Shana learned that the night she first bled on the altar stone—not from sacrifice, but from the weight of a god who wanted flesh more than prayer. Tona is no distant deity. He breathes in the space between thighs, in the salt-tongue gasp before surrender. And Shana? She is his favorite vessel.
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The temple of Tona never asked for purity. It asked for hunger. Shana learned that the night she first bled
Lust is not the sin here. It is the scripture. And Shana
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And Shana—eyes half-lidded, robe slipping from one shoulder—has memorized every verse.