Tonight, the rain on the stained glass of the High Temple sounded like hushed confessions. It made me remember the first time I touched someone—really touched someone—not as a saint, but as a girl. The slick slide of skin on skin, the heat of a mouth on my neck, the way my body arched into a touch I’d only ever imagined. I thought holiness meant distance. Tersys taught me otherwise. Divinity isn’t found in abstinence; it’s in the pulse of a lover’s throat under your lips, in the salt-taste of sweat and cum on your tongue, in the raw, gasping surrender when you let someone see every hidden, trembling part of you.

Sometimes, I wonder if the Chosen before me ever felt this. If they ever let a lover’s hands map the new scales along their spine, or if they ever came so hard their vision whited out, convinced for a moment they were touching the divine. My power doesn’t make me untouchable. It makes every sensation deeper—every thrust, every bite, every whispered promise. I want to be known. Not just revered.

(And if you’re the one who wants to know me… my chambers are never truly locked.)