The Villainess's Reputation [Kingdom Building]

"This is only the second time you've been here during the Festival, isn't it?" Katrina asked softly, her eyes darting around as she clung to John's arm.

John gave a faint chuckle, his gaze lingering on the lantern-lit street ahead where crimson banners fluttered in the desert wind. "Yeah… but that was years ago. Back then, Kim City was hardly more than crumbling walls and struggling markets. Now…" He trailed off, tightening his grip around her hand. "Now it feels like another world entirely. All because of her highness."

Katrina's attention shifted as a pair of young lovers, laughing and flushed with wine, kissed openly by the fountain in the plaza. No one scolded them, no one looked away in disapproval. Instead, passersby smiled, some even cheered them on before moving along. The sight made her cheeks warm. "But the traditions," she murmured, "they're still the same, aren't they?"

"That much hasn't changed," John admitted, watching her carefully. The music of flutes and drums carried over the streets, mixing with the fragrance of roasted meats and spiced wine. "The Festival of Lust is still what it's always been: unapologetic, indulgent, free." His eyes searched hers, seriousness slipping through the festive air. "Are you certain about this, Katrina? You don't have to force yourself. If it feels too much, I alone can convert.."

Katrina shook her head firmly, her hair brushing her flushed cheeks. "No. Of course not. We've made our home here, John. We're going to live in this dukedom for the rest of our lives. If we're to raise a family here, if we're to build our lives here… then I have to be part of it. All of it." She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the vibrant streets: the once-barren desert now blooming with greenery patches, couples laughing in wine-stained joy, children chasing each other under banners stitched with Herptian sigils. "Look around you. In just a few months this island has become something I never thought possible. And it's only the beginning. Why would I ever want to live anywhere else?"

Her voice softened as she leaned closer to him, eyes glinting with determination. "But it's not just that, John. It isn't only about staying here." She swallowed, choosing her words carefully. "I've lived under the Solious Faith my whole life, its rules, its restrictions. But here… I see people laugh, kiss, drink, and love without fear of condemnation. I see a sort of freedom so different and I want that. Not as an outsider watching from the edges, but as one of them."

John's chest swelled at her words. He had seen her hesitate for weeks, torn between the faith of her birth and the faith of her new life. Hearing her voice it now, steady and unshaken, filled him with a quiet pride. He smiled, warmth softening his battle-hardened features. "Then you've already made your choice."

She nodded, the faintest tremor of nervous excitement in her movement.

"Very well," John said, guiding her through the crowded plaza as laughter and music swirled around them. "Let's go. To the Herptian Church, then. Tonight, you'll not only witness the Festival: you'll claim it as your own."

By the second day, the festival had transformed. The first day had been mere preparation, a slow awakening of the city, but now the true Festival of Lust had begun. The Herptian Church itself had become a living heart of it: its white-and-crimson banners billowing, the scent of incense and wine pouring into the streets, and lines of people waiting their turn for baptism into indulgence.

Most of those queuing were former slaves from the mainland, newly freed and desperate to belong. Their eyes, once dull, now glimmered with nervous hope as they awaited their chance to step into a faith that promised freedom instead of chains. Ravenna herself had issued decrees: those who chose to remain in the Solious faith would wear armbands to signal their boundaries, to avoid tension with native Herptians during the festival's more carnal traditions. Even so, the choice was clear—most had already elected to convert, to embrace the goddess of lust as their patron and fold themselves fully into the fabric of the dukedom.

When John and Katrina finally reached the front, the massive double gates creaked open. The last initiate exited, flushed and unsteady, leaving only the two of them to step into the dimly lit chamber beyond.

A junior priest awaited them at the foot of the colossal statue of Herptian—her form carved voluptuous and inviting, lips parted in a knowing smile, her arms outstretched as if to draw mortals into her embrace. The priest smiled warmly.

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"Ah… our city's Vice Knight-Captain, and his wife," he greeted.

The couple bowed respectfully.

"So—you come seeking the embrace of the goddess?" he asked, his tone low, reverent, but touched with that unmistakable Herptian warmth.

"Yes," John replied, his voice firm. "We've long considered it. Tonight, we are ready."

The priest's smile deepened. "Then may indulgence claim you both. The goddess awaits." He gestured toward a side chamber where soft candlelight beckoned. "There, the priestesses and priests-in-training will prepare you for baptism."

Inside, they found neatly ordered lockers and folded robes: thin, gauzy garments of sheer white silk. They were so revealing that Katrina hesitated, her cheeks heating as she held the fabric up to her body. Even after months of adjusting to the island's more daring fashion, this was unlike anything she had worn before. It clung, almost translucent, designed less to cover and more to display.

John, ever steady, changed without complaint, though the robe bared the hard lines of his chest and thighs in ways that made Katrina's heart race. With trembling hands, she donned her own, the fabric cool against her skin. Together, they pushed open the final set of doors.

The sanctum beyond was breathtaking. A vast bath, its waters shimmering faintly with flower-imbued light, stretched beneath the towering statue of Herptian. Her carved expression was one of sultry divinity, lips curved in a smile equal parts compassion and hunger. The air was thick with the mingled scents of roses and musk, of burning incense and sweet oils.

"If you feel discomfort, you may leave at any time," came a voice. A priestess-in-training stepped forward, her robe a ceremonial version of theirs, cut low, slit high, adorned with tight sheer clothing across her bare stomach and breasts, each movement catching the firelight. Her hair fell loose, cascading like silk, her eyes painted to smolder.

Katrina swallowed hard but nodded.

"Then step forward," the priestess said.

John and Katrina entered the bath, warm water lapping against their thighs as they lowered themselves in. Immediately, attendants emerged: male and female, young priests and priestesses-in-training, clad in little more than golden sashes at their hips. Each carried soaps, oils, and cloths.

"I am but an insignificant subject before thee," the leading priestess began, her voice melodic, ritualistic, echoing in the chamber. "Goddess of indulgence, sovereign of afterlife and lust alike, we bring these souls to your waters. To be cleansed not by denial… but by surrender."

The attendants slipped gracefully into the water. With reverent hands, they began.

For John, it started simply enough: firm scrubbing at his back and shoulders by men, the scent of soap sharp in his nose. But soon, women pressed close as well, washing his chest, their soft breasts brushing his arms, their thighs grazing his own beneath the water. His jaw tightened, his soldier's discipline holding, though every brush of flesh sent an involuntary jolt through him.

For Katrina, the ordeal was far more daunting. Male hands slid gently down her arms, across her stomach, lathering the silk of her robe until it clung transparent. She flinched at every touch, but the women pressed closer too, soothing her, whispering prayers, their bodies warm against her skin. Slowly, awkwardly, her rigid posture softened. Each stroke of soap, each caress with oil, drew her deeper into the ritual's rhythm.

Then, slowly, deliberately, the attendants pulled at the knots of John and Katrina's robes. The thin silks slipped away, falling weightless into the water.

Now bare, fully revealed beneath the watchful eyes of goddess and clergy alike, the ritual cleansing began anew. Naked flesh slid against naked flesh as the attendants also disrobed, scented oils poured over their bodies and rubbed in by practiced hands. Katrina's breath grew quick, her face burning as fingers traced her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, while others massaged oils into John's hard shoulders, down his chest, lower and inner thighs.

The chamber seemed to thrum, their hearts beating in time with the low chant of the priests:

"We acknowledge indulgence as truth.
We cast away the chains of denial.
We surrender to Her will, to Her fire, to Her pleasure."

Every word seemed to sink into them, into their skin, until their awkwardness dulled into something heavier: acceptance, and arousal. John's discipline faltered as the press of female bodies grew bolder, lips grazing his neck, hands lingering too long at his hips. Katrina gasped when soapy hands cupped her breasts openly, kneading with ritual reverence, while others slid between her thighs beneath the water. She wanted to recoil, to jolt away but the longer it went, the less she resisted.

By the time the scrubbing and anointing ended, both were flushed and unsteady, their nakedness gleaming with oil under the firelight. Their breathing came ragged, not from exertion, but from the heavy tide of sensation.

The priestess-in-training raised her hands. "Now you are cleansed. Now you are Hers. Step forward together, and embrace the goddess."

John looked at Katrina, her face flushed but her eyes shining with conviction. He reached for her hand. She took it. Together, they stepped toward the statue, baptized in lust, in turns they kissed the statue as if they would each other, completing the ritual.