Sunlight blistered over the dome of the Rejuvenation Hall, glinting off banners embroidered with Solara's sigil—a pair of dripping lips wreathed in fire. Inside, the air was thick with incense, moans, and money.
Solara lay sprawled across a velvet lounger, legs glistening with some honey-oil concoction a noblewoman had personally delivered, claiming it enhanced skin elasticity and amplified her scent. Solara didn't know if it worked, but the number of men bumping into walls said yes.
Wraith sat in the shadows, polishing his blade. The real one. The one that sliced through enemies, not bedsheets. He watched everything—especially the group of officials gathering in the side chamber.
She stretched like a cat, a robe slipping from her shoulder. "Something on your mind, knight?"
He didn't answer immediately. "Council's here."
She pouted. "Ugh. More old men in robes who want to 'advise' me."
"They want to control you."
"They can try."
---
Inside the council chamber, the temperature dropped—not from magic, but from tension.
Six men. One woman. All draped in official silks, none of them making eye contact with Solara's cleavage, but every one of them aware of it.
She sat at the head of the table, legs elegantly crossed, fingers twirling a glass of... let's just say it wasn't wine.
Councilor Trenn cleared his throat. "Lady Solara. Your... generosity has brought hope. But recent rumors suggest you're engaging in... unregulated, intimate diplomacy."
"Is there a regulated version of sex that I'm unaware of?" she asked with a grin.
"You're destabilizing power. Nobles now trade your fluids like relics. Cities have started using drops of your essence as currency."
"Oh? How much am I worth today? A castle per climax?"
The woman councilor—Lady Vess—leaned forward. Her voice was sharp. "We're asking you to consent to bottling. Proper facilities. Controlled distribution. It'll help more people. Faster."
Solara's smile vanished.
"You want to milk me like a cow?"
Vess didn't flinch. "It's not personal. It's survival."
Solara stood.
Robes fell open.
No one dared blink.
"I'll choose who gets me. How they get me. When they get me."
She leaned over the table, breasts nearly grazing the council records.
"You want salvation on tap? Then bend the knee like everyone else."
Silence.
And then she walked out, hips swaying like a middle finger.
---
Back in her chambers, she threw off her robe and collapsed into the cushions.
Wraith was already there.
"You okay?"
She looked at him with smoldering eyes. "They want to bottle me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Idiots."
"Mmhm. I say we bottle them."
"Not sure that's physically possible, but I like where your head's at."
She straddled him, grinding slowly, lips grazing his ear.
"I'm serious, Wraith. If I let them do this, I stop being a woman."
"You're not just a woman," he whispered. "You're a storm."
She kissed him then—hard, hungry, heated.
And their bodies did what words couldn't.
---
Outside, someone was watching.
A man in white.
His eyes glowed faintly blue.
He held a vial.
And inside it, just a drop of her fluid shimmered.
He smiled.
Whispered: "Let the cloning begin."