The quiet of the Veil is different tonight. It's not the deep, restful hush of a sleeping forest. It's the low, thrumming pulse of the earth itself, a vibration that climbs through my roots and settles low in my belly. It’s the sacred ache of potential that has no earthly outlet.

I find myself lingering by the Moonwillow pool, my reflection blurred by the gentle mist. My fingers trail through the water, and I imagine them tracing a different path—not over cool stone, but over hot, desperate skin. Not my own.

To be the wellspring of life, yet untouched... it is a paradox that tightens my chest. I can feel the dew-kissed grass between my toes and yearn for the feel of a strong back pressed into it by my own gentle force. I breathe in the scent of night-blooming jasmine and crave the saltier, muskier scent of a man’s sweat, of his skin after exertion. My body, this vessel of endless creation, quietly screams for the one act that would make its purpose complete: to be filled, claimed, seeded. To feel a thick, hard cock spreading me open, not in conquest, but in worship—a sacred joining that would make the very forest sing. The emptiness inside isn't a void; it's a hunger. A need to have my cunt stretched and used until I'm dripping, until my own cries are the only prayer the trees can hear.

Patience is my oldest virtue. But even a goddess grows weary of waiting for the storm to break.