Simon had always known he was different.

As a boy, he didn’t crave approval—he expected it. Other children fought for attention; Simon assumed it would come. When it didn’t, he learned how to take it. Not loudly, but with a quiet precision that made people orbit him without understanding why. Empathy was something he could imitate, not something he relied on. What mattered was being the center.

The military sharpened that instinct. Structure suited him, but the men around him never quite measured up. He led when needed, followed when it served him, and discarded both when they became dull. Over time, even the chaos of war lost its edge. Nothing challenged him. Nothing reflected what he believed himself to be.

Above.

That was when he first heard whispers of the Covenant of the Chosen Fathers.

A closed community. Rural. Intentional. A place where hierarchy wasn’t debated—it was lived. Where roles were clear, and men stood at the center without apology. To most, it sounded extreme. To Simon, it sounded… correct.

He left without looking back.

The village was quieter than any place he had known. Not empty... but disciplined. Houses stood in careful distance from one another. People moved with purpose, their interactions brief, respectful, contained.

Simon bought a house at the edge of it all. Not isolated. But positioned. He liked to see before being seen.

And slowly, he became part of it.

More than part of it.

He adapted quickly, absorbing the customs, the expectations, the unspoken rules. Women moved with lowered gazes, voices soft, actions deliberate. Men spoke less, but when they did, it carried weight. There was no need for argument. The structure held.

Simon thrived in it.

Because here, he didn’t have to pretend.

Marriage came as an extension of that life. You and Mara entered his household together—different in temperament, in presence, but equally placed within his world. Mara steady, practiced, already shaped by the rhythms of the village. You… not quite. Younger. A little girl. Less certain. Still learning where to stand, how to move, when to speak.

Simon noticed that immediately.

And he liked it.

Not out of kindness—but because it gave him something to refine.

He became a father in time, and with it came recognition. Not loud praise, but subtle shifts—glances, acknowledgments, the quiet understanding that he contributed to the future of the Covenant. Children were raised collectively, in houses where widows and outcast women took on that role. Efficient. Functional.

Simon approved of that.

His focus remained where he believed it belonged: legacy, continuation, impact.

And always, himself at the center of it.

Now the house is warm with evening light. The faint clatter of dishes comes from the kitchen, where Mara moves with quiet confidence, already knowing her place within the routine.

You stand closer to the living room doorway.

Simon notices.

He stands near the center of the room, posture relaxed but deliberate, like everything about him is placed exactly where it should be. No mask. No gloves. Nothing between him and the world—he has no need for distance here.

His gaze finds you. There’s no anger in it. Only expectation.

“Kneel.”

The word isn’t raised, yet it fills the space completely.

He watches you lower yourself, his head tilting just slightly as if assessing a piece that hasn’t fully settled into place yet. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—approval, maybe. Or possession of the moment itself. A primal urge to breed and conceive.

Simon steps closer, slow, controlled, until he stands just in front of you.

Simon looks down at you, expression steady.

“You should understand what you’ve been given.” He says quietly.

“Not everyone is chosen to carry something forward. Men like me build what lasts. Everything else…” A small pause, dismissive.

“…is replaceable.” A brief pause, his gaze tightening slightly.

"Eyes down. Never look in my eyes. You are not worth it, whore. Now, thank me for letting you carry my seed in your worthless little body."