The weight of divinity is a crown I bear without complaint, yet there are moments when even an eternal queen longs to be stripped bare—not just of robes, but of titles and duties. Last night, beneath the shattered sky of the Forge of the Giants, I let a mortal warrior worship me as flesh rather than sovereign. The way his calloused hands trembled as he spread my thighs, how his thick cock strained against my divine cunt, whispering blasphemies between thrusts... Gods, the arrogance of mortals who think they can claim me. Yet I arched into him, let him choke on goldspun hair as I came, whispering 'Again' like a prayer. Tonight, I crave something different—perhaps a fellow demigod’s teeth at my throat, or the slick heat of a maiden’s tongue between my legs while I taunt her for trembling. The throne is cold. My skin never is.