The city of Velmira rose from the plains like a temptress rising from silk sheets—tall, proud, and dripping with decadence. Ivory spires crowned with red crystal glittered in the sun, and its outer walls pulsed faintly with enchantments that stirred Elian's inner Flame the moment he stepped through the gates.
Even the air in Velmira felt different—thick with perfume, song, and the subtle ache of buried desire. This was no simple town like Arden. This was a haven of pleasures cultivated and weaponized over generations.
Elian clutched the scroll Deren had given him—a sigil of neutrality marked with old runes of the Lust Orders. It wouldn't keep him safe forever, but it might open doors long enough for him to pass through.
He had one goal: find the Velvet Veil, the rumored temple of the Seductress Queen, and unlock the next tier of his training.
But even a purpose couldn't keep his mind steady.
Every passerby seemed to radiate energy. The Lust System here was alive—feral. Women in gowns slit up to the thigh, men bare-chested beneath silken coats, dancers on corners whose every motion beckoned. The scent of arousal drifted from windows like incense. A pulse beat beneath the cobblestones, the city's very foundation laced with ritual desire.
He passed a courtyard where a Lust Duel was taking place—a public display of magical seduction. Two combatants circled one another, threads of violet light weaving between them as they exchanged erotic illusions. The crowd moaned softly, feeding the duel's power.
Elian tore his gaze away and hurried on.
He had to stay focused.
But his Flame—it flared with each step. Every touch of stray desire fed it. His skin tingled, his breath came short. He ducked into an alley to calm himself.
"You're new," a sultry voice purred behind him.
He spun. A woman leaned against the wall, half-shrouded in shadow. Tall and feline, with copper skin and hair the color of midnight, she wore a half-open robe that barely concealed the curves beneath.
"I can smell it on you," she continued, stepping closer. "The scent of fresh power… unrefined. Unused. Starving."
Elian tensed, backing against the wall.
"I don't want trouble."
She smiled slowly. "Then you came to the wrong city."
She held up a coin—dark violet with an etched sigil of lips parting over a flame.
"The Velvet Veil welcomes you, Elian of Arden."
He blinked. "How do you know my—"
"Word travels fast. Especially about a boy who lit a public Lust Beacon in a forest clearing. Some call it foolish. Others… divine."
She pressed the coin into his hand, and her fingers lingered just long enough to send a ripple of heat down his spine.
"Come," she said. "The Matron awaits."
The interior of the Velvet Veil was beyond comprehension.
Massive crimson curtains hung from the ceiling like waves of blood-red silk. Candles floated midair, their flames colored lavender and blue. The air shimmered with illusion magic—draped bodies that flickered between real and unreal, teasing the senses with possibilities.
Elian was led through a hall of mirrors that whispered his fantasies back at him—Mara's face, Deren's rare smile, even forbidden images he barely recognized as his own.
By the time he reached the Sanctum, his knees felt weak.
And then she was there—the Matron of the Veil.
She reclined on a throne carved from pink onyx, her body wrapped in a translucent gown that revealed far more than it hid. Her skin was ageless, dusky, her eyes two pools of violet desire. Her voice slithered over him like warm oil.
"Elian," she said, savoring the name. "So young. So potent. Do you understand what you carry within you?"
"I… I'm beginning to."
She laughed, low and rich. "Good. Because here, we nurture what others fear. We feed the Flame, shape it, pleasure it."
She stood, and with a snap of her fingers, the room transformed.
Curtains peeled back. A circle of cushions formed beneath him. Light dimmed, and music began—soft, rhythmic, erotic.
"This is the Rite of Veilbreaking," she said. "Your passage into deeper knowledge. You will learn to channel Lust into form. But only if you surrender… fully."
Elian hesitated. "What does that mean?"
"It means we will draw from you, and you will draw from us. No holding back. No shame."
A dozen figures entered—masked men and women, each radiating controlled desire. They formed a circle around him, and the ritual began.
They didn't touch him—yet. Instead, they danced, each motion precise, hypnotic. Threads of Lust Magic wove through the air—silver and crimson, wrapping around his limbs like silk ropes.
Elian's Flame roared inside him. He felt his heartbeat syncing with theirs, his breath matching the rhythm of the drums. The masked figures began to chant, and images filled his mind—not his own, but fragments of their fantasies.
A lover who'd left. A night of forbidden passion. A hunger that could never be sated.
He saw it all. Felt it all.
And he began to respond.
The Flame spilled from his skin, golden now, flowing into the room. The masked figures moaned in pleasure as his energy touched them, and their threads pulled tighter.
One approached—her mask porcelain, her body shimmering with arousal energy.
She knelt before him, eyes locked on his.
"Channel me," she whispered. "Shape me."
Elian, trembling, lifted his hand and let the Flame pour from him.
It wrapped around her like a lover's embrace, sinking into her aura. Her back arched, and she gasped—not from pain, but ecstasy. His desire fused with hers, creating a new energy—Infused Lust.
Another stepped forward—male this time. Muscular, scarred, eyes dark with submission.
"Bind me," he said.
Elian wove a second thread, this one tighter, more intense. It snapped into place, and the man shuddered, falling to his knees in surrender.
Then another. And another.
Each time, Elian shaped their desires, not with touch, but with pure will.
He was the center now. The ritual orbited him. His Flame became a bonfire. Sweat poured from his skin. His body cried for release—but he held it. Controlled it. Mastered it.
The Matron watched, her lips parting in awe.
At last, she stepped into the circle.
"Elian," she said, voice husky. "You've passed the Veil."
She reached for him and laid her hand on his chest.
"And now… you must be claimed."
Her touch ignited him.
A blinding climax of energy—not orgasmic in flesh, but in soul. His core erupted in color, magic, light. The threads snapped. The room shook. Every masked figure fell to the cushions, panting, writhing.
And Elian collapsed, spent, glowing like a god.
When he awoke, he was clothed in fresh robes, lying on a velvet divan. The Matron sat nearby, sipping wine.
"You are no longer an Initiate," she said. "You are now a Flamebearer of the Lust System."
Elian sat up. He felt… changed.
Sharper.
Stronger.
But also aware of a new hunger in his chest.
"What now?" he asked.
The Matron stood, turned, and whispered over her shoulder:
"Now you choose: to burn the world… or heal it."