Moonrise came slow and silver over Willowbrook, turning the river into a ribbon of molten moonlight. The entire village had gathered at the edge of the Mother's Grove—an ancient circle of twelve standing stones taller than two men, moss-soft and carved with spiraling vines that seemed to breathe in the night air. Torches ringed the perimeter, flames steady despite the breeze, casting long shadows that danced across faces upturned in reverence and hunger.
The crowd formed a loose ring: women mostly, dressed in white shifts or simple robes, hair unbound and braided with moonflowers. Men stood farther back—some curious, some wary, a few openly aroused by the charged atmosphere. Children had been sent home; this was adult worship tonight.
At the center of the circle stood Elder Rowan, silver braids gleaming under the twin moons. She held a staff of polished yew topped with a crystal that caught starlight like trapped fireflies. Beside her waited Mira—radiant, trembling faintly with anticipation—wearing nothing but the silver pendant between her breasts and a thin veil of gossamer silk that did little to hide the curves Alex had already claimed.
Alex walked the path from the inn alone, barefoot, linen trousers and open tunic the only garments he wore. The night air kissed his skin, raising faint gooseflesh that only heightened the sense of vulnerability he projected. Every eye followed him. Every breath seemed to pause as he entered the circle.
Torin stood at the very edge of the crowd, arms crossed, jaw locked. His forge-blackened hands flexed and unflexed at his sides. He had come—not out of faith, but because staying away would have meant abandoning his mother to whatever this stranger was. His eyes never left Alex.
Rowan raised her staff. The crystal flared green.
"Children of the Mother," she intoned, voice carrying clear and strong, "tonight we seek truth. The stones do not lie. They remember every oracle who has stood here since the First Bloom. They will sing for one truly marked. They will burn the false."
She turned to Alex.
"Step into the heart, servant-who-claims-to-serve. Kneel. Open yourself."
Alex obeyed without hesitation. He walked to the exact center—where faint silver lines etched into the earth formed a perfect spiral—and sank to his knees. The ground was cool, moss soft under his shins. He spread his arms slightly, palms up, head bowed in perfect imitation of surrender.
Inside: This is theater on a grand scale. They want spectacle. The system will deliver. And when it does, even the boy at the back will feel the ground shift under his feet. Doubt is loud until proof is louder.
Rowan began the chant—low, rhythmic, joined quickly by every woman in the circle. The words were old, melodic, in a tongue Alex didn't know but somehow understood: invocation, surrender, revelation.
The standing stones began to hum.
Soft at first—like distant bees. Then deeper, resonant, vibrating up through the earth into his bones. The crystal atop Rowan's staff pulsed in time.
Alex felt the system stir.
[Divine Confirmation Protocol – Activated]
[Public Spectacle Threshold Met]
[Deploying Oracle's Radiance – Maximum Display]
[Cost: 300 Favor | Remaining: 500]
A warmth bloomed behind his sternum—hotter than last night, brighter. Golden light leaked from his skin in thin threads, spiraling upward like smoke made of sunlight. The threads reached toward the stones.
One by one, the carvings ignited.
Vines carved into granite glowed emerald, then gold, then blinding white. The hum became a song—layered voices, wordless and perfect, rising into the night sky until even the moons seemed to lean closer to listen.
The crowd gasped as one.
Rowan's staff trembled in her grip. Her eyes widened—genuine shock cutting through the skepticism she'd worn like armor.
"The stones… sing for him."
Mira stepped forward first—unprompted, eyes shining with tears.
"He filled me last night," she said, voice carrying clear over the song. "I felt Her blessing take root. Here." She pressed a hand low on her belly. "Let me show you."
She let the gossamer veil fall.
Naked under the moons, she walked to Alex. Dropped gracefully to her knees before him. Her hands went to the ties of his trousers—slow, reverent.
The crowd watched in hushed awe. No shame. Only worship.
Torin's face twisted. He took a half-step forward—then froze as the song swelled louder, as if warning him.
Mira freed Alex's cock—already hard, veins pulsing with unnatural golden light that matched the stones. She leaned in, took him into her mouth with the same slow devotion as the morning. But this time every motion was public sacrament: the wet glide of her lips, the hollow of her cheeks, the soft sounds she made around him.
Alex let his head tip back. Let a low, reverent groan escape—calculated to sound like communion with the divine.
More women stepped forward—three, then five. A baker with flour still dusting her arms. A weaver whose fingers were stained indigo. A healer whose hair was threaded with gray. They shed their shifts without hesitation, bodies varied and beautiful in the torchlight: full breasts, soft bellies, strong thighs, all marked by time and life.
They knelt in a loose circle around him and Mira.
One took his hand, guided it to her breast—nipple already tight. Another pressed her mouth to his throat, licking slow trails of heat. A third straddled his thigh, grinding her slick folds against muscle while she whispered prayers.
Mira pulled off him with a wet sound, lips swollen and shining.
"See?" she cried softly. "He blesses us all. Feel it."
She rose, turned, bent at the waist—presenting herself to him, legs spread, sex glistening openly under the moons. The crowd could see everything: the way her folds parted, the faint trail of last night's seed still visible on her inner thigh.
Alex rose to his feet—graceful, deliberate. The golden threads from his skin now wove outward, touching each kneeling woman. Where they brushed skin, soft moans rose. Nipples hardened further. Thighs trembled. A collective shiver passed through the circle.
He stepped behind Mira. One hand on her hip. The other guiding himself to her entrance.
He entered her in one long, slow thrust—deep enough that her back arched, a cry of pure ecstasy tearing from her throat.
The stones sang louder.
Torin staggered as though struck. His eyes were locked on his mother—on the way her breasts swayed with each measured thrust, on the bliss twisting her features, on the golden light now curling around her belly like a promise.
Alex moved with deliberate rhythm—deep rolls that dragged every inch along her walls, pulling whimpers from her with each retreat. Mira's hands braced on her thighs; her head fell forward, hair spilling like dark fire.
Other women touched themselves—fingers circling clits, pinching nipples, pressing inside their own bodies in time with his thrusts. Moans layered over the stones' song until the grove felt alive with pleasure.
Rowan—still standing at the circle's edge—dropped to one knee. Tears tracked down her cheeks.
"I was blind," she whispered. "Forgive me, oracle."
Alex met her gaze over Mira's shoulder. Smiled—gentle, forgiving, triumphant.
He picked up pace. Mira's cries sharpened—building, desperate.
"Come for the Mother," he commanded softly. "Come and show them."
She shattered—walls clamping hard, body shaking, a keening wail rising to join the stones' song. Her release triggered ripples through the kneeling women—several climaxed untouched, bodies jerking in sympathetic ecstasy.
Alex followed—burying deep, pulsing inside Mira with slow, heavy spurts. Golden light flared brightest at the point where they joined, then spread outward like dawn breaking.
When he finally withdrew, a thin thread of his seed connected them for a heartbeat before breaking. Mira sank to the moss, trembling, hand pressed to her womb.
The song crested—then softened to a gentle hum.
Silence fell.
Then cheers—joyful, tearful, reverent.
Women surged forward to touch him—kissing his hands, his thighs, pressing breasts and bellies against him in offering. Mira crawled to him, kissed the head of his softening cock like a holy relic.
Torin remained at the edge.
His face was ashen. Fists clenched so hard blood welled under his nails.
He watched his mother—radiant, marked, utterly devoted—then looked at Alex.
Their eyes met across the circle.
Alex inclined his head—small, almost kind.
Inside: You saw it, boy. Every thrust. Every cry. Every drop I left in her while the whole village watched. You can hate me. You can sharpen your hammer. But you can't unsee her happiness. And tomorrow, when she wakes glowing and tells you she feels life stirring already… you'll either break, or you'll start wondering if maybe—just maybe—the Goddess really did send me.
Torin turned away.
Walked into the dark beyond the torches.
The crowd didn't notice.
They were too busy worshipping.
[Quest Update: First Public Confirmation – Complete]
[Reward: 1,200 Favor | New Skill: Aura of Ecstatic Devotion (Passive – Witnesses to your rites gain heightened loyalty and arousal toward you)]
[New Task: Claim three more vessels under the open sky before the next full moon]
Alex stood in the center of it all—naked now, golden threads fading slowly from his skin—surrounded by women who would die for him.
And smiled.