned your way into my heart."
Cheers erupted.
"And now, you'll serve a new purpose. Not just pleasure—protection."
A hushed gasp.
From behind her, Wraith stepped forward in full black armor, and beside him, Lady Vess held a scroll sealed in dripping wax.
"We've received word," Vess said, unraveling the scroll. "The High Council of Purity knows about the cult. And they're coming."
Solara rolled her eyes. "Of course they are. They can't resist ruining anything fun."
The Nectarborn groaned in dismay. One of them—a particularly eager boy named Elan—dropped to his knees. "Let us taste battle like we've tasted you!"
"...That was poetic and horrifying," Wraith muttered.
Solara smirked. "Don't worry. I have a plan."
---
Later that night.
The Temple gates opened for the first time. A caravan of weary nobles arrived from distant cities. Their lips were cracked. Their skin peeled. They had heard rumors. They had needs.
Solara greeted them with open arms—and slightly parted thighs.
One by one, they entered the temple's inner sanctum, laid bare before her.
They drank from her—through flasks, kisses, and more intimate methods. Each exit they made was slower, calmer. Some cried. Some bowed. All converted.
Vess leaned against a pillar. "She's turning diplomacy into an orgy."
Wraith grunted. "Better than war. Though I still think we need traps."
---
Elsewhere, in the Council Hall of Purity:
"Her body fluids are being exported, Lord Chancellor," spat a tight-lipped, pale-faced woman in white robes. "Even the desert tribes have begun to call her the Sacred Slut of Salvation."
The Chancellor sighed. "She must be stopped. Send the Inquisitors."
"But they'll fall," another warned. "They all do. Her scent… her body... it consumes."
"Then send women."
Silence.
"…They fell too," came the whispered reply. "Some worse."
The Chancellor's eye twitched. "Then... we burn it all. Temple, cult, and whore."
---
Back at the temple:
Solara lounged in a silk hammock suspended above her altar, sipping from a wine glass full of her own... donation. It sparkled.
Elan approached breathlessly. "Mistress, I had a vision. You were surrounded by flames, but your thighs glowed so bright, the fire bowed to you."
Solara blinked. "Okay, someone take Elan off the incense."
Lady Vess burst in, face pale. "They're coming."
"Who?"
"The Council. With purifiers. They're bringing fire, acid, and celibate monks."
Solara licked her lips. "Cute."
Wraith grunted. "Want me to kill them?"
"No," she said, standing, robe dropping fully this time. "I want them to worship."