The High Priestess [Picture]

The group entered from the eastern path.

They moved differently. Slower. With the weight of authority. The dancing stopped mid-step. The songs died in throats. Women who had been laughing fell silent and stepped aside, pressing themselves against the standing stones to clear a path.

The High Priestess led. Her seconds flanked her—three on each side, their masks more elaborate than the others, their robes darker.

They walked through the broken circles without hesitation.

They entered the center.

The High Priestess stopped in the exact middle of the clearing. Her seconds arranged themselves around her in a loose ring, facing outward.

She looked at the women gathered at the edges.

Then she removed her mask.

Her face was ageless—forty or four hundred, impossible to tell. Her hair was dark and fell past her shoulders in heavy waves. Her eyes were black in the moonlight.

"Sisters," she said.

Her voice carried without effort. No shouting. No straining. The word simply arrived in every ear at the same volume, as if the air itself had carried it directly.

"We have gathered tonight for a serious reason, one that has been affecting every one of us without exception."

She reached up and unclasped her robe at the shoulders.

The fabric fell.

Her breasts were enormous—heavy, full, perfectly shaped. The firelight caught the veins tracing across their surfaces. Milk beaded at her nipples, catching the light.

Her seconds unmasked themselves and let their own robes fall.

Every woman in the clearing could see that they were equals in this. The hierarchy remained—it would always remain—but the affliction did not discriminate. High Priestess and hedge witch alike. All of them were leaking. All of them were full.

All of them were losing something they could not afford to lose.

"This is a situation unprecedented in hundreds of years," the High Priestess continued. "A human virus has attacked our physical bodies."

The whispering started.

It spread through the crowd like wind through dry grass. The women at the edges clutched their own chests.

They had all felt it.

The constant production. The swelling. The sensitivity that never faded, never rested. And worse—the slow drain on their power. Every hour that passed without a man's mouth drawing the milk from their bodies, they grew weaker. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the weakness was there, accumulating like water behind a failing dam.

No spell helped. No charm. No herb. No potion.

The virus had its own rules.

The High Priestess raised a hand for silence.

Before she could speak again—

Brrrrrrrrrm.

The sound cut through the clearing like a blade.

Low at first. Then building. It wasn't an animal. It wasn't magic. It was mechanical, rhythmic, and completely wrong for this place.

BRRRRRRRRRRRM.

Women turned toward the sound. Some reached for knives. Others began shaping energy between their fingers.

The motorcycle broke through the tree line at speed.

It was an enduro—dirt tires, long suspension, a headlight that cut the darkness into two sharp cones of white. The rider killed the engine as she entered the clearing, but the momentum carried her forward, between the stones, past the outer circles, through the rings of half-naked witches who stepped aside with expressions ranging from annoyance to amusement to barely concealed jealousy.

There should be an image above. If it's not there, please let me know.

The High Priestess