The morning she turned eighteen, the entire brothel smelled of roses. Petals had been scattered across the courtyard before sunrise, crimson, blush pink, and soft ivory. They trailed from the entrance to her door, forming a path like royalty was arriving. And in a way, she was. The girls of Short & Sweet, some jealous, some awed, peeked through their windows to glimpse the celebration of a daughter born not only of a woman, but of power itself.
Serina had arranged everything herself. A silk dress of pale lavender, sewn with silver thread, awaited Lyria by the edge of her bed. On the table beside it, a breakfast of fresh pomegranates, honeyed bread, and warm milk waited. A golden ribbon lay on top the tray a symbol passed down from woman to woman in the house to mark the "becoming."
Lyria stared at it all in silence.
She hadn't truly believed the day would come. Not because she hadn't counted down each year with quiet yearning, but because something in her always felt… off. Like the world was watching, waiting to interrupt before she arrived. But today it was real.
The girls gathered in the courtyard at midday, dressed in white, humming soft songs the old madams once sang. Serina stood at the center, her red robe flowing like fire down the steps. She extended her arms, holding a crown of woven lilies and lavender sprigs.
She placed it on her daughter's head.
"My blood. My moonchild. My divine. Today you begin the path."
The girls clapped softly, respectfully. There were no wild dances or men. No coins thrown or loud music. This was a sacred rite. A quiet coronation for the girl who had always been more than them.
Lyria gave a small bow, her eyes glazed but serene. She had dreamed of this moment. And yet, it felt as though she were watching it from far away, as though her body moved and smiled, but her spirit stood back, observing from a place the living could not reach.
By evening, a feast had been set on the long table in the inner salon.
Fine lingering wine, imported from the lowlands, was poured into tall glass flutes. Stewed fruits, roasted nuts, spiced meats and buttered yams lined the table. Lyria sat at the head, her fingers tracing the carved wood of her chair.
For the first time in her life, the house celebrated her not as a curiosity, not as a ghost or secret or whispered warning but as a woman.
"You are no longer a girl," Serina said, raising her cup. "Tonight, your story begins."
There was laughter. Toasts. Warmth. But behind every glance, behind every smile the girls offered her, was a ripple of unease.
They had all known their first night. But none had ever radiated power like Lyria. None had ever turned a man pale with a look. None had ever disappeared into the hills and come back glowing. Still, they honored her. Still, they smiled.
But the flowers at her feet, lilies, roses, oleander, seemed to wilt faster than usual. The wine, poured into her cup, shimmered strangely in the candlelight, like it knew something no one else dared say.
After the feast, the girls returned to their rooms. The house grew quiet again. Serina came to her daughter's chamber, holding a soft bundle in her arms—fresh linens, oils, and a single candle made from moon wax.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
Lyria stood from her window and turned. Her lavender dress was gone. She wore only a white shift, sheer in the lamplight. Her hair had been brushed back, loose and flowing down her back.
"I think so," she said.
Serina's smile was small, almost tragic. She walked forward and set the candle on the dresser, then lit it.
"It's time."
She reached for the hem of Lyria's shift and pulled it over her head slowly, carefully like undressing a sacred statue. Her daughter stood bare before her. Her skin glowed golden-pale, unmarred. Her nipples, soft and rose-tinted, tightened in the cool air.
"You're beautiful," Serina whispered. Her voice trembled.
Lyria looked away.
Serina guided her to the edge of the bed and sat beside her.
"Lie back. Just like I showed you."
Lyria obeyed.
She lay on the sheets, breathing softly, her chest rising and falling in gentle waves.
Serina took her daughter's legs and spread them apart, murmuring instructions like lullabies:
"You'll feel pressure. Pain. But you will breathe through it. You will let it happen. Give, but do not break."
She oiled Lyria's thighs with warm balm and kissed her forehead.
Then stood.
"You're ready," she said, voice hollow.
Lyria sat up, holding her knees to her chest.
"Who is he?"
Serina swallowed.
"Elian. The son of a businessman . Gentle. Traveled far. Paid more than anyone ever has."
Lyria nodded.
She said nothing more.
The room she entered was unlike any other in the brothel. Red silk draped the walls. Candlelight flickered against gold-framed mirrors. The bed was wide, layered with velvet and pillows. It smelled of myrrh and rosewood.
Elian stood by the dresser, fastening the final button of his loose shirt. He turned when she entered, and stilled. She looked like a vision. A myth reborn. White-haired. Gold-skinned. Moon-eyed. He stepped forward slowly.
"You're… more than I expected," he whispered.
Lyria said nothing.
He reached out, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.
"May I?" he asked.
She nodded.
He kissed her slowly. She let him. She closed her eyes and pictured rivers, not men. Stars, not sweat.
He led her to the bed. She lay down, positioning herself exactly as she'd been taught. He admired her, and worshipped her.
"You're untouched?"
She nodded again.
He smiled like a boy.
"I will be gentle."
Then the weight of him came down.
The sheets rustled.
And time, for a moment, seemed to stop.
Elian hovered above her, breath shallow, gaze trembling with both lust and reverence. He touched her again, tracing her collarbone, the soft dip between her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Each touch was cautious, as though she were made of crystal.
But Lyria wasn't fragile. She didn't flinch. She didn't close her eyes this time. She looked up at the ceiling and imagined the moon watching her, cloaked in silence.
Elian whispered sweet things. Called her a flower. A gift. A rare jewel from another world. But when he pushed into her, none of those words mattered. The sharp pressure hit her like a blade. Her nails sank into the velvet sheet. Her breath caught. Her jaw clenched. She didn't cry out. But the pain was deeper than she expected. Like something ancient inside her had been disturbed. Like the first man to cross into forbidden temple grounds and set off a curse.
He groaned above her. "So tight… gods, you feel like heaven."
Her body, though in pain, began to respond warmth creeping beneath her skin. But her soul… her soul was cracking. Each thrust was a pull on her spirit. Her magic stirred like a beast waking from slumber. The blood came quick. Dark. Thick.
Elian didn't seem to notice, he was lost in his pleasure. His body moved harder now. Faster. He whispered her name like a chant. But suddenly, his breath hitched. He froze mid-thrust. His eyes widened. His hands, once gripping her waist, started to shake.
Lyria opened her eyes and looked at him. He was staring at her chest not in awe, but horror. She followed his gaze. A faint golden symbol had appeared above her heart, the same one on the bracelet: the halo and broken chain. Glowing. Pulsing. Alive.
"Wha… what is that?" he rasped.
She didn't answer.
Her hands gripped the sheets again. A tremor ran through her belly. Elian staggered back, pulling out of her in panic, his body slick with sweat and blood. He reached for his shirt, but couldn't seem to move.
His knees buckled.
"Help me," he gasped.
Lyria sat up, still trembling, her thighs slick with blood.
"I don't know how," she whispered.
Then, right before her eyes, Elian screamed. His skin blackened. His veins turned dark. His hands clawed at his chest. He collapsed onto the floor convulsing. Twitching. Then came the heat. A sudden, roaring wave of invisible fire. It wasn't flame. It was her.
Power surged from her like lightning through water. Her scream cracked the air. Candles burst. The red silks caught nothing, but still blew violently like in a storm. Elian let out a final breath and turned to ash. Right there. In front of her. No body. No bone. Just dust. Dark and dry.
Lyria sat there, frozen. Her mouth wide open. Her legs still parted. Her blood staining the sheet beneath her. Then she screamed.
The whole house heard.
Girls rushed to their doors. Lamps lit. Slippers skidded across the halls. But no one entered. No one dared. Serina was the only one who moved. She burst through the door, robes untied, hair undone, fear etched deep in her face. Her eyes landed on her daughter blood between her thighs, ash at her feet, hands shaking uncontrollably. Serina didn't speak. Lyria did.
"He's gone," she whispered. "Mama… he burned. He… I killed him."
Serina rushed forward, gathered her into her arms, held her tight.
"You didn't mean to," she whispered. "You didn't know."
Lyria sobbed into her chest. "It hurt… I didn't think it would hurt so much… and then… he screamed."
Serina rocked her like a baby.
"He touched your core. No man was meant to do that. Not yet. Not him."
"I didn't even want to kill him!" she sobbed.
"I know."
"I wanted to please you."
Serina froze.
That sentence cracked something in her.
Tears formed in her eyes.
"I was wrong," she whispered. "I was so wrong."
Serina helped her into a bath that night, water laced with calming herbs and soft oils. She said nothing as she washed her daughter's thighs, wiping away the blood with gentle hands. She wiped her body, careful and slow.
Neither of them spoke. When the ash was swept, when the sheets were burned, when the silence finally settled. Serina sat beside her, wrapped in a robe, her hands trembling.
"We can't tell anyone," she said.
Lyria looked up.
"Why?"
"Because they won't understand. And because… they will fear you. They'll want to use you. Or destroy you."
"I'm dangerous."
Serina nodded. "But also divine."
"I feel broken."
"You're becoming."
Later that night, when Lyria lay in her own bed, she stared at the ceiling for hours. The scent of rose still lingered from the celebration. But now it felt… cruel.
She turned her face into her pillow and cried. Not from the pain of her body. But from the realization that she was never going to be just a girl. She was born of something ancient.
She was meant to touch fate with bare hands and it would cost lives. Her blood had soaked her initiation bed. Her first lover had turned to ash. She could never undo it. But she could bury it. She closed her eyes. And whispered:
"I am more than this pain. More than their fear."
Outside her window, the wind whispered back. And for the first time… the moon bowed to her.