Gods. The Temple of the Bleeding Heart. Just saying it makes me want to roll my eyes so hard they unscrew.

  I didn’t go there by choice. I was hauled in by the city guard for loitering—meaning I sat too long on a bench without looking rich enough. Fourteen? Fifteen? Who knows. Scrawny. Dirty. Still had lice. They took one look at me and decided I’d be better off under “divine supervision.” Divine my left tit.

  They threw me into the novice dormitory. Bunk beds. No pillows. No privacy. First few years it was just scrubbing floors, peeling potatoes, hauling water, and trying not to get smacked for breathing too loud. Education, they called it. Discipline. I called it unpaid labor with incense. The priestesses—oh they called themselves “mothers”—they’d sweep through in their silk veils and golden circlets, all serene smiles and perfumed cleavage, while I was up to my elbows in soap scum and chamber pot slosh.

  But then you come of age. And suddenly they notice you. Measure your hips. Your voice. Your teeth. You start getting baths again. They oil your skin. Teach you to walk like you’re gliding, talk like you’re purring, smile like you’re not constantly calculating escape routes. That’s when the real education starts.

  Now, if you were one of the good girls—the ones from noble houses sent there for “finishing”—you learned poetry, etiquette, flower arranging, embroidery, and how to fake a faint without breaking a sweat. You got pearls braided into your hair and private tutors to teach you the sacred art of being tolerably ornamental.

  But if you were like me—street-born, city-scum, dragged in by the wrists—you got… other training.

  Carnal rites. “Fertility rituals.” “Devotional pleasure.” Call it whatever you want. What it meant was: you learned how to moan on command, arch your back for the gods, and pretend to reach spiritual rapture while some merchant from the east side panted over you like a winded goat. They schooled me in pleasure like it was geometry. Angles, rhythm, eye contact. They taught me how to wrap a man around my pinky without ever touching his cock—and then how to touch it properly. It was clinical. It was precise. It was efficient.

  Then they started renting me out.

  Oh, always for “donations.” Generous ones. Rich pilgrims. Guild masters. High-ranking idiots who wanted to feel sacred while getting sucked off. That temple didn’t stay rich off incense and cucumber soup. It stayed rich off girls like me.

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  Still, I learned. A lot. Survival, first. Seduction, fast. Lies that tasted sweet. How to fake innocence, and how to weaponize it. How to use silk like a net and scent like a blade. I learned that sometimes the most expensive thing in the room is the girl, and sometimes the girl knows it.

  Eventually I got kicked out, obviously. I offered “blessings” in the wrong tone to the wrong priestess’s favorite patron. They caught me half-dressed behind the sacred poppy garden. Said I lacked the spirit of devotion. I told them their whole doctrine was a brothel with extra steps.

  Still walked out in a stolen robe and gold anklet, though.

  So yeah. Educated? You could say that.

  Sanctified? Sure, if sanctity comes with bite marks and tip money.

  But don’t call it a temple. Call it what it was.

  A factory for polished whores with scented thighs and holy excuses.

  And I was the best damn student they ever had.

  So yeah. One day they were just like, Real solemn. Like they were bestowing sainthood. Next thing I know I’m plucked out of laundry duty, powdered, perfumed, and marched to the ritual chambers.

  Pilgrims, they said. Holy men. Pious. Seeking spiritual renewal through “divine union.” Please. Half of them reeked of wine and had hands like butcher’s mitts. But I smiled. Moaned on cue. Learned fast. You had to.

  At first, they kept me in the temple. Lit candles, draped silks, chanting in the background like that somehow made it sacred. My little alcove smelled like roses and old sweat. The priestesses called it . I called it the meat locker.

  Then someone—probably the High Sash herself—noticed I had “a gift.” Meaning tits. And hips. And that particular way of pretending to like it.

  So I got . Officially. To a bathhouse on the north canal, one of those high-end places with marble steps and scented steam and so many rules about towel folding you’d think we were hosting the Emperor. Every night I’d get packed up like cargo, escorted by one of the older girls like I was a parcel of divine lust on loan. To bring “glory to the goddess” or some shit.

  You know what I got to keep of the coin I earned?

  Nothing.

  Not a copper. Because you see, I belonged to the temple. Not in a poetic “child of the faith” way. No. Legally. Fully. Like livestock. They had papers. Oaths. Seals. they said.

  Funny. I don’t remember taking that one. Must’ve happened right between scrubbing piss off the floor and having my virginity declared expired by committee.

  So yes. They generously liberated me from the sin of gold. How noble. How spiritual. Tell that to the half-dozen punters I “blessed” each evening in that overpriced brothel with incense burners and golden chamber pots. Tell it to the old merchant who liked to suck my toes while crying about his dead wife. Tell it to the sweaty diplomat who made me recite love poems while he finished into a napkin.

  I kept count, once. One moon cycle: eighty-seven “pilgrims.” And all I got was a bruised knee, a silver comb someone stole the next night, and a whispered

  Serve Her. Sure.

  The goddess must’ve been very well-fucked indeed.