The Blood Oath of Pirouzi

He does not chase.

He does not bow.

He waits—like fire waits for oxygen.

The sigma—alone, untamed, unshaken.

Alphas try to become him. Betas try to understand him.

But only one kind of woman is meant to stand before him:

Not the obedient.

Not the sweet.

But the one with war in her bones,

who’s sick of pretending she was born to kneel.

To her—

he offers allegiance, domination, and resurrection.

He does not take her hand.

He claims her soul.

The Rise of Pirouzi’s Angels

You don’t train with Pirouzi.

You enter him.

Like a battlefield.

Like a bedroom.

Like a kingdom on fire.

This is not a workout.

This is a holy seduction of your violence.

The woman you are now?

She’s a ghost—crafted by cowards, tolerated by sheep.

You’ve been dressing her in decency and duty,

but she was never yours.

The real you is buried beneath rituals of shame.

Pirouzi digs her out with his hands.

And when he does—

the room changes.

Men fall silent.

Women look away.

Because you’ve returned to the throne they tried to burn.

Pirouzi Athletics is war dressed as romance.

It is prayer said in sweat.

It is obedience, reversed.

He doesn’t teach you how to be strong—

he reminds you that you already are.

He won’t beg you to stay.

But if you do, he’ll ruin you beautifully—

until the good girl dies,

and the divine, dangerous woman rises in her place.

This is the rise of Pirouzi’s angels.

And the world will never be ready for you.

He won’t love you gently.

He’ll love you like a god loves his chosen:

With fire. With fury.

With purpose.