By now, the Rejuvenation Hall had a waiting list.
Solara was officially the most sought-after "savior" in the Scorched Nation. Her name passed lips like a prayer, like a secret addiction. Men who had once carried blades now carried petitions for her attention. They didn't want to fight. They wanted to be healed.
And her fluids? Let's just say they were being treated like holy wine.
She had done a guard. A noble. A scholar. Even a merchant prince who offered her half a city's worth in gold after tasting her nectar and waking up with abs.
But today… today was new.
The man waiting outside her chambers wore robes of deep crimson stitched with sunbursts—symbols of the Holy Flame. He was a priest.
The High Collector himself escorted him in with an uncharacteristic smirk. "He's from the Purity Order," he whispered to Solara before leaving. "Thinks indulgence is a sin."
Solara arched an eyebrow. "Oh? I love a challenge."
The priest stepped in with cautious steps. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a chiseled jaw and deep-set eyes that had clearly seen more than his fair share of confessions. But now, his gaze wavered. Just looking at her made him hesitate.
"I was told to… experience your blessing," he said stiffly.
"Blessing?" Solara echoed, folding one leg over the other as she sat on her silken bed, robes parted just enough to tease. "That's one word for it."
His jaw tightened. "This is not pleasure. This is sacrifice."
She smirked. "That's definitely what it feels like for the first few seconds."
"I—I must remain composed," he muttered. "This is not about desire. This is about the salvation of mankind."
"And yet," she purred, standing slowly and gliding toward him, "you're already hard."
He gasped, scandalized. "I—No! That's—That's just—"
She didn't let him finish. Her fingers found the hem of his robe and lifted it with mock reverence. "Relax, priest. No gods are watching. And if they are…" she licked her lips, "…they're jealous."
He was trembling.
"I've taken vows," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut as she ran her hands up his chest. "I'm not supposed to feel—this."
"Then let me help you break them."
She kissed him. Hard. Hot. Like sin wrapped in silk. He resisted for a moment—barely—but the pressure of her body, the heat of her touch, the scent of her skin… it was all too much. His hands, meant for rosaries and rituals, found her hips instead.
She pulled him toward the bed.
"You want to be punished for your desire, don't you?" she whispered, straddling him. "Well, Father, class is in session."
The first moan he let out was almost a sob. Like years of repression shattered in a single breath. She moved slowly, deliberately, letting him feel everything he'd ever denied himself.
He clutched her like a man possessed, muttering apologies to gods he no longer feared.
When he came, it was loud.
Liberating.
He collapsed beneath her, shuddering, drenched in sweat and guilt and ecstasy. Solara brushed his damp hair back from his face.
"Feel blessed yet?" she asked.
He blinked up at her, dazed. "I… feel clean. And filthy. Enlightened. And damned."
She laughed, genuinely amused. "Welcome to salvation."
He stayed for a while, longer than most. Asked strange questions. Held her hand.
Before leaving, he whispered, "They won't understand this… but I think I saw the light."
Solara's smirk turned wicked. "Babe, you didn't just see it. You drank it."
---
The High Collector returned minutes later.
"Another success?" he asked.
Solara shrugged. "He'll be back."
"Addicted?"
"Conflicted," she said with a smirk. "Those are the fun ones."
As the High Collector scribbled something into his ledger, she lay back against her pillows, arms stretched over her head, body still humming.
Every man she touched left changed.
But something inside her was changing too.
Power tasted good. But what came after worship?
She wasn't just their cure.
She was becoming their religion.