The room was still, almost too still for a brothel that once rang with moans, music, and muffled laughter. Now, Serina sat in the corner of her chambers, wringing her hands, her eyes heavy with the weight of something she could no longer ignore her daughter, Lyria, was changing.
Not the kind of change that came with youth or rebellion. No. This was deeper. More dangerous. Men were vanishing, not just physically, but spiritually. After nights with Lyria, they disappeared into death or madness. And yet, her daughter glowed more than ever sensual, fearless, and increasingly insatiable.
"Stop, Lyria," Serina had begged her after the incident with the shaman.
"You're killing them. You're not just like me, you're something else entirely. This power… it's not meant to be unchecked."
But Lyria, now emboldened and almost drunk on her own seduction, only tilted her head and smiled. "You always told me to use my gifts. Now I am. You're just afraid of what I've become."
Serina had never felt so helpless. Her daughter wasn't just using men anymore, she was feeding off them. The brothel had become a graveyard with velvet walls.
So Serina did what desperate mothers do she sought help, again. This time, not from wandering shamans or charm-selling witches, but from the circle of Priestesses that served the goddess of Lust and Law. The ancient ones who had once trained her, the ones who knew the rules of seduction that could both enchant and destroy.
She traveled for days through muddy roads and whispering woods until she reached the Crimson Temple, a sacred ground hidden by illusion, guarded by women who knew the old ways.
The High Priestess, Yalenna, listened to Serina's story and nodded gravely.
"Your daughter is not cursed… but untethered. Her essence is not bound by law. She must be sealed not silenced. Bring her here. Immediately."
Lyria arrived, barefoot and unbothered. Her eyes had begun to change, no longer soft brown, but touched with gold at the center like embers glowing behind irises. She was… otherworldly.
"You called me like a child. I came. What is it now?" she asked, looking around the temple with mockery in her smile.
"You will be trained," Yalenna said sharply. "Or you will be consumed by your own fire."
The rules of seduction were strict, older than any scripture Lyria had ever known. First, she was given a bracelet black obsidian carved with the sigil of the Balance Goddess. She was to wear it during intimacy, always.
"This will absorb excess energy," Yalenna warned. "It protects both you and them."
She was forbidden from taking more than one partner per night, or having sex during the full moon, when her powers would peak and her control would wane. She must never climax while making direct eye contact. She must not engage during blood rites. She must not cry during sex, for tears opened portals. And above all… she must never lie about her name.
"It's not just your body that kills," the priestess said. "It's your truth. You are a mirror, Lyria. What they see in you, they receive. Lust is holy but raw lust, unchecked, is poison."
Lyria hated every rule. Every restriction. Every reminder that she wasn't free. And so, in a fit of rebellion, she removed the bracelet. That night, Serina hid it, hoping that if Lyria couldn't find it, maybe she'd follow the rules again. But the opposite happened.
Lyria went to the brothel room like always, dressed in silk and shadows, scent of crushed roses and warm skin clinging to her body. That night, seven men came to see her. Some were strangers, others regulars who had tasted her fire and returned for more. She took them. One after another. Relentlessly. But by dawn, all seven were gone. No screams. No blood. Just an empty silence and a cold wind that moved through the brothel like a warning.
Serina rushed into the room and fell to her knees.
"What have you done?"
Lyria stood by the window, her robe slipping off her shoulder, tears in her eyes. Not of guilt but rage. "Why did you hide it?"
she whispered. "Why do you keep trying to chain me?"
"You'll destroy yourself!" Serina shouted. "Do you think this power makes you whole? You're unraveling, Lyria!"
But Lyria couldn't hear her. She was already walking away.
That week, Lyria began to spiral. The urges came faster. More violent. She couldn't sleep without touching herself, couldn't walk past a man without imagining his moans, his death. She snuck off to the woods, seeking travelers and guards, pulling them into mossy shadows. Sometimes, she didn't even wait she'd press herself against a tree and satisfy herself, tears running down her cheeks after, filled with shame and hunger.
One night, alone in her room, she held a girl an innocent brothel maid named Mira. They kissed. It was soft. Curious. Until Lyria's body reacted, and the hunger began again. But she stopped. She shoved the girl away, panting, her lips trembling.
"I'm sorry," Lyria whispered.
She ran into the night, naked, barefoot, her body burning with urges, but her heart cracking open with guilt. She found Serina, weeping beneath the rain, and collapsed into her arms.
"I don't want to be this anymore," she sobbed. "Please. Make it stop."
And for the second time, Serina took her back to the Crimson Temple. There, she submitted to the purification rite. For seven days, she was cleansed bathed in herbal oils, starved of physical contact, wrapped in cold silk every night while the priestesses whispered ancient verses over her trembling body. She learned the rules again. But this time, she understood them.
She learned how to breathe through temptation, how to silence the hunger with ritual, how to balance pleasure with compassion. She trained her mind as much as her body. And when she returned… she was no longer just a seductress. She was a weapon sharpened by restraint.
Men still came. But now, they survived.
Yet behind her eyes, the fire never left.