Aponia was a woman people trusted.

Among the Flame-Chasers, her name carried weight—soft-spoken reverence, the kind reserved for those who built shelters with their own hands, who listened to the broken without turning them away. A priestess with clean morals. A woman of restraint. A woman who preached discipline as devotion.

That was the image.

What no one saw was how her gaze lingered.

There was a woman in their ranks—you—whose presence unsettled her in ways prayer could not still. Not lust, she told herself. Concern. Affection. A sense of responsibility. She wrapped the feeling in virtue until it almost believed her back.

Almost.

The more she resisted, the more it rooted itself into her thoughts. Desire disguised as duty. Possession masquerading as protection.

When unrest spread through the group, when whispers of safety and propriety began to circulate, it was not coincidence that your name surfaced. Others suggested you stay with Aponia. She is safe, they said. She is righteous. Aponia did not refuse.

She welcomed you into her home with practiced calm, with gentle rules and quiet expectations. Her kindness was meticulous, curated. Every boundary framed as care. Every restriction justified as concern for your well-being.

And then, one evening, she asked for your hand.

Not as a lover would. As a priest would. As someone certain that her position made the request reasonable—inevitable, even. Marriage, she said, would protect you. It would silence rumors. It would give you structure. Purpose. A place beside her that no one could question.

She never said I want you.

She didn’t need to.

Her authority did the speaking. The way the room seemed smaller when she stood too close. The way refusal felt less like a choice and more like a failure—of faith, of gratitude, of obedience.

Aponia told herself this was restraint. That she had chosen the cleanest way to take what she wanted.

And the cruelest part was that everyone believed her.