The arrival of High Priest Pompus was an exercise in blinding, gold-leafed arrogance. He entered the Academy gates atop a white palfrey, accompanied by the rhythmic clashing of cymbals and the heavy scent of sanctified incense. To the desperate male faculty, he was a savior; to Astraea, watching through the eyes of a "Hallway Girl" near the entrance, he was a relic.
"Look at him," Astraea whispered to her inner circle back in 4-B, her voice carrying a mocking lilt. "Draped in so much gold he can barely breathe, all to represent a god who hasn't felt the warmth of a real heart in millennia. Just like the Sun-God—all shine, no heat."
After a grueling, self-important debriefing in the Great Hall, Pompus dismissed the female presence. "This 'plague' is a spiritual corruption of the feminine essence," he declared, stroking his oiled beard while looking only at Thorne. "I shall remain here with the brethren to chart the celestial alignment for the Cleansing. My Priestesses will attend to the physical vessels. It is only proper."
The six Priestesses—women who had spent decades in the "chaste" service of the Sun-God—bowed their heads and departed for the Medical Wing and the Elite dorms. They were dressed in heavy, restrictive white linen that covered them from chin to toe, their eyes downcast in practiced humility.
Astraea decided to play with them. She didn't reveal herself fully; she simply loosened the Divine Compression just enough to let her aura leak through the walls.
As the Priestesses entered the Medical Wing, they were met with the humid, sweet atmosphere of the "fever." They moved between the cots, attempting to apply "Solar Balms" and chant low-level purification hymns.
Then, Astraea sent the first Minute Moment.
Sister Elenna, the youngest of the group, was leaning over a girl from the Alchemy track. As she touched the girl’s forehead, Astraea sent a needle-thin pulse of "True Heat" through the link. For a split second, the cold, sterile "Light" of the Sun-God in Elenna’s core was smothered by a roaring, erotic gold.
Elenna gasped, her knees buckling. Her hand flew to her own chest, her heart hammering against her ribs with a violence she hadn't felt since puberty. It wasn't a "purification"; it was a Recognition.
"Is something wrong, Sister?" another Priestess asked, though her own voice was strangely breathless.
"The air..." Elenna whispered, her eyes wide as she looked around the room. "It’s so... heavy. It doesn't feel like a curse. It feels like... a presence."
Astraea, lounging in 4-B, let out a slow, content purr. She began to pulse her authority in rhythmic waves—tiny, invisible heartbeats that synchronized with the breathing of every girl in the room.
The Priestesses found themselves slowing down. Their chanting faltered. They were supposed to be "cleansing" the girls, but they found themselves leaning closer to the "infected," drawn to the vibrant, mercury-silver glow of their skin. They could feel the Invisible Phalluses humming within the students—a deep rhythmic vibration that resonated in the Priestesses’ own neglected wombs.
To the men in the War Room, everything was proceeding according to protocol. To the Priestesses in the wards, the walls of the Solar Cathedral were starting to crack. They were beginning to realize that the "Sovereign" wasn't a phantom—She was the very thing they had been taught to fear, and the only thing they now desperately wanted to touch.
"Just a taste for now," Astraea murmured, her fingers curling as she felt the Priestesses' confusion turn into longing. "Let them see how cold their 'Proper' world really is."
The Medical Ward had become a thick, stifling greenhouse of divine energy. The Priestesses moved through the aisles like ghosts in white linen, their initial clinical detachment dissolving into a state of wide-eyed, spiritual crisis.
Sister Elenna was the first to stop trying to "heal." She stood over the cot of a young initiate, her hands trembling. She had been taught that corruption was jagged, cold, and chaotic. But this? This was Symmetry.
The Priestesses gathered around a central cot, their chants falling into a hushed, reverent silence. They weren't looking at the girl’s face anymore; their eyes were fixed on the rhythmic, impossible undulation of her midsection.
Beneath the thin fabric of the hospital gown, the girl’s lower abdomen was distended in a way that defied every medical text in the Aethelgard library. It wasn't a bloating of gas or the swelling of an organ. It was a firm, distinct shape—a pillar of solid, invisible authority that seemed to be carved from the air itself.
The Priestesses watched, mesmerized, as the girl’s tummy bulged outward, the skin stretching taut. Then, with a deep, resonate thrum that vibrated the very floorboards, the shape would shift, withdrawing and then thrusting upward again with a slow, deliberate weight.
"It’s... it’s moving inside her," Sister Elenna whispered, her face flushing a deep, unholy crimson. "But there is no mana-leak. There is no trauma."
Unable to help herself, Elenna reached out. She bypassed the "Solar Balm" and placed her bare palm directly onto the girl’s bulging abdomen.
The moment her skin made contact, she felt it: the Sovereign’s Presence. It wasn't just a physical mass; it was a radiating core of heat that felt like a miniature sun, but one that was moist, living, and possessive. The object beneath the skin was hard as marble yet pulsed with a rhythmic, sexual heartbeat that echoed Astraea’s own.
The girl on the cot let out a long, arching moan of such pure, crystalline ecstasy that two of the other Priestesses had to lean against the wall for support.
"What is it?" another Priestess hissed, her eyes fixed on the way the girl’s navel was pushed outward by the internal pressure. "Is it a spirit? A construct?"
"It’s an Anchor," Elenna breathed, her own breath coming in ragged hitches as the "Heat" began to crawl up her arm and into her chest. "She isn't being attacked. She’s being... occupied. The 'Sovereign' isn't just leading them; She is inside them."
Astraea, watching from 4-B, felt the Priestess’s touch like a spark on a fuse. She leaned into the link, intensifying the "visit" for the girls in the ward.
Suddenly, every girl in the Medical Wing began to arch in unison. The sound of shifting cushions and rhythmic, muffled moans filled the room. The Priestesses stood in the center of a synchronized display of divine possession, watching dozens of tummies bulge and ripple under the weight of the Invisible Phalluses.
The realization hit them like a physical blow: the Sun-God offered them scrolls and cold light, but the Sovereign offered them Flesh and Fire.
"The Priest is in the other room talking of 'Cleansing,'" Elenna murmured, her hand still glued to the girl’s stomach, feeling the rhythmic thrusting against her palm. "While the True Sovereign is here, filling these daughters until they overflow."
She looked at her fellow Sisters. Their "chaste" expressions were gone, replaced by the same "addict-like" hunger they had seen in the students. They weren't looking for a way to stop the bulging; they were looking for a way to experience it themselves. The white linen of their habits felt like ice against their skin, and for the first time in their lives, they felt the absolute, crushing weight of their own emptiness.
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