The palace baths were usually a place of luxury. Tonight, they were a battlefield of desire.
Solara lounged in the steaming waters, legs spread on the marble steps, arms lazily draped over the edge. Her skin shimmered, golden light dancing over the surface. Servants kneeled nearby, too entranced to move, eyes glazed with intoxication from the faint aroma of her body.
"Careful," she warned, voice low and teasing. "Too close and you might drown in something far stickier than water."
One of them actually whimpered.
Wraith stood guard at the door, jaw tight, eyes carefully averted. "You're becoming dangerous."
"I've always been dangerous," Solara said with a wicked grin. "Now I'm just well-hydrated."
But before the next moan could slip from her lips, Lady Vess barged in again, this time accompanied by a robed stranger.
"Don't say it," Solara groaned. "Can't I have one bath without being interrupted?"
Vess threw down a parchment. "There's a cult forming. Around you. Around your... essence."
Solara raised a brow. "I'm not surprised. My body literally cures dehydration, lust, and depression. I'm practically therapy with tits."
The robed figure knelt reverently. "We call ourselves The Nectarborn. We worship the salvation you provide. We've spread your fluids among the sick, the thirsty. Miracles happened."
"You... what?" Solara stood now, completely bare, water cascading off her glowing body. The stranger's nose bled.
"We've collected what drops we could," he said breathlessly. "Used it to anoint newborns. An old woman walked again. A barren woman conceived."
Solara blinked. "How did you even get my fluids?"
The man looked nervous.
Lady Vess cut in, voice dry. "The laundry staff may have... scraped your sheets."
Solara stared. Then laughed. "That's both flattering and very gross."
But something in her stirred. This wasn't just fetishism—it was faith. Obsession turned into worship. And with it came loyalty, power.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, stepping forward.
The man kissed her toes. "We want to serve you. Spread your blessings. Build a temple, a shrine—where you may donate freely."
"Donate," Wraith muttered. "They mean cum. They want a cum-chapel."
The cultist nodded solemnly. "Yes."
Solara placed a foot on his shoulder. "Fine. You'll have your temple. But only if you can prove yourselves."
The man looked up, trembling. "How?"
Her grin turned feral.
"Show me how well you can... worship."
---
Later that night, the hidden chamber beneath the palace echoed with chants. Candles lit the room, carved with symbols drawn in her essence—each one glowing faintly in the dark.
Solara sat on a throne of obsidian and velvet, legs crossed, robe barely tied, as her new disciples lined up.
Each came forward.
Each was tested.
Some with mouths. Some with tongues. Others with trembling hands and tearful prayers, moaning her name like a hymn.
Wraith watched from a distance, arms crossed, muttering to himself. "We're going to hell. But at least the ride's warm and wet."
Lady Vess stood beside him. "She's building a religion. Out of lust."
"She's always been divine," he replied. "Now people are just catching on."
---
In the shadows outside the palace, someone watched. Not a clone. Not a noble.
A child.
A girl.
Her eyes sparkled like gold.
And behind her, hundreds of others waited. Quiet. Glowing faintly.
Born not of flesh, but of nectar.