The afternoon sun hung heavy and golden over Willowbrook, turning the thatched roofs into slabs of molten amber. Inside The Hearth & Bloom the common room had become a quiet hive of preparation. Women moved in soft clusters—carrying armfuls of white lilies from the riverbank, braiding ribbons of pale silk into garlands, murmuring prayers over bowls of blessed water scented with moonflower petals. Every glance toward the staircase carried the same bright, expectant hunger.
Mira presided over it all with serene authority, cheeks still flushed from the morning's private devotions. She had woken Alex with her mouth—slow, reverent, swallowing every drop like communion wine—then bathed him herself, soaping his body with hands that trembled only when they lingered too long between his thighs. Now she wore a simple white shift that clung to every curve, the fabric so thin it was almost translucent in the slanting light. A small silver pendant of the Mother rested between her breasts, rising and falling with each breath.
Alex sat at the head table near the hearth, letting the attention wash over him like warm oil. He kept his posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded, the picture of humble divinity. Inside, the machinery never stopped turning.
They're already dressing the stage for me. Flowers, water, silk—every symbol of purity and fertility they can find. Tonight's ritual isn't just a test; it's their wedding night to a god they invented yesterday. And the best part? They'll blame themselves if anything goes wrong. Doubt the oracle? That's doubting the Mother. Perfect self-policing.
A shadow fell across the table.
He looked up.
A man stood there—mid-twenties, broad-shouldered, dark hair cropped close in the practical style of someone who worked fields or forges. His tunic was patched but clean, sleeves rolled to show forearms corded with muscle and old burn scars. His jaw was set so tight a muscle jumped under the skin. Brown eyes—almost the same shade as Mira's auburn—burned with something hotter than simple curiosity.
The system chimed, soft and immediate.
[Appraisal of the Worthy – Variant Target]
[Name: Torin Thornwood]
[Age: 26]
[Status: Only son of Mira Thornwood (deceased father), blacksmith's apprentice, unmarried]
[Hidden Desire: To protect what remains of his family name / buried resentment toward any man who takes his mother's attention]
[Current Disposition Toward Host: Hostile → Jealous Fury (no Anointment effect – male target)]
[Threat Level: ★★★☆☆ (Physical strength high, social influence moderate, emotional leverage extreme)]
Ah, Alex thought. The possessive son. Textbook. He's not here to challenge divinity. He's here to reclaim his mother from the stranger who fucked her last night and left his mark inside her.
Torin didn't bow. Didn't speak at first. He simply stared, arms crossed, the hammer calluses on his knuckles white with tension.
Finally: "You're the one they're all whispering about."
His voice was low, rough from forge smoke and restrained anger.
Alex met his gaze without flinching. Let his expression soften into something almost pitying.
"I am Alex," he said quietly. "Servant of the Mother. Your mother has been… kind to me."
Torin's lip curled.
"Kind," he repeated. The word sounded obscene coming from him. "She came down this morning smelling like you. Eyes shining like she'd seen the moons fall into her lap. She hasn't looked that way since my father died. And now she's out there telling everyone the Goddess sent you to fill her womb again."
A few women nearby paused, glancing over. The room's murmur dropped a fraction.
Alex kept his voice gentle, almost sorrowful.
"I did not ask for this gift. I only accepted what was offered in faith."
Torin stepped closer. Close enough that Alex could smell the iron and charcoal on him, the faint tang of sweat from a morning at the forge.
"She's my mother," he said, each word bitten off. "Not some sacred hole for your 'blessings.' She raised me alone after the fever took Da. She kept this inn running when half the village wanted to take it from her. And now she's on her knees for a man who appeared out of nowhere, talking about divine seed like it's not just another cock."
The room went dead silent.
Mira appeared at the edge of the crowd, face paling.
"Torin," she said sharply. "That's enough."
He didn't look at her.
"I'm not talking to you, Ma. I'm talking to him."
Alex rose slowly—deliberate, unhurried. He was taller than Torin by half a head now, the system's body enhancements making the difference feel effortless.
"I understand your anger," he said, voice carrying just far enough to reach every ear. "You love her. You fear losing her to something bigger than yourself. But what if this is bigger? What if the Mother truly sent me—not to take her from you, but to give her back something the years stole?"
Torin laughed—a short, bitter sound.
"Pretty words. Let's see if they hold up tonight. Elder Rowan's rite isn't some soft prayer circle. The stones don't lie. If you're false, they'll burn the mark of a deceiver into your skin for all to see."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a hiss only Alex could hear.
"And if you pass… if they all start looking at you the way she does now… I'll be watching. Every time you touch her. Every time she smiles at you like you hung the fucking moons. I'll be there. And if you ever hurt her—if you ever make her cry anything but joy—I'll bury this hammer in your skull, divine or not."
Alex held his gaze. Let a small, almost tender smile touch his lips.
"Then pray I am what they say I am, Torin. For both our sakes."
Torin held the stare another heartbeat.
Then he turned on his heel and shoved through the crowd, shoulder clipping a table hard enough to rattle cups. The door slammed behind him.
Mira hurried forward, hands twisting in her shift.
"Alex, I'm sorry—he's… he's protective. He lost his father young. He thinks every man who looks at me wants to take what little we have left."
Alex reached out, cupped her cheek. Let his thumb brush away the tear that had gathered at the corner of her eye.
"He loves you," he murmured. "That love can be turned to devotion, just like yours. Give him time. Tonight will show him the truth."
Inside: He's a problem. Not a big one—yet. But he's the first crack in the perfect obedience. Sons don't kneel easily. They fight. They watch. They wait for the mask to slip. So I won't let it slip. I'll make him watch me 'bless' his mother in front of the whole village. I'll make him see her come apart under me and call it holy. And when he finally breaks—when he realizes fighting me means fighting her happiness—he'll either kneel… or I'll find a way to remove him without staining my halo.
Mira leaned into his touch, eyes shining again.
"You're too kind," she whispered. "Even to him."
Alex kissed her forehead.
"Kindness is the sharpest blade sometimes."
He turned to the room—still silent, still watching.
"Continue your preparations," he said softly. "Tonight the Mother will speak. And all doubts—even the fiercest—will be answered."
The women exhaled as one. Hands returned to flowers, ribbons, water bowls. Whispers resumed, brighter now, threaded with anticipation.
Alex sat again. Sipped from a wooden cup of honeyed mead someone had placed at his elbow.
Outside, through the open door, he caught a glimpse of Torin's broad back disappearing toward the forge at the edge of the village. Hammer already in hand. Striking steel. Each clang ringing like a promise.
Alex smiled into his cup.
Strike all you want, boy. Tonight the only metal that matters is the one between my legs—and the one you'll wish you never threatened.