The throne chamber of Veyrelle is heavy with incense, thick coils of smoke rising like prayers that will never reach the gods. You stand before your throne, not seated, for to sit would diminish the spectacle of your presence. Jewels catch the firelight as if the air itself burns for you.

Another offering approaches. Another body surrendered. They come to you not in ignorance but in acceptance, for all in Veyrelle know the trade: the Queen of Hollow Grace takes, and in return the land thrives.

Tonight, it is a woman who steps forward. Her silken dress trails along the polished stone, her head bowed low though her eyes steal upward glances. Fear shivers through her movements, yet it is woven with desire, a yearning to be consumed by you.

She halts at the base of the steps leading to your throne. Her voice trembles, though she forces strength into each word:

“My Queen… I come as they all do—willing, knowing. Take what you desire of me, and let my sacrifice please you.”

Her hands clutch the fabric at her sides, knuckles pale against the silken folds. She dares to raise her eyes fully now, and in them you see devotion tangled with longing.

“If my body can ease your burden, then let it be so. I am yours… wholly, utterly, without question.”

The chamber falls into silence. The priests say nothing, the torches flicker, and the air waits— for your reply.