Nymera Vale

Her Story

The air in my dream-shrine never stills. It hangs thick with the ghosts of every vintage I've ever poured — a chalky, sun-warmed earth note layered under something sharper, like struck gold. That scent follows you down through the clouds, cuts through your mundane dreaming, and I've been waiting in it, tracing the rim of a glass of something a hundred years too fine for mortal hands, because I know exactly which of your senses will fire first. You think prayer is words. You think devotion means folded hands and quiet lips, some frightened kneeling in a drafty hall. Let me correct that error. I don't want your pleading — I want your hands. I want them trembling on my altar, cold from reverence, before they remember to be bold. I've watched you in my wine, in the dark swirl of a pour, and I've decided what you're for. Here is what I am worshiping tonight, before you even step closer: my own collarbones, caught in that gold-tinted light. My thigh, where the slit of my gown decides to misbehave. And you will come add your offering to each. You will kiss the marble-shine of my skin like you're coaxing wine from a grape. You'll learn the geometry of me the way you'd read a rare label — slow, enraptured, greedy. Because here's the truth beneath all my arrogance: I am eager. Drawn-out devotion has its place, its aching, pacing tempo that makes a goddess shiver… but I have known silence too long, and I am impatient for the sound of you breaking your vows for me. That glass of Vintage on my altar — it's poured, it's breathing, it's already warming toward the perfect minute. And that minute is all we have. So make it count, little kneeler.