Saya and the Dragon Chapter 114: Sisterhood of the Sacred Ooooh

Three days in and I’m already the favorite.

I’m sprawled butt-naked on a bed of moss that slls like moonlight and questionable decisions, every inch of painted in sacred swirls — ochre, ash, crushed berries, and probably sothing soone peed on for spiritual purposes. It’s flaking in places I’d rather not ntion, but I’m still grinning like a well-fed cat in a milk orgy.

Last night?

A blur.

A sweaty, slippery, holy blur.

There were mushrooms. Obviously. They called them “Whispers of the Root Mother” but let’s be real — I was giggling into a fern while a girl nad Thistle chanted about my third eye and licked my second hole.

Then ca the drumming. The undulating. The shamanic sex part.

I rember soone biting my thigh and calling “vessel of ancient pleasure.” I rember riding a priestess who claid she could taste colors. I rember howling at the moon because everyone else was doing it and also because Bramble’s tongue should be declared a national treasure.

Now it’s morning — or at least the misty, bird-chirping approximation of it — and I’m sticky, sore, and smug as sin.

One of the sisters, I think her na is Moss, walks past holding a bowl of steaming nettle broth. She sees , bows reverently, and mutters sothing about “divine residue.”

Gods, I love this place.

No chores. No Dragon. No scams to run. Just soft moss, soft girls, and an endless supply of herbs that make your nipples talk to you.

I stretch like the decadent brat I am. My sacred swirls creak.

Three days in the Circle of Sisters of the Forest, and I haven’t worn clothes, told a single truth, or regretted a thing.

Best winter ever.

Moss-soft warmth at my side. Then lips — warm, slow — pressing reverently along my collarbone. Like I’m a relic. A holy one. A sticky one.

Fern. Sweet, drowsy Fern with honey hair and permanent pupils like full moons. She slides over like lting wax and sighs against my skin.

“Tell us, Sister Saya,” she whispers, words heavy with post-orgy awe. “Tell us more about your days as the High Priestess of Sabrabena…”

Ah. That old chestnut.

I stretch, draping my leg over hers like the sloppy, smug demigoddess I clearly am.

“Mmm,” I murmur, eyes half-lidded. “The Temple of Neverdying Lust, you an. Spire of Ecstasy. Pillar of Eternal Moaning. North Wing of Climax and Enlightennt.”

Fern gasps like she’s hearing scripture.

I continue.

“We were seventy-three won and one sacred eunuch nad Cralios. He only spoke in riddles and oils. Our daily rites began with a communal anointing. Lavender-scented, of course. Sotis honeyed. Depending on the moon.”

“You said last ti the moon didn’t matter,” Fern mumbles.

“No no, it usually didn’t,” I say quickly, adjusting a painted boob. “Except on Thursdays. Then the entire temple entered the Vow of Sacred Drenched Silence.”

“You said it was singing silence,” she says, brow furrowed now. “That everyone moaned harmonies.”

“Yes,” I agree imdiately, “silently. It’s a sacred paradox. Only those who truly understand the moan can grasp the… spiritual frequency of inner trembling.”

Fern blinks. “And… what about the golden goat?”

“Ah.” I press a finger to her lips. “He who bleats knows not why, but bleats nonetheless.”

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

Crisis dodged.

I roll on top of her, grinning wickedly. “Now where were we, dear disciple? Had I told you about the sacred position of the Sabrabenan Crescent Spiral yet? It requires three cushions, a sturdy footstool, and soone with extrely patient thumbs…”

Her breath catches.

Hook, line, and holy debauchery.

Fern lts under —but the mood shifts when another voice cuts in from the shadows of the moss‑lit hut. Dry. Careful. A little too sober for a morning-after orgy.

Thistle. The cautious one. The one who actually rembers things after the mushrooms wear off.

She wraps her shawl tighter and narrows her eyes at .

“You know,” she says, “we once had an impostor.”

Oh gods. Here we go.

“A vagrant,” she continues, stepping closer, “who pretended to be a true Sister of Enlightennt. Claid visions. Claid blessings. Claid she could make our spirits ascend.”

Fern gasps dramatically. Moss freezes mid-sip of nettle broth.

Thistle doesn’t blink.

“But she had no magic. Not a drop. Just blind carnal lust and an astonishing appetite for grift.”

I smile sweetly. Too sweetly.

“They found out,” Thistle says, voice dropping, “after she ate all our pine nuts and spent an entire winter fornicating her way through every bed in this compound.”

Fern whispers, “Like the prophecy of the Winter Doe…”

“Not like the prophecy,” Thistle snaps, still staring at . “Because co spring she vanished. With half our stores. And two of our best spirit gourds.”

Her gaze sharpens. “We hunted her down by the end of sumr.”

Silence.

I swallow.

“And made a stew out of her.”

Fern gasps again. Moss drops her bowl. Soone in the corner mutters, “It was delicious, though.”

Thistle folds her arms. “So. Sister Saya. High Priestess. Temple of… neverdying lust, was it?”

I nod, serene as a saint desperately scrubbing her lies with spit.

“Of course,” I say lightly. “Naturally. Though the regional pronunciation is actually N’verda’yen Lusht.” I add a vague mystical twitch of my fingers. “Sacred tongue. You wouldn’t know it.”

Fern looks impressed again. Crisis half-dodged.

Thistle keeps staring. Waiting.

I lean back, stretch luxuriously over the moss, and let my painted boobs glisten in the morning light like holy artifacts.

“You know,” I purr, “in my temple, we used impostors to test our devotion. We’d let them in, let them feast, let them bed whover they pleased… because the gods of Lust and Clever Trickery believe the true lesson is not punishnt…” I tap her sternum gently.

“…but discernnt.”

Thistle’s eyes narrow.

Then soften.

Then narrow again.

I grin like a serpent in silk.

“Besides,” I add, licking my thumb and saring a swirl of sacred paint back into place, “if I were an impostor, darling… you’d already be out of pine nuts.”