"Innocence isn't always lost. Sometimes, it's offered."
The first rule of the Order was silence.
The second?
Obedience.
When Rhea was chosen as the Offering, the village stood still. Not from pride but fear disguised as reverence. At nineteen, she was the healer's daughter, soft-spoken, wide-eyed, and pure. It was the last part that mattered most.
The red moon had risen only twice in her lifetime, and both times it ended in whispers of what happened behind the temple doors. No one returned. No one ever spoke.
Yet Rhea did not weep when her name was called.
She only asked, "Will I feel it?"
Her mother had no answer.
The Temple loomed high on the mountain, built of black stone and mystery. At its heart was the Chamber of Offerings, a forbidden place cloaked in shadow and scented with jasmine, spice, and fire.
The robed women who led her didn't speak. They only motioned for her to remove her cloak. Rhea did so slowly, her pale shift the only cloth left on her trembling body. Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor.
The air was thick with heat, but her skin prickled.
Then the door creaked open.
And he stepped inside.
The Anointed One.
No name, no history just a figure bound to the ancient rite.
He wore a ceremonial gold mask, full and intricate, shaped like an old god with eyes carved into a permanent stare. His chest was bare, marked with black runes that twisted like vines over his skin.
And Rhea despite her fear couldn't look away.
"I was told to wait," she said softly.
"You waited," he replied. "Now you choose."
Her breath caught. "Choose?"
"This offering is not about surrender. It is about wanting."
Rhea blinked. "But I'm..."
"A virgin. Yes," he finished. "But virginity is not just flesh. It is fire untouched. Innocence unawakened. You may leave untouched, if that is your wish."
She didn't move.
He stepped closer, stopping just inches from her. The scent of him was rich, wood smoke and something ancient.
"What do you feel?" he asked.
"Fear," she whispered.
"And beneath that?"
Her voice shook. "Curiosity."
He smiled beneath the mask. "That is what the gods crave."
Rhea lifted her chin. "Then take it."
Not a command. Not a plea. A gift.
The Anointed One didn't rush. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest his heartbeat strong and fast beneath her palm.
His hands found her face, slow, reverent.
"You're not afraid of pain," he murmured. "You're afraid of pleasure."
He circled her once, fingers brushing the edge of her shift. Not tearing, not grabbing only teasing the boundary between sacred and sinful. Every place his touch hovered felt hotter, every inch he didn't touch felt starved.
"You've never been kissed?" he asked.
She shook her head.
He reached for a velvet cloth from the altar and gently wrapped it around her eyes.
Darkness. Her breath sharpened.
"You will not see the moment your innocence leaves," he whispered. "But you will feel it."
His touch came like a tide slow, rising, patient.
Not one part of her body was claimed without intent. He brushed the backs of her knees, the curve of her neck, the inside of her wrist each touch a question.
And Rhea answered with shivers.
When his lips finally found hers, masked still, it was not brutal. It was not rushed.
It was worship.
In that chamber of fire and stone, Rhea gave not just her body, but her choice. She became something more than a sacrifice.
She became willing.
She became sacred.
When the blindfold was removed, and the ritual was done, she didn't weep. She didn't tremble.
She touched the mask and whispered, "Thank you."
He did not reply. But she saw it in the slight drop of his shoulders, the way he exhaled like someone who had been holding his breath for years.
She had freed him too.