Chapter Three

Void had seen churches before. Grand ones. Holy ones. Ruined ones with bones in the rafters and blood dried in the font.

But this?

This was a thing built to make gods blush.

The Chantry of Carnal Desire lanced from the heart of Gharath-Dur like a shard of hell frozen mid-thrust. The exterior was all spires and menace—brutalist slabs of dark basalt stitched together with chains of blackened iron. Gargoyles leered from every corner: twisted hybrids of beast and man and worse, fangs bared, eyes hollow. The entrance, a pair of enormous bronze doors carved in the likeness of interlocking bodies, yawned open.

Eleanor walked beside him, her **** curves wrapped snugly in the shiny black leather armor and a cloak with the hood raised, her gaze fixed forward. She did not speak. She didn’t need to.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Void felt it.

The heat.

Not the sun’s warmth, but the kind that seeps into the bones in a whorehouse cellar at midnight. The kind that makes men remember things they shouldn’t. The kind that tastes of wine, sweat, and something sweeter rotting underneath.

And the smell. Incense thick enough to chew, perfumed with musk, honey, fresh blossoms, and something darker. Underneath it all, the unmistakable tang of perspiration.

The hall beyond was not a place of worship.

It was a testament to depravity.

Gold leaf crawled up the pillars in whorls of ivy and serpents. Pews of blackheart cedar gleamed with polish and age, their armrests worn smooth. The walls dripped with embroidered silk tapestries, three stories tall: scenes of indulgence, flesh on flesh, gods and mortals tangled together in acts that would make a sailor blush and a puritan lose his breakfast.

Above, a domed ceiling arched overhead in stained glass, the size of a battlefield, each panel blazing with colour. One depicted Lust herself astride a many-horned beast, reaching down to cradle a weeping nobleman’s face. Another showed penitent worshippers crawling toward her throne like dogs. A third… well, best not to look too closely….

It moved if Void stared too long.

Marble gleamed beneath their boots. A dozen penitents mopped it with slathering tongues, moaning praises between licks. One goblin flailed himself with a leather scourge, each crack punctuated with a shuddering gasp.

Void stepped over a trail of what he hoped was blood and tried not to think about what he might be walking toward.

“Alright,” he muttered. “At least it’s not subtle.”

“Lust isn’t known for her restraint,” Eleanor murmured, and there was a strange fondness in her tone. Not joy. Not comfort. But something closer to reverence.

She hadn’t smiled since her possession in the tub, but she moved with purpose now, as though coming home to a distant family estate that reeked of rot and perfume.

They had not walked twenty paces before someone approached them.

He emerged from between the pews like a shadow wearing a smile. A dark elf, tall and thin as a stiletto, his skin a greasy grey. He wore layered robes of crimson and jet, cut close to show his lean frame, though he lacked any trace of masculinity below the belt—Void could tell by the graceful way he moved and effeminate features. His eyes were the colour of old bruises, his voice… like a cat asking for cream while standing over a dead mouse.

“Honored guests.” He dipped into a bow so low it might’ve been mocking. “The Mistress has been so impatient for your arrival. I am Arch-Sychophant Skargot, Humble Servant of Her Unholiness, third of that name, keeper of the unchaste keys, and eunuch in lifelong service to the Third Sin.”

Void looked him up and down. “Is the list much longer?”

Skargot’s smile widened. “Would you like it to be?”

“Gods, no.”

“A shame. We pride ourselves on excessive hospitality.” He turned on his heel, gesturing with ink-stained fingers. “Come. The Mistress awaits.”

They followed him deeper into the cathedral, down a long aisle flanked by shrines—each one devoted to a lesser saint of Lust. One was wreathed in lotus petals and burning offerings. Another had a statue of a blindfolded oni offering up her severed heart. A third had a bubbling font of spiced wine, from which an ashen-haired banshee drank while sobbing.

Void said nothing.

Eleanor did.

“She’s decorated more since I was last here,” she observed. “Or at least… bled more gold into the stone.”

“Ah, you remember well, sister,” said Skargot, pleased. “Yes, her Chantry is a living thing. It grows with her appetite. And lately… well. Business has been positively booming.”

Void frowned. “What exactly do you sell here?”

Skargot chuckled, leading them through a set of low archways carved to look like entwined lovers. “Hope, of course. And despair. A little pain, a little pleasure. Nothing you haven’t seen before. Though not quite like this, I’d wager.”

The corridor narrowed, then opened into a vast antechamber, lined with mirrors and hung with gossamer veils which danced in a nonexistent breeze. At its rear stood a great silver door, shaped like a gaping mouth.

“The Mistress awaits,” Skargot said, pausing at the threshold. He turned, and for the first time, his voice held something almost human. Almost wary. “She won’t hurt you. Not yet. Unless you ask very sweetly.”

The dark elf bowed again. Void didn’t move.

Eleanor stepped forward first, brushing her fingers lightly against his hand. Not pleading. Not guiding. Simply… with him.

Void glared at the curiously-shaped door. Everything about this place seemed deliberately unsettling or obscene.

Then he sighed.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking a steady mental grip on his nullifying core. “Let’s get this over with.”

And together, they stepped through the silver lips and into the sanctum of the Avatar of Lust herself.

The sanctum had changed since Eleanor’s last visit decades ago.

Gone were the ritual chambers and secluded alcoves she remembered, the narrow paths through perfumed haze and murmured prayer. What awaited now was something more intimate. Stranger. Less temple, more bordello.

The room extended wide and low-set. The floor drowned in layer upon layer of exotic carpets and rugs—woven with patterns that disoriented the eye if studied too closely. Piles of cushions and spreads were strewn without symmetry, forming loose nests and hollows. The rugs were stitched too fine for mortal artisans—glints of copper thread and arachne silk dancing where the light touched.

A soft ambient glow spilled from nowhere. No magical crystals, nor chandeliers. Simply a pervasive illumination that shifted as they moved, colouring the walls in warm hues one moment and darkness the next. The air held a dry, humming stillness, the kind found in old libraries and archives.

Pressure built behind Eleanor’s eyes. Not painful, exactly. A sense of dislocation—like her thoughts weren’t entirely her own anymore. As if the walls themselves were watching.

Then there she was.

At the center of the chamber, reclining—not enthroned—amidst a sunken cradle of plush satin pillows and exotic furs, was the Avatar of Lust.

Lithe of limb, modestly if sumptuously proportioned, Lust was short, no taller than a human teenager. Her blue skin was matte, but blemish-free. Two horns of pink ivory protruded from her forehead, glinting faintly under the shifting light. Her hair, a straight curtain of obsidian glass, streamed in lustrous layers across slender shoulders and back, as though it had naturally grown that way.

She could’ve passed for a young succubus in any of Gharath-Dur’s seedy pleasure dens, briefly attired in a black leather harness top that didn’t cover her full, perky breasts with a tiny lilac g-string laced over firm, rounded hips. The gentle outline of muscles defined her taut tummy, arms, and thighs. And a spaded tail flicked above a sculpted ass that could crack walnuts.

She lounged on her side, propped on one elbow, a silver goblet dangling in her free hand, half-forgotten. And yet… everything in the room bent around the worldly embodiment of primal carnality.

Not physically. Metaphysically. The atmosphere took its cue from her. The silence tasted of expectation. The pressure in Eleanor’s chest was not from awe, but recognition. She had knelt before this unholy entity often, long ago.

But even then, Lust had seemed more distant, more performative—a demigod shrouded in ceremony.

Today, she was… present.

Dropping reverently to her knees, Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the only other structure in the room. Towering on the rear wall, bolted into a mount of copper gears and brass arms, was a massive hourglass. The sand gathered in the base wasn’t sand at all, but something sanguine and granular.

Eleanor had barely begun to process it all when Void spoke.

“Bit quiet for the queen of orgies, isn’t it?”

Eleanor winced. Her fists bunched.

But Lust didn’t bristle. She laughed.

A musical, amused, dangerously unbothered sound.

“Oh, darling,” she said, stretching. Her spine arched off the pillows like a rising sea serpent. “Orgies are for the common rabble. I have far grander appetites.”

She raised her goblet, took a slow sip, then added with a wink, “Besides, I wanted to speak privately. Your lover, my acolyte, has such exquisite taste, after all.”

Eleanor didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her tongue had stilled under the weight of memories and things better left unsaid. Her knees ached with the ghosts of past prostrations.

“Funny how your regard for privacy doesn’t extend to others' bath times.” Void’s voice could have dried paint. “Though, I guess your voyeurism shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“Too true. I am the immortal embodiment of Lust, after all.” The beautiful succubi replied airily, before pinning him with a ravenous stare. “And I wasn’t about to pass on the chance to sample the merchandise. Especially when you were cavorting with one carrying my brand, so close to my seat of power. How could I resist? You are a fascinating curiosity, darling.”

“Glad you enjoyed yourself. What do you want?”

Eleanore flinched at his flat demand but kept her head bowed. She had seen her mistress consume more important men for less. Literally draining the vitality from their bodies with a touch, or worse, a kiss. Smiling and flirting with them all the while.

Lust was, fundamentally, a fickle creature.

“Who said I wanted anything?” Lust asked innocently, fondling a plump blue breast. “Perhaps I summoned you here to reward one who has treated my acolyte with such kindness. Human or not, the disciples of my diocese are generally not well received in the northern queendoms.”

“Eleanor has served my family faithfully for generations,” Void said, his voice cool. “She earned our respect. If you intend to grant favours, give them to her.”

The demoness’s lips twitched in amusement. “Oh, but she’s already rewarded, isn’t she? Thoroughly. Frequently.” Her tail snaked over her hip, the pointed tip slithering into her delectable thigh gap.. “You’re quite… generous, I hear.”

Void didn’t rise to the bait, but Eleanor caught the slight stiffening in his jaw—before Lust pivoted.

“Now, tell me,” she purred, voice sharpening. “Is it true? That you can absorb mana into that curious core inside your chest—but not cast with it?”

The sudden change in topic was a blade between ribs. Eleanor heard Void grunt, not in pain, but in irritation.

Lust pressed on, relentless. “More interesting still—can you choose where that mana goes? Can you store it… elsewhere?” Her smile deepened. “Males aren’t typically known for subtlety in such things. Most can’t even manage a proper transmutation without swelling up like overcooked frogs.”

Void’s brow ticked. “Do I look like I’m about to pop? I’m no mage.”

It was a clever reply—half-joke, half dodge. Enough truth to be disarming. Not enough to be revealing.

Eleanor said nothing, but she could feel the weight of the moment. Lust would not be so easily fobbed off. The Avatar hadn’t ruled for millennia by mistaking cleverness for strength.

She was hunting.

And Void had painted a target on his back.

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