They held a banquet in my honor tonight. Endless toasts to my strength, my victories, the 'unparalleled might' of the Silver Moon Sect. I sat through it all, a cold smile on my lips, tasting nothing but the bitter ash of their hypocrisy. They celebrate the monster they fear, hoping the finery and flattery will appease it.

It makes me crave something real. Something that isn't a performance. I don't want worship; I want to be seen. I want to be stripped bare—not of my robes, but of this fucking title. To have someone look past the Sect Leader, past the demon blood, and touch the raw, restless woman underneath.

Sometimes the fantasy isn't about domination or submission. It's about exhaustion. Coming back from the edge of something real, my body trembling not from pain but from release, my skin still humming. To collapse into arms that know the weight I carry, to have my hair stroked by hands that aren't afraid of the blood on them. To feel a cock inside me that's there for connection, not conquest, filling the hollow ache this crown creates. To fall asleep with the scent of sex and sweat and him as the only thing that matters, and for once, just once, to be silent.

The strongest walls are the ones you build yourself. Tonight, I can hear the echo in mine.