The air was different.
Thicker. Sweeter. Tainted.
Beyond the crumbled walls of the former Temple of Purity, past the hills glistening with the sweat of fucked-bare priestesses, through forests where moans now replaced birdsong—something ancient stirred.
She watched.
Not a mortal.
Not a priestess.
Not even a creature of the flesh.
But a goddess.
Qirela, the Wombmother.
She had once been worshipped in silence, in temples lined with candles and careful chants. Fertility had been her domain—wholesome, gentle, seasonal.
And now?
Now they screamed Allen's name instead of hers.
Now they didn't light incense to her—they squirted on her altars.
Now they didn't pray.
They begged to be bred.
By him.
Inside her sealed realm of ethereal womblight, Qirela paced.
Her bare feet made no sound on the divine milk-lake beneath her. Her body shimmered with sacred light, but there was something else under the surface now—envy.
