They only see what I let them.
The softness in my eyes. The curve of my hips. The silence in my smile.
But inside? There's a storm. A slow-burning hunger that never sleeps.
They said no one is born of lust.
But I was.
I remember the first time it moved under my skin — not like a heartbeat, but a tremor. A calling. I was barely six, sitting beneath the stained-glass light of the Temple Hall, while the priestesses spoke of purity and virtue. I watched their lips form hollow words and felt nothing. Nothing... until my eyes met his. A boy no older than me — but in that moment, I felt something ancient stir. Something not mine. Something older than anyone in that room.
I didn't understand it then.
Now I do.
The pendant at my neck is warm tonight. It pulses in rhythm with a truth I've stopped trying to bury. I lie still, tangled in scarlet sheets, my bare thigh catching the faint flicker of candlelight. The night air is heavy — too quiet — like the world is holding its breath.
I wonder if it knows what I am.
Some say lust is a sin. Some say it's weakness.
But to me? It's breath. It's blood.
It's the fire beneath the skin.
I used to hate it — the heat, the longing, the ache I could never name. I thought it was brokenness. A flaw in my soul. But now... I see it for what it is. A birthright. A curse, perhaps. But one that burns beautifully.
I rise from the bed and cross to the mirror, trailing fingers across my collarbone where the pendant glows softly, pulsing with hidden power. My reflection stares back — wild hair, dark eyes, skin kissed by secrets. The mark on my spine, faint as moonlight, is a whisper of the old ones. Proof I carry their blood.
The priests would burn me for it.
I should be afraid.
But I'm not.
Tomorrow, they'll come again. With questions. With chains. With holy water.
They want to cleanse me.
But how do you cleanse fire?