Solara was still glowing—literally.
The Rejuvenation Hall remained cloaked in its soft amber haze, but something else hung in the air now. A sticky, undeniable energy. The walls seemed to pulse with it. The silk cushions beneath her had been swapped for fresh ones. Her skin was still damp from the warm towels, her thighs tingling, her lips curled in a lazy, satisfied smile.
She had serviced five today.
And they were calling her a Saint now.
"Saint Solara," whispered one of the temple aides as he laid fresh grapes beside her—grapes she'd never touch. The fruit wasn't for her. She lived off honeyed roots, herbal tea, and a carefully balanced diet prepared only by the High Collector's handmaids. No room for indulgence in her line of work—except that kind.
The door creaked open.
She sat up slightly. "Another already? Aren't we getting greedy?"
But the man who entered next didn't match the usual mold. No calloused hands. No dried blood under the nails. No desperate hunch. Instead, he looked… clean.
Too clean.
He walked in with a scroll tucked under one arm and glasses perched on his nose. His robe was ironed. His hair combed back like he was about to teach a class.
Solara blinked. "Are you… a scribe?"
"Scholar," he corrected, adjusting his spectacles. "Apprentice to the Archive Master. I was sent to document your process. But—uh, turns out I've been approved for a 'session.' For science, of course."
She burst out laughing.
"Science? That's what we're calling it now?"
He flushed crimson. "It's important to record the effects. Empirical data. We—uh—we've been tracking post-contact enhancements. Your fluids boost stamina, intelligence, even fertility—"
"Careful," she cut in, "talk like that makes me sound like a vending machine."
He stiffened. "I-I didn't mean—"
"I'm teasing," she said, standing slowly and letting her robe slide down just enough to reveal the curve of her hip. "Relax, Scholar. Or… maybe don't."
He gulped, stepping forward with all the grace of a man about to commit high treason. "I was told I must… engage with you directly."
She reached him, placing her hand on his chest. "Have you ever touched a woman before?"
He looked down in horror. "I've… read books."
She burst into a fit of laughter again. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy this."
Her hands slid under his robe as she leaned close to his ear. "You want data? Then feel what happens when I get wet."
He squeaked—actually squeaked.
She pressed her lips to his throat, feeling the way his pulse leapt. He was already hard. Poor thing. A single breath and he was trembling like parchment in wind.
"You're tense," she whispered. "Let me fix that."
She undid his belt and let his robe fall to the floor. He was lean, not muscular—but not weak either. His body hadn't been built for war, but it had potential. She pushed him gently onto the bed, then straddled him like a queen claiming her throne.
"W-wait, shouldn't we—talk more first?"
"Oh sweet boy," she purred, grinding against him, "this is how I talk."
He gasped.
"Lesson one," she said, lowering herself down onto him with a slow, tantalizing slide. "There's no formula for this. Just rhythm."
He moaned. His eyes rolled back. She began to move.
The glow came fast this time. Her body hummed. His hands found her waist as his hips bucked upward, matching her tempo, his scholarly discipline dissolving into primal groans.
"L-luminescence… heat… surge of clarity," he panted. "I can feel it! My mind—it's racing—"
She laughed breathlessly. "You're welcome."
When they climaxed, it hit like a firestorm. She collapsed against his chest, both of them soaked in sweat and something more divine. He clung to her like a drowning man to driftwood.
And just like the others, he whispered, "Thank you."
"No need," she murmured. "Just… remember who gave you the knowledge."
Later, as he stumbled out—glowing, rejuvenated, muttering about thesis titles—Solara lay back on the bed with a grin.
She was becoming more than just a source.
She was becoming a goddess.
And gods? Gods didn't ask for power.
They were worshipped into it.