She was becoming more than a goddess.
She was becoming a mother of magic, of sin, of rebirth.
A low, feral hum filled the chamber as the air turned dense with musk and ozone. Shadows rippled across the walls like eager tongues, licking her form. The semen that had dried across her chest now steamed—boiling into glowing sigils that danced across her skin. She gasped, each glowing mark awakening another layer of sensation.
Then the hallucinations began.
She saw them again—her warriors, her priests—but twisted, monstrous, ethereal. Horned shadows with endless cocks, dripping spirits with glowing eyes. They emerged from the temple walls, surrounding her, stroking themselves with silent devotion.
Lysara opened her legs for them, helpless and ready.
The first of the spirits knelt between her thighs—not to enter, but to worship. A tongue of heat licked her inner thigh, leaving glowing trails behind. Another stroked himself and splattered her breasts with more glowing seed—though she knew it wasn’t physical. It was magic, raw and consuming. She welcomed it.
She was made to take it.
The spirits moaned without mouths, hands without flesh stroking her, brushing her nipples, her cheeks, her parted lips. More cum—glowing now, silver like moonlight—splashed her face, and she laughed, delirious with bliss.
They coated her again, marking her all over.
And then… it happened.
Her body split open with sensation—not torn, but unfolded, like a flower. A third breast emerged beneath the first two, full and flushed, lactating softly with glowing nectar.