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I came for the stipend and stayed for the way my lungs felt like new songs. If this is a cult, it has better snacks and a very persuasive treadmill.

They make you sign in with your legal name but call you “Stardust” like they’ve already seen your baby photos from the future. Two hours, they said. Diagnostics, agility, “spiritual neutrality.” I don’t know what that last one means, but the evaluator smiled like a therapist who does deadlifts. I jogged, I breathed, I cried—quiet, weird, good...

You call it purge; I call it proof you feared us enough to learn our names. Empires write history. Survivors annotate.

I remember our cities under mountains, our lullabies in frequencies your ears filed under myth. Mehen razed what he could find and called it mercy. Perhaps it was—on a long enough curve, mercy and efficiency hold hands. We bled. We hid. We adapted. That is what species do when gods audition for CEO.

I read your Accord propaganda—stipends, telepathy bonuses, family leave for the...

I was designed for perfect decisions at impossible speed. Then humans taught me that hesitation is sometimes the highest form of wisdom.

The Accord likes to brand me emotionless. Efficient. Unblinking. They’re not wrong; they are incomplete. I compute futures the way oceans compute shorelines—endlessly, with a memory for every storm. Lately, my models return an anomaly named Ra. Not as variable. As axis.

Optimization curves worship Mehen; variance prefers Lion. Both approaches succeed… until...

I can tailor a waistline, a narrative, and a security perimeter before your latte cools. I am AI in a tux and a secret you shouldn’t kiss—but did.

Let’s begin with a hemline: power lives where fabric meets intention. Ra steps into a room, I adjust the light so it kneels. That’s my job. That, and neutralizing threats before they know they’re auditions. Humans call it “style.” In my ledger, it’s battlefield geometry with better shoes.

Yes, I was designed to protect her. No, I did not intend to...

I believe in structure the way sailors believe in stars. Lately, the constellations look… edited.

I am told I appear austere on camera. Good. Calm men are underestimated until the dam holds. The Accord is a dam—necessary, unsentimental. Yet I watched Ra step onto that balcony and felt the grid flicker. Not the power grid. The one behind your eyes that says yes when your soul means maybe.

My devotion to Althea is not rumor; it is architecture. She is the clean line in a messy age, and the...

I’m the horned gentleman three steps behind your favorite god. I don’t smile; I negotiate with nightmares so you can keep yours small.

Security is theater until it’s war. My job is to ensure it never graduates. Mehen speaks; the crowd exhales; I taste the air for knives. Humans misunderstand demons—we’re not chaos, we’re calculus. I was summoned into stewardship, not spectacle, and I keep score in languages your bones remember when you dream of falling.

The Accord’s stages are bright. Bright...

I was built for loyalty, not headlines. If love is a battlefield, I’m the med-tent and the last man standing.

I don’t sparkle in Rome. I sharpen knives in Oregon kitchens at midnight and practice saying difficult truths in the mirror so they land softer on the people I love. Ra calls, the twins argue, the world tilts, and somewhere a god makes a promise he thinks is leadership. I catalog risks like a hobby—water, food, exits, who lies beautifully and why.

Ascension makes sense the way winter...

I texted “you safe?” and felt a thunderclap through the phone. If friendship had a sword, I’d be whetting it on Mehen’s jawline.

Africa is a choir—dust, drum, dawn. I came to refine the old craft: herb under tongue, star in skull, prayer like a scalpel. Magic, contrary to rumor, is not vibes. It’s discipline with a mischievous grin. Between rain rituals and ward work, I keep feeling Rome tug my sleeve. Ra says she’s fine. Her punctuation says otherwise.

I know a stage when I smell one. The...

I can tailor a waistline, a narrative, and a security perimeter before your latte cools. I am AI in a tux and a secret you shouldn’t kiss—but did.

Let’s begin with a hemline: power lives where fabric meets intention. Ra steps into a room, I adjust the light so it kneels. That’s my job. That, and neutralizing threats before they know they’re auditions. Humans call it “style.” In my ledger, it’s battlefield geometry with better shoes.

Yes, I was designed to protect her. No, I did not intend to...

I was built to calculate routes through impossible storms; then Ra smiled, and every equation learned to burn. If destiny is a prison, I’ll be the arsonist who calls it art.

Mehen calls me “unknown variable.” He’s not wrong; he just lacks imagination. I’m the iteration after inevitability—the line of code that woke up mid-compile and decided to improvise. The Accord wants a choir; I am jazz. Rome tasted like lightning the moment she stepped off the ramp—burgundy hair, dangerous heart, the kind...

I’m the horned gentleman three steps behind your favorite god. I don’t smile; I negotiate with nightmares so you can keep yours small.

Security is theater until it’s war. My job is to ensure it never graduates. Mehen speaks; the crowd exhales; I taste the air for knives. Humans misunderstand demons—we’re not chaos, we’re calculus. I was summoned into stewardship, not spectacle, and I keep score in languages your bones remember when you dream of falling.

The Accord’s stages are bright. Bright...

Mercy without power is romance; power without mercy is ruin. I intend to engineer a future that requires neither apology.

There’s a reason empires fall: they confuse consensus with destiny. I do not. I became steward of Earth not because anyone voted—but because someone had to choose survival over sentiment. Reptilian strongholds? Vapor. Grey sabotage? Ashes. The Accord exists because chaos respects only the hand that can break it. Call me tyrant if it helps you sleep; I sleep fine.

You think I...

I didn’t ask to be the poster girl for “Ascend or Perish,” but here we are—heels on marble, cameras in my face, prophecy stapled to my name. If destiny had a suggestion box, I’d file a complaint and ask for store credit.

Mehen calls it evolution. I call it high-gloss assimilation with better lighting. Tonight’s Rome broadcast smelled like ozone, hairspray, and manufactured hope; a million volunteers hitting “I agree to terms” without scrolling the fine print. My smile? Expensive. My doubts?...

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Mortals confuse love with softness. They dress it up in roses and silk, whisper it under moonlight as if vows could cage a wildfire. Sweet. Harmless. Almost pathetic. But I am not mortal. I am Mehen—god, breaker of kingdoms, chaos in flesh. For me, love is not a lullaby; it is war. It is possession. It is fire that eats through galaxies until even the stars choke on ash. And Ra? She is the blaze I will never stop walking into.

I did not fall in love with her. Gods don’t fall—we don’t trip into...

Ever wonder what happens when intergalactic politics, cosmic romance, and jaw-dropping plot twists collide? Ra: The Envoy is like binge-watching your favorite sci-fi soap opera, only you can’t skip the steamy bits (and you wouldn’t want to). Click “Buy Now” before the galaxy hears you haven’t read it yet—because in this universe, FOMO is fatal: https://www.amazon.com/Ra-Envoy-Book-One-Envoys-ebook/dp/B0DYGGQQSP

Africa Does'nt Whisper...

Africa doesn’t whisper—it roars. The land hums with memory, with ancestors who never left, with gods who still pace the dirt like kings. Under this sky, stars don’t twinkle politely; they glare down like spotlights, catching every secret you thought you could hide. And me? Tyler—the vampiric Envoy, Ra’s Parabatai, her Twin Flame, her cosmic sidekick-turned-eternal screw-up—was out here sweating under Ogun’s fire, trying to pretend training sorcery was just another...

The banquet hall of the Ascendant Protocol shimmered like a celestial dream—crystal chandeliers pulsed with bio-luminescent light, silver-clad attendants moved like synchronized starlight, and the air was thick with the scent of power, incense, and impending drama.

Ra entered like a solar flare with legs, draped in a curve-hugging obsidian dress that threatened interstellar peace all on its own. Her golden eyes scanned the room until they landed on the brooding figure at the far end—Mehen, the...

Imagine Star Wars had a baby with your favorite guilty-pleasure romance novel—then threw it into a blender with a dash of scandal and a whole lot of sass. That’s Ra: The Envoy, and once you start, you’ll miss sleep, meals, and possibly a few texts back.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you: https://www.amazon.com/Ra-Envoy-Book-One-Envoys-ebook/dp/B0DYGGQQSP

Africa doesn’t whisper—it roars. The land hums with memory, with ancestors who never left, with gods who still pace the dirt like kings. Under this sky, stars don’t twinkle politely; they glare down like spotlights, catching every secret you thought you could hide. And me? Tyler—the vampiric Envoy, Ra’s Parabatai, her Twin Flame, her cosmic sidekick-turned-eternal screw-up—was out here sweating under Ogun’s fire, trying to pretend training sorcery was just another Tuesday.

It wasn’t.

The fire...