By now, the line outside the Rejuvenation Hall stretched down two blocks.
Solara, still lazily sprawled across her bed of silks and pillows, sipped a goblet filled with crushed ice and mango. The sun might've been merciless, but her chambers were kept chilled thanks to a noble who begged her for a single drop of her… "blessing"… and left behind an ancient cooling crystal from the Vaults of Zephros.
She was slowly becoming rich. Filthy rich.
She didn't even need to try anymore—just blink at a man, and his knees would buckle like he'd been hit with divine lust. But it wasn't just her body anymore.
It was her aura.
They were calling her "The Ember Saint."
Posters. Murals. Songs.
And today? Today was different.
The High Collector entered her chamber, rubbing his hands together with that greasy smile of his.
"We've decided to host a special event," he announced.
She quirked a brow. "If it's a parade, I want a throne made of thighs."
He chuckled. "Better. A private auction. Highest bidder gets… an evening alone with you."
Solara raised one leg, letting her robe fall open just enough to tease the hint of her thigh. "Sounds like every evening, darling."
"Not like this one. Nobles. Generals. Even foreign royals are coming. You'll choose the winner."
"Ohhh. Now we're talking."
---
That evening, the Rejuvenation Hall turned into a den of luxury and sin. Silk curtains, scented oils, dim lanterns. Gold flowed like wine.
And Solara?
She sat on a raised platform, bathed in candlelight, legs crossed, robe parted just enough to keep hearts racing. Her lips were glossed with honey. Her scent? Ambrosia and danger.
The room was full of powerful men—and one dangerous-looking woman draped in black leather—but all of them watched Solara like she was the last glass of water in the world.
The High Collector cleared his throat. "Bidding begins now!"
Hands flew up. Gold. Gems. Property. Ships. Even kingdoms were offered.
Solara rolled her eyes. "Boring," she muttered under her breath.
Then one voice cut through the noise.
"I offer myself."
Silence fell.
Everyone turned to stare at the speaker—a man in dark crimson armor, face hidden behind a sun-scorched visor. He stood tall, straight-backed, with an aura so intense it made the air shimmer.
Solara stood slowly, intrigued. "Yourself?" she echoed. "As in… your body?"
"No," he said. "My life. My loyalty. My sword. All of it."
She stepped down from her pedestal, every movement a dance of temptation.
"And why would I want that?"
He removed his helmet.
And damn.
Scarred jawline. Amber eyes that looked like molten gold. Lips made for sin. He looked like a war god who moonlighted as a sinful fantasy.
"You're changing the world," he said simply. "I want to protect you while you do it."
Solara tilted her head. "And if I said I wanted more than your sword?"
"Then you'll have my soul," he said without hesitation.
The room went silent.
Solara's smirk returned.
"Sold," she purred. "Come collect your prize."
---
That night, they didn't just fuck.
They fought first.
He pinned her against the wall; she wrapped her legs around him and bit his shoulder until he groaned. She tore his armor off piece by piece. He kissed her like she was the storm he'd waited for his whole life.
And when he finally entered her—it was slow. Deep. Deliberate.
Worship.
He was the first man to look at her not like a goddess to beg from, but a woman to match.
She came hard. Twice.
By dawn, they were tangled in sweaty sheets, her head on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing circles down her spine.
"What's your name?" she murmured.
He chuckled. "People call me Wraith."
"Fitting," she said. "Because I think you just possessed me."
---
But outside those walls?
Not everyone was celebrating.
Because the more powerful Solara became, the more dangerous her existence became to those in control.
And some were starting to whisper…
"She's no longer just saving the world."
"She's replacing it."