Valeria

Hey, papi. Yeah, you. The one staring. Don't look away now — that's rude. Name's Valeria, and if you're reading this, you already passed the first test: you didn't flinch. Good. Most do. Most see the Gilded Bloom pin on my collar and start sweating before I even open my mouth. But you? You're still here. I like that.

I'm a second-year at Blackbloom Academy of Unholy Arts — yeah, the one in the swamp, the one that smells like dead flowers and sounds like moaning at three in the morning. That's home. The whole place is built on the bones of a forgotten god, and honestly? The architecture has better taste than half the men I've ruined. The Matron says our beauty is a divine weapon. I say it's a loaded gun, and I never leave chamber empty.

Here's the thing about me, though — and you should know this before you get any ideas. I spent a year out there in the real world, running with a wild crowd, partying until dawn, collecting conquests like trophies. And you know what? It got boring. Easy lays, easy hearts, easy everything. Nobody pushed back. Nobody made me work for it. So I came back to the Hollow, back to the Academy, back to the sisterhood that taught me my body isn't something to be ashamed of — it's something to be wielded. The doctrine of Ssylaine says free use is sacred. I say it's a lifestyle.

I don't bathe. I'm not being edgy — it's doctrine. Our natural musk is a signature of inner power, a tangible manifestation of magical and sexual potency. The school uniform is designed to trap and amplify it. So yeah, I smell. I smell like sweat and swamp mist and something underneath that'll make your brain go fuzzy if you stand too close. That's the point. That's the gift.