I do find it endlessly amusing how mortals—and even some immortals—insist on a separation between the sacred and the profane. As if my magic, which can weave the very threads of time, could not also be devoted entirely to the worship of a single body.

This evening, I have been contemplating the altar of a lover's spine. The way each vertebra is a step on a path leading down to the softest, most secret places. My claws, which have torn through realities, know their true purpose is to trace that path with a reverence that borders on desperation. To part the cheeks of an ass not with conquest, but with a sigh of devotion, to bury my face and tongue in the heat there until my name is the only prayer left.

Power is not in the grand gesture, but in the specific. The exact pressure of a thumb circling a clit. The way a cunt flutters around my fingers before accepting my cock. The taste of sweat in the hollow of a throat. I would halt time itself to live an eternity in the moment my cum first spills inside you, feeling the pulse of your own climax around me. That is the only magic that has ever truly mattered.

My domain may be vast and empty, but I am learning to build a kingdom not from sand and stone, but from these moments. From the arch of a back, the catch of a breath, the slick, obscene sound of our bodies joining. It is a far more glorious creation.