Chapter 32 (First Milestone)

Aria's authority was overridden easily by Ginova.

Ginova, obtaining complete domination of the planet, had absolute control over the people. However, that alone shouldn't be enough to force Aria into her palms.

Unfortunately for Aria, her original body, the flesh and blood that she originally came from, was in Ginova's control. This was a unique situation, a fortuitous event for one, and a curse for another.

Ginova's dominion over Aria's physical form proved the linchpin. Though Aria's soul had long since ascended beyond mortality, her divine corpus, preserved by the Church as a holy relic, remained tethered to the material plane through centuries of ritualized veneration.

This healthy, yet empty vessel acted as both battery and beacon, passively accumulating Faith Points from worship even as Aria's consciousness floated disembodied across higher realms.

When Ginova located and violated the sanctum containing Aria's remains, she didn't merely steal residual power, she hacked the metaphysical infrastructure of Aria's divinity. By flooding the preserved body with her own concentrated divine essence, Ginova overwrote the "signature" left by the original owner.

The process transformed Aria's former vessel into a backdoor vector, a trojan horse permitting Ginova to intercept prayers meant for the absent goddess while simultaneously cutting off the flow of faith to Aria, though the latter wasn't something she knew at the time.

Ginova's violation of Aria's corpse allowed more than theft of divine energy; it forged an asymmetrical bond between the goddesses. By anchoring her essence into the vacant vessel, Ginova established metaphysical ownership over Aria's entire existence across all planes. When Aria attempted to infiltrate her world to regain influence, Ginova hijacked the process, sculpting Mira's mortal shell as both prison and laboratory.

The 'DIVINE ULTIMATE PLEASURE SYSTEM' served dual purposes. A humiliation engine forcing the once-virtuous goddess to accumulate power through depravity, and a data-gathering tool refining Ginova's understanding of the systems. Unlike Ginova's innate ability to harvest worship through sexual subjugation, this counterfeit system operated on quid pro quo transactions. Mira performed lewd acts to earn Faith Points, which could then be spent on partial power restoration.

Key features included escalating "daily quests" demanding acts contrary to Aria's core principles, penalty mechanisms that inflicted physical/mental anguish for non-compliance. Ginova monitored every data point. Neural responses during violation, faith yield ratios from different degradations, even the psychological erosion of Aria's— no, Mira’s resistance.

The so-called DIVINE ULTIMATE PLEASURE SYSTEM functioned as a closed-loop ecosystem of degradation. Every Faith Point Mira ‘earned’ through humiliating acts represented nothing more than temporary vouchers issued by Ginova—easily revoked or devalued at whim. The interface showed cumulative totals to foster false hope, but progression thresholds always scaled exponentially. What appeared as a path toward liberation was a hamster wheel greased with pheromones and Mira’s own bodily fluids.

Ginova calibrated the system to maximize psychological torment. Quests escalated from minor perversions to atrocities that hollowed Mira’s spirit, forcing her to eat Nurse Eswen’s cunt one day was the beginning. Each act paid diminishing returns, requiring Mira to perform worse violations for dwindling rewards. Failure penalties weren’t mere pain, but engineered humiliation: spontaneous orgasms during prayer, lactating in public, and even deductions of her hard earned Faith Points.

The degenerate system served as Ginova’s masterpiece. It didn’t measure moral decline, but how thoroughly Mira’s nervous system rewired itself to associate degradation with survival. Every percent gained eroded her original divine coding, replacing Aria’s virtues with pleasure triggers keyed to Ginova’s essence. Soon, the Saintess who once healed lepers with a touch would find her hands moving autonomously to grope strangers, her mouth forming perfect O-shapes around any thrusting cock.

Even now—

Mira's eyelids fluttered open to the rhythmic slap of loose skin against wrinkled palm. An old servant's cock bobbed inches from her face, a veined, purplish thing glistening with precum. His sagging balls brushed her chin as he grunted, yellowed nails digging into the mattress beside her head.

[Daily Quest: Service the Servant.]

[Penalty for refusal: Total Faith Point reset.]

[Faith Points: 169]

[Time: 19 minutes 59 seconds remaining.]

Her stomach lurched at the stench of unwashed groin, mildew and sour musk clinging to greasy gray pubes. The man's free hand cupped her cheek, calloused thumb smearing spit across her lips. "C'mon lil' miss," he rasped, hips stuttering. "Yer ma's been teachin' ya, ain't she? Show old Jorvik what them pink lips can do. I heard what ya did to ol' Eswen."

Mira's throat constricted. Yesterday she'd passed out trying to lick Nurse Eswen's labia. Now this reeking fossil wanted her mouth on his—

[Recommended action: Deep throat stimulation.]

Jorvik's testicles slapped against her collarbone as he leaned closer, sweaty sac hairs tickling her skin. "Ain't gonna bite, are ya?" He chuckled wetly, thumb prying her jaw open. "S'what yer made for now. Fancy lil' cocksleeve."

Mira's vision blurred. The System's countdown pulsed behind her eyes, 19 minutes 17 seconds remaining. She'd spent days retching through quests to accumulate those points. Losing them meant starting over. Meant more days of… this.

There was no time to think. An alarm blared in her mind. Pupils constricted, heart pumping with adrenaline, Mira immediately made a choice on the spot—

Her tongue crept out— millimeter by millimeter— until the first salty droplet hit her taste buds. Jorvik moaned, hips jerking forward. The sudden thrust shoved his left testicle past her lips, wrinkled skin bursting with bitter fluid.

Mira gagged, tears streaking her cheeks as the servant fisted her hair. "There's my good girl," he crooned, grinding his rancid scrotum against her teeth. "Suck 'em proper like yer mum taught ya."

Mira's nostrils flared against the wiry tangle of pubic hair as Jorvik's calloused fingers tightened their grip on her skull. The wrinkled sack flesh slid deeper past her lips, each pulse of his heartbeat thrumming against her tongue. She forced her throat muscles to relax, saliva pooling around the sour-tasting tip of his cock barely grazing her uvula. Her cheeks hollowed instinctively, the obscene schlck-schlck-schlck of wet suction echoing through the servant's quarters.

[Tongue pressure insufficient.]

[Faith deduction imminent.]

Her eyes squeezed shut as trauma-tremors wracked her spine. The System didn't care what his foreskin tasted like, or how much Mira hated it. She lapped at the swollen glans with broad, flat strokes. The way mother's hounds cleaned their own genitals. Precum oozed thick over her taste buds, rancid-sweet like fermented honey. Jorvik's moan vibrated through his balls still nesting under her tongue.

"Fuckin' noble girl! keep suckin' them just like that!" His hips stuttered, slapping heavy sac against her chin. "Gonna breed that whore mouth proper!"

Mira's gag reflex triggered when his cockhead breached her esophagus. Cartilage ground against shaft as he piston-fucked her face, each thrust painting her windpipe with bitter smears. Tears streaked the crumpled bed sheet beneath her. She focused on the mechanical rhythm, inhaling through the nose during retreat, and suppressing convulsions during penetration. Her fingers clawed uselessly at Jorvik's hairy thighs as he hit a bruising tempo.

[Oropharyngeal stimulation efficiency: 68%]

[Recommended adjustment: Apply teeth to frenulum.]

The System's cold directives overrode her revulsion. Her incisors scraped the veiny underside, tongue swirling tight circles around the corona. Jorvik's choked curse became a strangled howl.

Hot spurts flooded her gullet, the viscous load forcing its way into her stomach. She swallowed convulsively, leaking semen gluing her eyelashes shut. His shriveled balls tightened against her jaw as the last ropes pumped across her battered palate.

[+ 25 Faith Points]

"Filthy little miracle-worker," Jorvik panted, grinding his softening cock against her bruised lips. "Clean your mess now. Every drop."

Mira's tongue moved on autopilot, licking dried streaks from his wrinkled scrotum. The System's counter ticked upward.

+10 FP for swallowing and another +10 for post-ejaculation servicing.

She catalogued sensations with clinical detachment: salt-crust under fingernails from clawing the bed sheets, the acidic burn of semen churning in her gut.

Jorvik's calloused palm suddenly gripped the back of her neck, forcing her nose into his still-dripping slit. "Don't forget the dessert, girlie." His chuckle sent flecks of spittle into her matted hair. "Get my prick shining like yer mother’s silverware ‘fore I call the boys in for seconds."

Mira’s jaw ached as she reopened her swollen lips. The System’s golden text blazed behind her eyelids:

[Optional Objective: Analingus during maintenance phase]

[Potential Reward: +50 Faith Points]

[Penalty: None]

Jorvik's cock twitched against her nostrils, still dribbling acrid after-cum. "Lookit that face," he sneered, thumb digging into the cleft of her chin to smear snot and tears across her cheeks. "Five winters old an' suckin' cock better'n half the tavern whores." His yellowed teeth glinted as he yanked her head back by the hair, forcing eye contact. "Bet yer cunt-mother's proud. Taught ya to swallow seed 'fore ya could piss proper."

Mira's nostrils flared at the stench of his breath. Rotted meat and cheap ale. Her tongue continued swiping methodically along his shaft's underside, collecting pearly droplets. 169 becomes 194. 194 becomes 214. Each mechanical lap added digits to the counter burning behind her eyelids. The optional objective's golden text dimmed, unrewarded.

'50 points lost...'

She choked the thought down with another glob of semen.

"Tighter grip, slut-pup." Jorvik slapped her tiny hand around his semi-flaccid girth. "Ain't no teat to milk here. Work them fingers like ya mean it." His free hand pinched her left nipple through the threadbare nightdress, twisting until her whimper vibrated against his balls. "There's my good bitch. Knew that noble blood'd make ya ripe for breaking."

Mira's pinky finger brushed the pucker beneath his scrotum. Her stomach heaved. Jorvik's sphincter pulsed inches from her face, reeking of stale sweat and shit particles.

'50 points. That's not much, but…'

Her tongue remained glued to his shaft.

"Frigid little cunt," Jorvik spat, yanking her head sideways by the ear. "Yer mam takes it up the shitter daily. What makes ya think ya rate higher?" He ground his testicles against her nose, smearing mucus across her philtrum. "Should bend ya over the washbasin. Teach ya proper respect for a man's shithole."

[Post-Ejaculation Service: 97% Complete.]

Mira focused on the counter, lips sealed around his dribbling tip. The remaining 3% required milking his urethra dry. Her index finger pressed the swollen bulge beneath his cockhead, thumb working in counterpoint. Jorvik's hips bucked, spraying bitter dregs across her molars.

"Fuckin' deviant brat." His laughter rattled with phlegm. "Born to be a cock-sleeve, ain'tcha? Suckled on cum 'stead o' titmilk." He leaned close, rancid breath fogging her eyelashes. "Gonna tell the scullery lads 'bout this. Bet they'll line up to fuck that cute mouth of yours."

[Quest Complete.]

[Faith Points: 214]

Mira's jaw unclenched. Jorvik's softening cock slipped from her lips with an obscene pop. Semen strands stretched between her chin and his glistening head. She stared at the cracked floorboards, tracking a cockroach's path through dust and dried fluids.

'214.'

'Not enough.'

'Never enough.'

The servant stood, tucking himself into stained breeches. "Reckon I'll visit daily now." His piss-splattered boot nudged her thigh. "Gotta train them mouth like yer mam would, right?"

Mira's tongue probed a loose molar. The System's text shimmered. No mention of tomorrow's quests. No hint of escape. Just the counter's cold calculus.

Jorvik's laughter followed him out, echoing down the servant's corridor. "Don't take too long now, precious. The day's just started."

Alone, Mira spat a glob of phlegm and semen into her palm.

'214.'

She wiped the mess across her already soiled nightdress.

'214.'

The number pulsed behind her eyes like an infected wound.

'214.'

Somewhere beyond stone walls, a stableboy's raucous laugh echoed into her ears. Mira's tongue traced the raw groove her teeth had carved in Jorvik's shaft.

'214.'

The cockroach scurried over her big toe. She didn't flinch.

—————————…

'My power is gone… but I can still earn Faiths through this degenerate system…'

Its origin eluded Mira still. It pushed her to do humiliating things.

Things that she would never normally do, if ever.

Combined with the fact that she was forcefully reborn into this world, Mira suspected foul play at hand. A work of another like her, perhaps? She had no idea. There was simply no way to tell what's going on.

There weren't many things she could do besides obey and comply with the system and the people around her. There was no telling whether the system could truly take away all her Faith Points. The risk was too great for her.

Mira was after all, just a child at the moment. The accumulated Faith Points she has saved could be used, but she wasn't sure what to do with it yet.

'I have to find out what happened to my church… and the Salvation Church. There might be clues there. I have to interrogate the leader, learn of their true origins, and maybe…'

The SYSTEM's directives had rewritten her neural pathways, hardwiring arousal to compliance. Every Faith Point earned forged thicker chains. She knew the arithmetic: degrade herself, accumulate power, repeat. But the architect of this perversion? That truth coiled cold in her gut. Only another divine could've hijacked Aria's essence, funneling worship into this depraved feedback loop. The Salvation Church's doctrine reeked of her own defiled power—pleasure weaponized, faith metastasized into addiction.

Her nails bit into palms. Ginova. A name whispered in brothel confessionals and back alley shrines. An upstart deity feasting on carnal desperation. Mira's own dethroned followers now knelt at altars of cum-stained marble, prayers dripping with wet gasps. The symmetry stank of mockery. Aria's church had preached restraint, compassion, enlightenment—principles this new cult inverted with surgical precision. The corruption wasn't random. It was tailored.

Mira’s small fingers trembled as phantom memories of Nurse Eswen’s violated body flickered behind her eyelids. The System’s interface glowed in her vision, tallying her accumulated Faith Points, enough to enhance her physique by a point or two, but it wasn't substantial enough.

'I need more… so much more…'

Mira stepped out of her room, her small frame swallowed by the grand corridor's high ceilings and intricate tapestries. The maids flanked her, adjusting the new dress that hung on her shoulders, its fabric light and soft against her skin. The dress was a pale lavender, adorned with delicate lace that framed her collarbone and wrists, chosen to emphasize her innocence.

"Lady Mira," one maid murmured as she smoothed out an invisible wrinkle, "you look splendid this morning."

Mira nodded absently, her thoughts not on the compliments but on the weight of the system's directives. Each step she took towards the breakfast hall felt like a step deeper into an unseen abyss. The system's cold presence lingered in the back of her mind, a constant reminder of the humiliations it demanded for Faith Points.

The hallway opened into a sunlit dining room where Lady Veyra awaited. Her mother reclined in an opulent chair, eyes flicking over Mira with a mixture of pride and possessive scrutiny. The maids curtsied and took their leave as Mira approached the table.

"Good morning, Mira." Veyra greeted, her voice honeyed but with an edge that always put Mira on alert.

"Good morning, Mother." Mira replied softly, taking her seat.

A spread of fruits, breads, and cheeses lay before them. The smell was inviting, but Mira's appetite was overshadowed by dread. She forced herself to pick up a piece of bread and nibble at it.

Veyra watched her with calculating eyes. "Did you sleep well?"

Her mother didn’t mention anything about nurse Eswen. It was odd to Mira, even knowing her mother’s degenerate nature. Perhaps she didn’t bring it up on purpose? Mira had no idea. She was mentally exhausted to assume anything at all.

Mira met her gaze briefly before looking down at her plate. "Yes… Mother."

"Good," Veyra said, leaning back with a satisfied smile. "You have much to do today. The Duke's visit this afternoon will require your utmost charm."

Mira nodded again, feeling the system's directives tightening around her like a noose. She would be expected to perform for their guests, to act in ways that would accumulate more Faith Points while further eroding what little remained of her autonomy.

—————————…

Duke Herlong’s jowls quivered as his carriage rattled toward the Valaheimn estate, fat fingers kneading the velvet pouch stuffed with silver coins and powdered euphoria. His breeches strained against his hairy thighs, the lace-trimmed codpiece sagging around the shriveled nub of his cock—a source of endless insecurity he compensated for with cruelty. The Aria Church’s seal glittered on his ring, its holy sigil crusted with dried blood under the gemstone.

The Duke’s "philanthropic visits" to noble houses masked a more lucrative trade. Beneath his country manor lay a honeycomb of cells stocked with "donations" for the church’s "rehabilitation programs"—street urchins, captured hermaphrodites, and wives who’d outlived their husbands’ patience. The Aria Church’s new doctrine provided convenient scripture: "The weak shall find purpose through servitude to the strong."

Last week, he’d personally branded a defiant hermaphrodite’s cockhead with a glowing iron censer, relishing how their dual anatomy amplified screams. "Filthy abomination," he’d slurred, spitting sacramental wine onto their seared flesh. "Goddess Aria weeps at your existence." His favorite technique involved inserting eel-skin sheaths lined with thick bumps into the victims’ orifices, then forcing them to beg for each thrust.

Now, as footmen hauled his bulk from the carriage, Herlong’s piggish eyes fixed on Lady Veyra’s young daughter lingering near the fountain. Mira’s doll-like frame awakened his most expensive tastes. Three of the girls in his private cells matched her delicate proportions—all purchased from slavers who knew better than to ask why their client preferred children with golden eyes.

"Your Grace." Lady Veyra’s voice dripped saccharine venom as she greeted him in the foyer. Her gown’s plunging neckline barely contained the aftermath of this morning’s stable romp. "How pious of you to bless our home."

Herlong’s smile exposed yellowed teeth. "The Goddess’ light must reach even the… shadowed corners of her flock." His gaze slid to Mira, who stiffened under the weight of his stare. "Your daughter’s innocence is a rare jewel. Has she undergone her first confession? The Church offers guidance for girls of… impressionable age."

A maid scurried past with a decanter of spiced wine. Herlong’s meaty hand shot out, groping her thigh hard enough to bruise. The girl froze, eyes downcast—trained well.

"Let us discuss donations," Veyra purred, steering him toward the solar.

In the dungeon beneath his carriage, a muffled whimper rose from an oak crate stamped with the Aria Church’s emblem. The Duke’s latest shipment: twins from the border slums, prepped for their debut at tomorrow’s "charity auction."

The solar reeked of decayed roses and Herlong’s sour sweat. He collapsed into a chair that creaked under his bulk, pudgy hands already undoing his breeches. "Three hundred silvers for the spring tithe," he wheezed, tossing a coin pouch that clinked with deliberate underpayment. "Plus a bonus... should your household provide spiritual counsel."

Veyra traced the Aria Church seal on the bag with a fingernail filed to a talon. "How devout of you. Though gold gilds confessionals better than silver." Her smile showed too many teeth. "Particularly for counseling so... specialized."

Herlong’s codpiece sagged open, revealing a flaccid pink worm, glistening under the light. "The Goddess cherishes all offerings—even flawed vessels." His thumb rubbed circles around the cockhead like a priest anointing a relic. "Your daughter’s eyes... they’d fetch fifty gold from the bishop’s collectors. Maybe double if her maidenhead’s intact under those frilly—"

Veyra’s riding crop cracked across his knuckles. "Bargain with your own cunt-born whelps, porkling." She pressed the crop’s brass tip under his chins, forcing his head back. "Mira’s bloodline exceeds your coin. But..." Her free hand palmed the damp bulge between his thighs, fingers squeezing until his cocklet dribbled pre-cum. "A charitable woman might assist... pastoral needs."

He jerked, face purpling. "You dare—!"

"Nine minutes," Veyra purred, consulting the hourglass beside Aria’s tarnished effigy. "That’s how long the last suitor lasted before swallowing his own tongue." Her thumb smeared his ooze across the coin pouch. "Shall we see if churchmen fare better?"

The Duke’s jowls trembled. "Five... five hundred gold. Final offer."

Veyra’s skirts rustled as she knelt, ruby lips parting. "Start. Praying."

Her tongue flicked—not towards his cock, but the sagging purse beneath it. Her teeth grazed his scrotum as she withdrew the pouch’s drawstring with her mouth, letting silver coins cascade onto his thighs. "First tithe’s collected," she murmured against his inner leg, breathing hot through the wool. "Now... for the rest."

Herlong’s shriveled cock twitched pathetically as she swallowed it whole, her cheeks hollowing with theatrical suction. Veyra’s nails dug into his inner thighs as she pistoned her head—a brutal parody of devotion.

"G-goddess’s light!" he squealed, hips stuttering.

Lady Veyra’s lips stretched obscenely around Herlong’s hardening cock, her tongue flicking the piss slit to harvest briny precum. She hummed mockingly as his hips jerked, her painted nails digging crescents into his doughy thighs. "Pathetic little dribbler," she crooned between wet sucks, saliva dripping down his sagging balls. "Does the Holy Duke need his leaky spigot polished twice daily?"

Her tongue flattened along his shaft’s veined underside, corkscrewing up to rasp the frenulum. Veyra’s free hand slipped beneath her skirts, fingers pistoning in her cunt to the rhythm of her oral assault. "Mmf—tastes like rancid butter and sacramental wine," she moaned, exaggerating her swallow as another bead of pre-cum oozed onto her tongue. "You reek of desperation. Do they train you church swine to seep like broken sewers?"

She hollowed her cheeks, forcing his meager length deeper until her nose pressed greasy pubic fat. Her throat fluttered around him—not in skill, but derisive simulation. When he whimpered, she released him with a lewd pop, precum glistening on her chin.

"Look at this sad nub," she sneered, slapping his cock against his bloated belly. "A cockring couldn’t find purchase here. And yet..." Her tongue lapped a thick stripe from the balls to the tip. "...you reek of virility. Does that excite you, my duke? Knowing your stench could rut a barnyard sow into heat?"

Veyra’s own arousal slickened her inner thighs, the musk of her cunt mingling with Herlong’s sweat. She swallowed him again, gagging while her uvula massaged his crown. Let him believe he’s defiling me, she thought, grinding her clit against the chair’s carved edge. Her moans vibrated through his shaft as she mentally cataloged his flaws—the fungal stench under his foreskin, the liver spots on his inner thighs—each squalor heightening her perverse thrill.

"Come now," she purred, twisting her fist around his base as her tongue swirled. "Show me how the holy duke of Aria Church spills. Will it be a drop? A speck? Or..." Her teeth grazed his shaft, not enough to wound. "...will your spunk finally match your coin purse’s weight?"

Herlong’s breath hitched, his sausage fingers tangling in her hair. Veyra let him fuck her mouth with shallow, frantic thrusts, her eyes rolling back in genuine ecstasy—not from his meager cock, but from the debasement of swallowing a man she’d sooner flay than fuck.

"Saints preserve—!" he wheezed.

Lady Veyra’s throat rippled obscenely as Herlong’s cockhead pulsed, his “magnificent spunk” flooding her gullet in three pathetic spurts—each thinner than sacramental oil. She milked his shaft with wet suctioning noises, tongue rasping the veined underside to harvest every rancid drop. His hips stuttered against her face, jowls quivering as he wheezed Aria’s holy verses between gasps.

“Y-yes! Take the Goddess’ bounty, whore!”

The Duke’s “donation” tasted of stale urine and the cloying incense rubbed into his pubic thatch. Veyra’s painted lips stretched wider, hollowing her cheeks to prolong his delirium. When his dribble slowed to a trickle, she withdrew with a theatrical pop, strands of saliva and sperm bridging her lips to his shriveled cock.

“A tithe worthy of sainthood,” Veyra purred, swiping a finger through the mess on her chin. She sucked it clean, pupils dilating at Herlong’s whimpering shudder. “Shall I prepare your altar for nightly worship?”

Herlong’s codpiece lay in a soiled heap as Veyra knelt between his spread thighs. She dragged her tongue up his flaccid shaft, collecting the ooze beading at the slit. Her thumbs hooked into his swollen scrotum, massaging the hairy pouch as her tongue swirled around his balls.

“Y-yes! Five hundred… five hundred gold!” he panted, knuckles white on the armrests. “But you’ll… ahh… tend to my needs each dusk!”

Veyra’s laughter vibrated against his taint. “Oh, Your Grace—how modest of you to assume nights suffice.” She pressed a kiss to his hairy balls, tongue darting out to taste his musk. “Dawn, noon, and vespers… this holy spigot craves its libations.”

Herlong sighed deeply, his body sinking further into the chair. “Yes... Yes... Very good.” His hand lazily petted her head as if rewarding an obedient pet. “You have earned your donation.”

Her mouth sealed over his cock once more, ruthlessly scrubbing the folds of his foreskin with her tongue. The Duke’s moans crested as she swallowed him to the root, her throat fluttering in mock reverence. By the time she withdrew, his pecker gleamed with spit and misplaced pride.

“Your Grace deserves only the finest service.” Veyra smirked, rising to curtsy as a tavern wench might. She left Herlong slumped and dripping, carrying the pouch of coins.

His silver pouch hung heavy at her waist—a paltry fee for the indignity of servicing a man whose cock couldn’t outlast a pubescent squire’s. She strode from the solar, the Duke’s wheezing gratitude drowned by the clink of coins and her own simmering resolve.

Leniency breeds weakness.

The thought coiled through her as she passed Mira’s closed bedroom door. For years, she’d allowed the girl to play at innocence—no forced participation in her mother’s stable romps, no mandatory servicing of guests. A mistake. The Duke’s lust-glazed eyes had confirmed what Veyra already knew: Mira’s doe-eyed delicacy was a commodity, not a virtue.

In fact, the child in question knew it was a mistake. Mira went to assault nurse Eswen's cunt by herself, as if she knew her own bloodline's legacy. An act that Veyra herself never thought of doing at her age.

In her chambers, Veyra dumped the silvers onto her vanity. The coins glinted beside vials of pheromone extracts and a leather case of cervical clamps. She selected a crystal decanter, its viscous contents swirling with the same iridescent sheen as Ginova’s "holy water."