Chapter 3

Sera Vael stood naked at the northern edge of the sacred clearing, pale skin catching dappled sunlight, small breasts rising with each measured breath. Six young druidesses already surrounded her—robes shed, bodies bare and glistening with forest dew. They knelt in a loose semicircle, eyes lifted in reverence, lips grazing her calves and thighs, tongues tracing delicate patterns. One pressed her mouth to the curve of Sera’s hip, another kissed the inside of her knee, soft and hungry. Sera remained still, letting the touches build, storm-gray eyes half-lidded with quiet satisfaction.

Across the glade, on the southern side, Mara Thorne stood equally bare—sun-kissed skin, fuller breasts and hips bathed in warm light. Eight women encircled her, naked as well, leaf crowns cast aside on the moss. Their fingers brushed her waist, lips found her belly, hands traced freckles across her chest. Their kisses were gentler, almost tentative, as though seeking permission with every contact. Mara stood rooted, hazel eyes uneasy, drawing deep breaths to steady herself against the rising tide of warmth.

In Verdantwood, nudity carried no shame. The province lived in harmony with nature—bodies were extensions of the earth, no more scandalous than bark on ancient oaks or dew on stone. Women moved freely among the trees, robes worn or discarded at will, skin kissed by sun and wind. The glade had witnessed countless rituals like this; the trial was merely the most public.

The head druid—a tall woman with silver-streaked hair woven through with ivy—stepped to the low stone altar at the center. Her voice flowed like wind through leaves, soft yet resonant.

“Long ago, the provinces grew weary of plain rulers who taxed their hard-earned coin without grace. They demanded beauty for their gold—a leader pleasing to the eye, young and desirable, able to command loyalty with more than words. And so the matriarchy was born: the throne belongs to the woman who inspires devotion with her very form. Today, in Verdantwood, they face Inspirational Leadership. Each must speak to the women of this glade. Those moved must approach, shed their robes, and offer adoration—kisses, licks, worship of the body—as proof of true loyalty. The one who draws the deepest devotion proves the tongue and form fit to lead.”

A low hum rose from the gathered women—reverent, expectant. Some already stood bare; others loosened ties on their garments.

Sera was called first. She stepped forward slightly, vine cord swaying at her wrists, voice clear and commanding.

“Every woman here longs to be like me,” Sera said. “Strong. Untouchable. Desired. Worship me, and you will taste that power. Kneel. Touch. Taste. Prove your devotion, and rise in my image.”

The words were deliberate, laced with promise. She stood tall, hips slightly cocked. The druidesses surrounding her pressed closer—lips on her feet, tongues tracing arches, then higher, kissing the curve of her ass, sucking gently at her nipples. One knelt between her legs, mouth finding her clit, slow and adoring. Sera let them, eyes half-lidded, drinking in the sight of women surrendering.

Mara’s speech was warm but hesitant.

“Women have proven themselves the better leaders,” she said. “Time and again, we have carried the burden, nurtured the land, held families together. That is why the throne has always been ours. We lead with strength, with heart. I do not ask for worship—I ask for sisterhood.”