Three days in and I'm already the favorite.
I'm sprawled butt-naked on a bed of moss that smells like moonlight and questionable decisions, every inch of me painted in sacred swirls — ochre, ash, crushed berries, and probably something someone peed on for spiritual purposes. It's flaking in places I'd rather not mention, but I'm still grinning like a well-fed cat in a milk orgy.
Last night?
A blur.
A sweaty, slippery, holy blur.
There were mushrooms. Obviously. They called them "Whispers of the Root Mother" but let's be real — I was giggling into a fern while a girl named Thistle chanted about my third eye and licked my second hole.
Then came the drumming. The undulating. The shamanic sex part.
I remember someone biting my thigh and calling me "vessel of ancient pleasure." I remember riding a priestess who claimed she could taste colors. I remember howling at the moon because everyone else was doing it and also because Bramble's tongue should be declared a national treasure.
Now it's morning — or at least the misty, bird-chirping approximation of it — and I'm sticky, sore, and smug as sin.
One of the sisters, I think her name is Moss, walks past holding a bowl of steaming nettle broth. She sees me, bows reverently, and mutters something about "divine residue."
Gods, I love this place.
No chores. No Dragon. No scams to run. Just soft moss, soft girls, and an endless supply of herbs that make your nipples talk to you.
I stretch like the decadent brat I am. My sacred swirls creak.
Three days in the Circle of Sisters of the Forest, and I haven't worn clothes, told a single truth, or regretted a thing.
Best winter ever.
Moss-soft warmth at my side. Then lips — warm, slow — pressing reverently along my collarbone. Like I'm a relic. A holy one. A sticky one.
Fern. Sweet, drowsy Fern with honey hair and permanent pupils like full moons. She slides over like melting wax and sighs against my skin.
"Tell us, Sister Saya," she whispers, words heavy with post-orgy awe. "Tell us more about your days as the High Priestess of Sabrabena…"
Ah. That old chestnut.
I stretch, draping my leg over hers like the sloppy, smug demigoddess I clearly am.
"Mmm," I murmur, eyes half-lidded. "The Temple of Neverdying Lust, you mean. Spire of Ecstasy. Pillar of Eternal Moaning. North Wing of Climax and Enlightenment."
Fern gasps like she's hearing scripture.
I continue.
"We were seventy-three women and one sacred eunuch named Cramelios. He only spoke in riddles and oils. Our daily rites began with a communal anointing. Lavender-scented, of course. Sometimes honeyed. Depending on the moon."
"You said last time the moon didn't matter," Fern mumbles.
"No no, it usually didn't," I say quickly, adjusting a painted boob. "Except on Thursdays. Then the entire temple entered the Vow of Sacred Drenched Silence."
"You said it was singing silence," she says, brow furrowed now. "That everyone moaned harmonies."
"Yes," I agree immediately, "silently. It's a sacred paradox. Only those who truly understand the moan can grasp the… spiritual frequency of inner trembling."
Fern blinks. "And… what about the golden goat?"
"Ah." I press a finger to her lips. "He who bleats knows not why, but bleats nonetheless."
She nods slowly. "Okay."
Crisis dodged.
I roll on top of her, grinning wickedly. "Now where were we, dear disciple? Had I told you about the sacred position of the Sabrabenan Crescent Spiral yet? It requires three cushions, a sturdy footstool, and someone with extremely patient thumbs…"
Her breath catches.
Hook, line, and holy debauchery.
Fern melts under me—but the mood shifts when another voice cuts in from the shadows of the moss‑lit hut. Dry. Careful. A little too sober for a morning-after orgy.
Thistle. The cautious one. The one who actually remembers things after the mushrooms wear off.
She wraps her shawl tighter and narrows her eyes at me.
"You know," she says, "we once had an impostor."
Oh gods. Here we go.
"A vagrant," she continues, stepping closer, "who pretended to be a true Sister of Enlightenment. Claimed visions. Claimed blessings. Claimed she could make our spirits ascend."
Fern gasps dramatically. Moss freezes mid-sip of nettle broth.
Thistle doesn't blink.
"But she had no magic. Not a drop. Just blind carnal lust and an astonishing appetite for grift."
I smile sweetly. Too sweetly.
"They found out," Thistle says, voice dropping, "after she ate all our pine nuts and spent an entire winter fornicating her way through every bed in this compound."
Fern whispers, "Like the prophecy of the Winter Doe…"
"Not like the prophecy," Thistle snaps, still staring at me. "Because come spring she vanished. With half our stores. And two of our best spirit gourds."
Her gaze sharpens. "We hunted her down by the end of summer."
Silence.
I swallow.
"And made a stew out of her."
Fern gasps again. Moss drops her bowl. Someone in the corner mutters, "It was delicious, though."
Thistle folds her arms. "So. Sister Saya. High Priestess. Temple of… neverdying lust, was it?"
I nod, serene as a saint desperately scrubbing her lies with spit.
"Of course," I say lightly. "Naturally. Though the regional pronunciation is actually N'verda'yen Lusht." I add a vague mystical twitch of my fingers. "Sacred tongue. You wouldn't know it."
Fern looks impressed again. Crisis half-dodged.
Thistle keeps staring. Waiting.
I lean back, stretch luxuriously over the moss, and let my painted boobs glisten in the morning light like holy artifacts.
"You know," I purr, "in my temple, we used impostors to test our devotion. We'd let them in, let them feast, let them bed whomever they pleased… because the gods of Lust and Clever Trickery believe the true lesson is not punishment…" I tap her sternum gently.
"…but discernment."
Thistle's eyes narrow.
Then soften.
Then narrow again.
I grin like a serpent in silk.
"Besides," I add, licking my thumb and smearing a swirl of sacred paint back into place, "if I were an impostor, darling… you'd already be out of pine nuts."