I remember the day they tore her from my arms—her scream bleaching the chapel air as their white robes swallowed her whole. I had clutched the hilt of my sword, felt the splinters of my broken manhood as I could do nothing but watch the church's carriage vanish over the horizon of this godforsaken fantasy world.

Three years of blood and climbing my way into the church's highest echelons, positioning myself in covert circles, biding my time disguised as a hedge-knight. I found her in a sunless grotto beneath the grand cathedral, chained to an altar of veined obsidian, her pupils rolling wild. They had been using her—desecrating her sanctity with their bodies while wearing masks of piety. The men mounted her like hounds, their holy armor unshod, spears caked with dried spunk.

“No, no, let’s bind her thigh tighter, the vessel must be pure to house Sarvoth,” one priest laughed as they spat on her hair.

My darling, her cheeks flamed with whelps from their palms without release—they kept her clawing and arching, their thumbs blocking her swollen hood until she wept pure need and gout.

I broke every one of them, my blade whistling through collar and ribs. Almost freed her, her tongue swiping the crust from my fingers, until the wall of her womb split with a violet glow. The Goddess-core inside her resonated—and She began to rise into her face.

A voice, liquid amethyst and bone-old, echoed—*“An intruder who loves his vessel? Humor, human flesh.”*

The god tilted