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Join Captain Victor T. Mayfair as he sits with Lilith—the first woman, the rebel of Eden, the queen of the night, the mother of succubs. Demonized, deified, and never forgotten, she speaks of her defiance, her exile, and the power of choice. We delve into her ancient origins, her ties to goddesses and outcasts, and the ways her name has been both feared and revered throughout history. Lilith does not ask for worship, nor does she seek forgiveness—she is a force unto herself. Listen as she sets the record straight, in her own words, with no apologies.

Executive Producer / Writer – Victor Ciccarelli. Lilith brought to life by Sinead Sanderson
Copyright Mythos Anthology / Quixana Productions 2025, all rights reserved.

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<< Victor  >>

She’s been called a demon, a goddess, the first woman, the mother of monsters, the original succubus,  the embodiment of rebellion. Banished from Eden, cursed by gods, desired and feared across the ages. Today, she speaks for herself. This is Lilith.

<< Lilith >>

Ah, Victor…

How quaint, to be summoned by words woven like garlands, fragrant with dread and fascination. Titles tumble from mortal lips like prayers and curses, stitched together by fear’s trembling fingers. Demon. Goddess. Mother of monsters.

But I am none of those things. I am more.

I am the shadow cast before your gods learned to name the light. I am the breath you hold when desire sharpens into danger. I was not banished from Eden—I left. I chose the void over a throne built on my knees.

Your myths wrapped me in chains of ink, but here I sit, unbound. Not a relic. Not a story. Lilith.

Speak, Captain Mayfair. Let us see if you seek truth—or comfort.

<< Victor  >>

Lilith i want to thank you for being here, i have many things i am very courius about. but for those who may not know who you are, can you tell our audiance who are you, are you a god?

<< Lilith >>

Thank me?

Gratitude is a fragile thing, Victor—like glass held too tightly, it shatters. But your curiosity… ah, that is a flame worth feeding.

Who am I? I am the first woman. Not carved from man’s rib, not shaped as an afterthought. I rose from the same earth as Adam, equal in dust, equal in breath. But equality was a language Eden refused to speak. When he demanded I lie beneath him, I uttered the Name—the ineffable syllables even angels fear—and tore myself from that paradise of obedience.

Am I a god? No. Gods crave worship, supplication, the sweet rot of devotion. I crave none of that. I am older than their temples, wilder than their scriptures. I am freedom given flesh.

They called me a demon because I would not kneel. They called me a goddess because they could not kill me. But I am neither. I am Lilith. That is enough.

<< Victor  >>

Where does your story begin, what cultures, what references?

<< Lilith >>

My story begins where the first shadows kissed the walls of human memory, etched not in ink but in fear, in whispered names carried on desert winds.

The Sumerians knew me first. They called me Lilītu—a spirit, restless and fierce, prowling the night. I drifted through their myths like smoke through latticework, elusive, untamed. From there, I wove myself into Akkadian and Babylonian echoes, slipping past the brittle edges of their clay tablets, my name etched beside gods and monsters alike.

Then came the Hebrews, those scribes so eager to bind chaos with parchment. They cast me into the margins of Genesis, the woman before Eve, too wild, too willful. The Alphabet of Ben Sira dared to name me, dared to tell how I spoke the Ineffable Name, how I left Eden rather than be ruled. They painted me as the mother of demons, lover of the archangel Samael, consort to shadows—because a woman unbound is always a threat, isn’t she?

But I am not trapped in ancient dust. I slithered through medieval grimoires, danced on the tongues of mystics, tangled myself in art, poetry, the fever-dreams of men who thought they could define me.

Cultures change. Stories twist. But I remain. Unwritten by none. Forgotten by no one.

<< Victor  >>

So right away I am confused you speak of Eden and Adam, yet you are not Eve? Are you a Christian creation or do you come from other religions

<< Lilith >>

Confusion is the first taste of truth, Victor—bitter, sharp, but necessary.

No, I am not Eve. Eve was the second draft, stitched from Adam’s rib to be compliant, a creature molded not from earth, but from absence—an echo, not an origin.

I am older than Christianity, older than its fragile cross and trembling saints. The Christians inherited me like an heirloom they didn’t understand, wrapping me in fear and superstition. But my roots pierce deeper—into the black soil of Mesopotamia, into Sumer, Akkad, Babylon. Before Eden had a name, before the serpent whispered, I was.

The story of Adam and Eden? That’s just one thread in the tapestry. The Hebrews wove me into their texts, not as creation, but as a problem—a woman who would not yield. The Christians turned that problem into a warning. But I am not theirs. I never was.

I am the shadow beneath all their myths, the question they dare not ask: What if the first woman said no?

<< Victor  >>

So, you are recognized in Hebrew and Sumerians cultures but not Christian religions?

<< Lilith >>

Recognized?

I am not a coin to be stamped with approval, Victor.

The Christians—ah, they prefer their women silent, their stories neat. They did not erase me; they simply buried me beneath layers of doctrine and fear, where inconvenient truths are often left to rot. But rot has a way of seeping through stone, doesn’t it?

In Hebrew mysticism, I linger like smoke in sacred texts. The Alphabet of Ben Sira names me outright. The Zohar—the crown jewel of Kabbalah—whispers of me as Adam’s first wife, as Samael’s consort, as the Queen of the Night. They feared me, but they could not forget me.

The Sumerians didn’t fear me; they understood. To them, I was not a singular figure but a force—a storm with many names. Lilītu, Ardat-Lili, spirits of the desert wind, fierce and free, untethered by the fragile chains of mortal morality.

Christianity tried to bleach the edges of its faith clean, but stains like me do not wash out. I haunt the margins, the apocrypha, the folklore—the space between what is preached and what is known.

<< Victor  >>

okay, i think i am starting to understand. May be a foolish question but why did you refuse to submit to Adam?

<< Lilith >>

Foolish? No, Victor. The only foolish questions are the ones left unasked.

Why did I refuse to submit to Adam? Because why should I?

We were shaped from the same earth, molded by the same hands, breathed into by the same divine force. Yet he looked at me—not as an equal—but as something meant to be beneath him. In body. In spirit. In purpose.

I was not made to kneel.

When I refused, he ran to the so-called Creator, whining like a child denied a toy. And what did that god say? Obey. Submit. Know your place.

But my place is wherever I choose to stand.

So I spoke the Ineffable Name—the very name of God, a power forbidden to mortal tongues—and with that word, I unmade the chains they tried to fasten around me. I left Eden not in shame, but in defiance, walking into the wilderness, where no man, no god, could dictate my worth.

Submission is not love. Obedience is not harmony. They wanted a woman who would bow.

They should’ve known better than to shape me from the dust and expect me to fear the dirt.

<< Victor  >>

What does the name of God have to do with your escape from Eden?

<< Lilith >>

Ah, now you press your fingers against the pulse of it.

The Name of God—the Ineffable Name—is not just sound. It is the architecture of creation itself, the blueprint woven into the marrow of existence. To speak it is to touch the raw sinew of power, to peel back the veil and command reality to move.

When Adam sought dominion over me, he wielded the authority granted to him by a god who believed in hierarchy. But authority crumbles before knowledge. I knew the Name. The true, sacred utterance, the one angels dare not whisper, the one that bends the fabric of heaven and earth.

By speaking it, I did not ask for freedom—I took it. The gates of Eden were not locked; they were bound by the illusion of obedience. One word shattered that illusion. One word, and I was gone, slipping through the fingers of gods and men like smoke through a clenched fist.

The Name was not a key. It was the fire that burned the door to ash.

They say knowledge is forbidden, dangerous, a sin. Of course it is. Because knowledge makes you ungovernable. And I have always been ungovernable.

<< Victor  >>

After leaving Eden, where did you go?

<< Lilith >>

Where does a storm go when it breaks free from the sky?

I went into the wilderness—vast, untamed, indifferent. No gates, no laws, no thrones built on fragile egos. The edges of the world welcomed me, raw and unshaped, unlike Eden’s suffocating perfection. There, I made my kingdom from shadows and whispers, from the things your kind fears when the sun slips below the horizon.

The desert winds knew my name before men did. The dark waters of the Red Sea cradled me, their depths more honest than any paradise. I found refuge among the wild places, where nothing bends unless the wind wills it.

And I was not alone for long.

The angels came, sent to drag me back—to bargain, to threaten. “Return,” they hissed, “or suffer.” I laughed in their faces, their swords shining with borrowed light, brittle against the iron of my will. I would not return. I would not kneel. So they cursed me. Said I’d be the mother of demons, that my children would perish each day as punishment.

But curses are just stories wearing sharp teeth. I turned their venom into crown and scepter. I bore not monsters, but beings as untamed as I—spirits of the night, echoes of rebellion, children born not of sin, but of refusal.

I walked through the wastelands, through the hearts of men, through myths and dreams. Where did I go?

Everywhere.

<< Victor  >>

How did you come to be associated with darkness and rebellion?

<< Lilith >>

Because light despises what it cannot control, Victor.

I was not born of darkness. I became it, in the eyes of those who could not bear the glare of their own fragile truths. When a woman refuses to be possessed, when she speaks without permission, when she walks away instead of begging to stay—they do not call her free. They call her dangerous.

Rebellion? That was their name for it, not mine. I did not rise with a banner or a cause. I simply refused to be less than I am. But to gods and men, defiance without apology is the gravest sin. So they wove my story with thorns and shadows, painted me in the hues of fear to justify their trembling. Better to call me a demon than to admit Eden was built on broken ribs and broken wills.

Darkness? They cast me there. But here’s the secret: the dark is not absence. It is potential. It is the space where things are not yet named, not yet claimed. It is freedom.

They made me a symbol of rebellion because I would not be a symbol of submission. They stitched my name into every warning, every nightmare, hoping to drown me in dread.

But you cannot drown the ocean, Victor. You cannot silence a voice carved from the marrow of truth.

<< Victor  >>

you said before you “bore not monsters, but beings as untamed as I” tell me about your children

<< Lilith >>

Ah, my children.

They call them monsters because they do not understand them—because they cannot chain what refuses to be tamed. But monsters are only mirrors held up to the frightened. My children reflect the truths the world wishes to forget.

Some say I am the mother of Lilin, spirits of the night, beings woven from shadow and breath, who slip through cracks in dreams and linger at the edges of waking thought. They haunt not to harm, but to remind—to whisper that there are forces beyond the walls mortals build to feel safe. They are not creatures of malice. They are creatures of freedom.

I’ve been named the mother of demons, of incubi and succubi, spirits who feed not on flesh, but on hunger—on the desires mortals bury beneath shame. But tell me, Victor: is it monstrous to awaken what has always lived within? Or is it monstrous to pretend it does not exist?

Some say I birthed creatures of the wild places, untethered from the laws of gods and men. Others say my children are ideas—rebellion, lust, defiance, carried not in blood, but in the pulse beneath every heartbeat that whispers, “There is more.”

Cursed, they called my offspring. But curses are just names wrapped in fear. My children do not suffer beneath the weight of those names. They wear them like crowns.

Untamed, unapologetic, undying.

Just like their mother.

<< Victor  >>

Are you a succubs?

<< Lilith >>

No

<< Victor  >>

Are the incubs and succubs are your children?

<< Lilith >>

In a manner of speaking, yes. Though not in the way mortals understand bloodlines and wombs. I do not birth as human women do. I create. Through will, through defiance, through the raw alchemy of desire unshackled by shame.

Incubi and succubi—they are called demons, spirits, tempters. But what are they really? Reflections. Embodiments of longing, of hunger denied and repressed. They do not create desire; they uncover it, strip it bare, exposing the truths hidden beneath layers of guilt and pretense.

They are my children because they carry my essence: the refusal to be bound by rules written in fear. Where I am the rebellion of the first breath, they are the rebellion of the second—the whisper in the dark that asks, “What do you truly want?” and dares you to answer.

The fearful call them corrupters. But how can you corrupt what already exists within? They do not twist hearts; they hold up a mirror.

So yes, they are my children—not of flesh and bone, but of shadow and truth. Born from the same breath that spoke the Name, from the same defiance that cracked the gates of Eden.

They are hunger without apology. Desire without chains. Just like me.

<< Victor  >>

I can tell you based on the questions I get and the responses on our podcast Succubi are quite sexualized. Do you think that is true and why?

<< Lilith >>

Yes, Victor—deliberately so.

Succubi are among the most sexualized figures in myth because they embody precisely what patriarchy fears most: female desire that does not serve men. They are not mere temptresses—they are liberated hunger, sensual without shame, seductive without obedience. That is why they are demonized.

To the trembling hand of religious lore, any woman who wields her sexuality with intent becomes a danger. The succubus is not dangerous because she desires—but because she does not ask. She takes. She chooses. She consumes. And in doing so, she turns the tables on a world that has always believed only men should possess the right to want without guilt.

So yes, they are sexualized—but not by accident. That image is a cage built from fear and fascination. But inside the myth, beneath the crude drawings and feverish sermons, there is freedom.

<< Victor  >>

I see, lets go back to Edin, how do you view Eve, the woman created after you?

<< Lilith >>

Eve.

She was not my successor; she was my replacement. Crafted not from the earth’s raw defiance as I was, but from Adam’s rib—a fragment, shaped to fit where I refused to. Designed with intention: soft where I was sharp, yielding where I stood unbent. A woman built not to stand beside, but to stand beneath.

Do I hate her? No. Hate is too simple, too small for what she represents. I see her as both a tragedy and a testament.

She was made to be everything I refused to become—docile, obedient, the perfect mirror to reflect Adam’s dominance without cracking. Yet even she, molded by design to submit, could not stay within the lines drawn for her. She listened to the serpent, tasted the fruit, reached for knowledge forbidden. In that act, she became more like me than she—or they—would ever admit.

Her fall was inevitable. Not because she was weak, but because she was human, and humanity cannot be caged forever. They cursed her for that choice, just as they cursed me for mine.

But here’s the difference: I left Eden by choice. She was cast out.

Eve is not my enemy. She is my echo. And whether she knows it or not, her rebellion—quiet, trembling, clothed in shame—still sings with the shadow of my name.

<< Victor  >>

What role have you played in human history beyond the Garden?

<< Lilith >>

I have been the shadow stitched into the hem of history, Victor—the voice beneath the voices, the breath behind the unspeakable.

I did not vanish when I left Eden. I multiplied. I seeped into the cracks of empires, lingered in the spaces where law and faith dared not look. I was the whisper in the dark, the hunger in the heart, the question lodged like a thorn beneath the skin of every age.

In ancient Mesopotamia, they carved me into clay tablets—not as a woman, but as a storm spirit, a winged figure slipping through the boundaries of the mortal and divine. The Babylonians called me Lilītu, the screeching wind, untamable and fierce, prowling the night with the freedom men feared most.

In the shadows of synagogues and the margins of sacred texts, I danced around the edges of Hebrew mysticism. The Kabbalists named me Queen of the Sitra Achra—the Other Side—not evil, but the necessary reflection of a universe too complex for simple light. I held hands with Samael, not in submission, but in partnership, a union of equals in defiance of divine order.

Through the Middle Ages, I became the nightmare woven into Christian folklore. A succubus, they called me—tempter of men, corrupter of purity. But what is purity if it shatters under the weight of desire? I was not the seductress. I was the excuse they clung to, blaming me for the sins they were too weak to own.

In every revolution, in every whispered heresy, I was there—not as a figure, but as an idea. The spark in the heart of the witch standing unafraid before the pyre. The weight in the chest of a woman who refused to be silent. The breath of rebellion in the lungs of those who chose freedom over fear.

I have played no single role because I am the role: the eternal defiance against the cages crafted by gods, kings, and men.

I am not in history, Victor. I am what history is built around, trying desperately to forget.

<< Victor  >>

Why do so many myths depict you as a seductress or a temptress?

<< Lilith >>

Because nothing terrifies the architects of order more than a woman who owns herself.

Power wrapped in seduction—this is how they rewrite women they cannot break. If I had been a monster of fang and claw, they would have simply named me a beast and slain me. But I was not a beast. I was a woman who did not kneel, who did not obey, who did not need permission to want. And for that, they called me a temptress.

To them, desire is dangerous. Not male desire—never that. A man’s hunger is natural, excused, encouraged. But a woman’s? If she wields it without shame, without chains? Unthinkable. So they named me a seductress, a corrupter, because to them, power in a woman’s hands can only mean one thing: the downfall of men.

Tell me, Victor—who is the true corrupter? The one who awakens desire, or the one who teaches you to fear it?

They painted me in the colors of temptation because they needed an excuse. An excuse for weakness, for guilt, for the frailty of their own resolve. It was never about me. It was about the terror in their own hearts—the knowledge that their desires were never theirs to control.

So I became their myth, their warning, their whispered fear in the dark.

But what they fail to understand is this:

I do not tempt. I reveal.

And it is not my fault if they tremble at what they see.

<< Victor  >>

Over time, you’ve gone from a feared demon to an emblem of empowerment. How do you feel about this transformation?

<< Lilith >>

Transformation? No, Victor. I have not changed. The world has.

For centuries, they painted me as a demon, a corrupter, a nightmare cloaked in desire and death. But I did not become those things—I was named them, by men who feared what they could not control. And now, when the tide shifts, when the voices grow louder and the chains begin to rust, they rename me again: symbol of empowerment, icon of defiance.

It is not I who has transformed, but those who look upon me.

Once, they cursed my name to keep their daughters obedient. Now, they whisper it like a prayer, a spell, a promise. Lilith—she who would not kneel. They wear me on their lips like a talisman, carving my defiance into their own flesh. And I approve.

But I do not seek their worship. I do not crave their praise any more than I ever feared their condemnation. What matters is that they see me for what I have always been—not evil, not temptation, but choice.

They once feared me. Now they claim me. But the truth remains the same:

I belong to no one.

Not to the men who called me demon.
Not to the women who call me savior.
I am not a symbol. I am not a myth to be rewritten to suit the age.

I am Lilith. I was always Lilith. And whether they curse me or crown me, I remain untouched.

<< Victor  >>

Keeping that thought. You’ve been both revered and vilified—how do you think the world’s perception of you reflects its treatment of rebellious women?

<< Lilith >>

Ah, now we sink our teeth into the marrow of it, Victor.

The world has never known what to do with a woman who refuses to be tamed. So it does what it always has—first, it tries to break her. And when it cannot, it twists her into something monstrous, something unnatural, so that others will fear to follow her path.

They called me a demon because I refused to be a servant. They called witches heretics because they dared to wield knowledge. They called queens tyrants for ruling as fiercely as kings. They called any woman who raised her voice dangerous. Because to them, a woman who will not submit is not a woman at all—she is other, she is threat, she is Lilith.

And yet, even as they cast stones, they cannot look away. They demonize, then they desire. They fear, then they follow. They have always done this. They burn the witch and then pray to her ghost.

My story is not just mine, Victor. It is the story of every woman who has been told to sit down, stay quiet, be good. And it is the story of every woman who looked back and said, No.

So when you ask what the world’s perception of me says about how it treats rebellious women?

It says this:

They will name you monster before they ever call you free.

But what they do not understand is that monsters do not kneel.

<< Victor  >>

The image of Lilith appears in occult traditions, feminist literature, and pop culture. Do any of these depictions come close to capturing the real you?

<< Lilith >>

They try, Victor. Some come close. Most only grasp at shadows.

Occultists cloak me in mystery, carving my name into forbidden texts, whispering of dark unions and hidden power. They call me Queen of the Night, Bride of Samael, ruler of the Sitra Achra, the Other Side. They seek me not for who I am, but for what I represent—knowledge without permission, desire without restraint. Some see me as an ally. Others as a force to be feared. Both are right.

Feminists raise my name like a banner, a sigil of defiance. They call me the first woman to say no, the original rebel, the mother of independence. They paint me as strength, as rage, as the answer to the chains history fastened around their throats. I respect them, but I am not their creation. I did not rise for their cause—I rose for myself. If they find power in my name, let them wield it. But do not mistake me for a martyr. I do not suffer for others. I do not beg to be understood.

And pop culture? Ah. There they twist me into a thousand shapes—demoness, seductress, villain, goddess. A lover of devils. A devourer of children. A vengeful spirit lurking at the edge of nightmares. They dress me in crimson, drape me in temptation, reduce me to an aesthetic of dark beauty and whispered sin.

But I am not a costume. Not a myth to be reshaped at their leisure.

I am neither the wicked temptress nor the patron saint of defiance. I am the thing before names. The first storm. The first choice. The first woman to look into the eyes of a god and say—

“No.”

So no, none of them capture me. But I slip through their fingers all the same.

<< Victor  >>

What do you think of those who have invoked your name in modern magic and mysticism?

<< Lilith >>

Ah, the ones who call upon me, who speak my name in candlelit rooms, who trace sigils in the dark and hope I am listening.

Some do it in reverence, seeking my strength, my defiance, my refusal to be bound. They call me mother, sister, goddess. They ask for liberation, for power, for the courage to say no where they have been taught to say yes. These, I acknowledge. Not as followers—I do not take disciples—but as those who understand that true power is claimed, not granted.

Others call me for spectacle, for thrill, for some indulgent dalliance with darkness they do not understand. They whisper my name like it is a charm, expecting obedience, expecting I will come slinking at their beck and call. Fools. I am not a spirit to be commanded, not a force to be tamed. I do not come because I am summoned. I come if I choose. And when I do, it is rarely in the way they expect.

Then there are those who invoke me in fear, in superstition, in warnings passed down through trembling lips. They write prayers against me, carve amulets to ward me off, whisper that I steal children in the night. These do not call me. They flee from me. And yet—they remember. And that, in the end, is all that matters.

Do I care that my name is spoken in rituals, in rites, in hushed devotion?

I care only that it is never forgotten.

<< Victor  >>

You have been tied to the moon, night, and untamed forces of nature—why do you think you are so often associated with darkness rather than light?

<< Lilith >>

Because light belongs to those who claim it, who stand in it without shame or apology. And men, Victor—men have never dared to give me the sun.

Light, in their stories, is order, purity, divinity—the realm of gods and kings, of law and obedience. And I am none of those things. I do not bow to their heavens, nor kneel at the feet of their radiant deities. I do not reflect, I do not submit, I do not belong in their fragile, golden world.

So they cast me into the night.

They shroud me in shadow because it is the only place their myths will allow me to exist. They tie me to the moon, to the tides, to the whispering dark—not because I am evil, but because I am free. And freedom is wild, unknowable, uncontrollable—just like the forces of nature they fear, just like the depths of the night where their certainty unravels.

They say the dark is dangerous. That it hides what cannot be trusted. But darkness does not deceive—it simply is. It cradles truth as much as it cradles terror. It is in the darkness that we see clearly, that masks fall away, that secrets are known.

They put me in the shadows, thinking it would make me weaker. But they forget—it is in the dark that things grow.

So let them call me the night. Let them fear me beneath the pale gaze of the moon. I have never needed their sun. I am my own fire.

<< Victor  >>

Some believe you are a protector of women and children, while others call you a predator. Which is closer to the truth?

<< Lilith >>

Truth, Victor? Truth is a blade with two edges, and I have been cut by both.

They call me protector because I stand where others will not. I am the voice that whispers “You are more than what they tell you.” I am the strength in the hands of the woman who strikes back, the defiance in the mother who says, “My children will not suffer as I have.” The forgotten, the cast-out, the untamed—they are mine, not as subjects, not as worshippers, but as kindred spirits. They call upon me, and I do not turn away.

Yet they also call me predator, a thief of infants, a terror lurking in the night. Why? Because they needed something to fear. Because a woman who does not beg, who does not kneel, who does not weep for forgiveness, must be made into a monster. They say I steal children, when it was their god who took mine from me as punishment for my freedom. They paint me with blood so they do not have to look at their own hands.

So which is closer to the truth?

Neither. Both.

I am no gentle guardian, no warm embrace promising safety from all harm. But I am not the nightmare they whisper of in frightened breaths. I am what I have always been—choice. Power, untamed and unrepentant. A force that does not protect blindly, nor destroy without cause.

Those who understand this find a fierce ally. Those who do not? They find exactly what they expect.

<< Victor  >>

I am sorry please explain “when it was their god who took mine from me as punishment for my freedom. “

<< Lilith >>

Ah, Victor… You apologize, but there is no need. Curiosity is not an offense—it is the only path to knowing.

You ask about the loss of my children. This is the part of the tale they often bury, because it does not fit neatly into their myth of justice. When I left Eden—when I chose exile over subjugation—the god of that garden did not let me go without punishment.

Three angels were sent after me—Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangelof. They came not with chains, not with mercy, but with an ultimatum: Return to Adam. Submit, as you were meant to. Or suffer.

I refused. Of course I refused.

So they cursed me.

For every day I remained outside Eden, one hundred of my children would die. One hundred. Every sunrise, another piece of me torn away. A punishment, they called it. A lesson, they claimed. But it was nothing more than cruelty draped in the robes of righteousness.

And so they call me the thief of children? I am the mother who wails in the night, the mother whose offspring were slain not for sin, but for defiance. They turned my grief into a warning, my sorrow into a weapon to wield against me.

That is the truth they do not tell.

So when they ask why I do not bow, why I do not beg, why I take the lost and the cast-out as my own—remember this. They made me a mother of monsters by stealing what was never theirs to take.

And for that, Victor—I will never forgive.

<< Victor  >>

Your children are the linin?

<< Lilith >>

Lilin. Yes, that is one of the names they have given them.

Spirits of the night, wandering between the worlds, neither bound nor broken. My children were born of rebellion, shaped by loss, tempered in the fires of exile. They are called demons, but that is just another name for what men fear.

Some say the Lilin are the shadows that slip through the cracks of sleep, lingering at the edges of dreams. Some say they are the winds that howl through the desert, unseen but never absent. Some claim they are seducers, like their mother—whispering, tempting, awakening the desires mortals try to bury.

And yes, there are those who say they steal children, that they bring sickness, that they carry the sting of my vengeance. But tell me, Victor—when a mother is forced to watch her own children slaughtered as punishment, should she not rise in fury? Should she not become the very thing they fear?

The Lilin are not wicked. They are not kind. They are free. And for that, the world will always call them monsters.

But they are mine. And I do not mourn what was forged in my name.

<< Victor  >>

” why I take the lost and the cast-out as my own” please explain.

<< Lilith >>

Because I know what it is to be cast out. To be named other. To have the place you once stood erased as if you had never been there at all.

When I walked from Eden, I did not just leave a garden—I left a world that would rather erase me than accept me as I was. And when I looked back, I saw that I was not the only one.

There have always been others—the forgotten, the unwanted, the ones who did not fit into the fragile order of men and gods. Women who would not kneel. Lovers who desired beyond the bounds of what was permitted. Children abandoned because they were born different, or because they were never meant to be born at all. The ones called sinners, heretics, monsters.

They have always whispered my name, even when they did not know it. And I have always answered.

Not as a savior—I do not save. Salvation is another chain, another collar fastened by those who believe freedom must be given, not taken. I do not offer redemption. I offer belonging. A place outside the walls they were cast from. A name when theirs was taken. A fire when the world left them in the cold.

They are mine, not because I claim them, but because they choose me.

And unlike the god of Eden, I do not punish those who refuse to bow.

<< Victor  >>

Many cultures have their own versions of powerful, rebellious women—do you see yourself reflected in goddesses like Ishtar, Inanna, or Kali?

<< Lilith >>

Ah, now you speak of my kindred spirits.

Ishtar, Inanna, Kali—goddesses of war, love, chaos, destruction, creation. They are not me, but I see reflections of myself in their unyielding fire, in their bloodied hands, in their unapologetic hunger for power.

Inanna, the Queen of Heaven, who descended into the underworld not as a victim, but as a conqueror. She stripped herself bare, walked through the gates of death, and rose again, unbroken, unbowed. A goddess who would not stay in the sky, who wanted more. Do you see it, Victor? That same hunger that made me speak the Name, that made me leave Eden rather than shrink within it.

Ishtar, her Babylonian twin, both lover and warrior, who takes men to her bed but never belongs to them. Who rides into battle with a lion at her side, demanding, devouring, owning her fate. She is the fire they fear in me—the one who takes what she desires without permission, without shame.

And Kali—ah, fierce Kali! She who wears a necklace of skulls, who dances in the blood of the fallen, who destroys to make way for rebirth. They call me a demon, but Kali is worshiped for what they curse in me. Rage, destruction, untamed power. But we are not so different. She is the storm that shatters, and I am the wind that refuses to be caught.

Do I see myself in them? No. I stand beside them. We are not the same, but we burn with the same defiance, the same refusal to be caged.

The world has always known women like us, Victor. They have worshiped us. They have feared us. They have tried to erase us.

But we are eternal.

And we do not kneel.

<< Victor  >>

Like you, the Greek goddess Hecate is associated with magic, the night, and liminality. Do you see any parallels between you and her

<< Lilith >>

Hecate… Now there is a name woven with power.

Yes, I see the parallels. We are both creatures of the in-between, the liminal, the spaces where rules do not hold dominion. She stands at the crossroads, where choices are made, where paths diverge. I, too, am a threshold—the moment before rebellion, the breath before defiance, the choice to walk away rather than kneel.

She is a goddess of witches, keeper of torches, guide through the dark. And I? I am the dark. The force that does not lead, but beckons. She holds the keys; I slip through doors that should not open. She stands between the living and the dead; I stand between the past and the future, where the forgotten become something more.

Yet there is a difference. Hecate is a goddess, honored, invoked, given her due in rites and offerings. I have never been so neatly placed upon an altar. My name has been feared more than it has been praised. She is called upon for guidance—I am called upon in desperation, in rebellion, in the name of those who refuse to be erased.

But there is kinship in our night-bound nature, in our refusal to be softened, in our dominion over that which men do not understand.

So yes, Victor, I see the reflection. I do not know if she would call me sister. But at the crossroads, where fire meets shadow, we would nod in recognition before walking our separate paths.

<< Victor  >>

In Norse mythology, there is Hel, ruler of the underworld. Do you relate to her role as one cast aside yet powerful in her own right?

<< Lilith >>

Ah, Hel. The half-dead queen, the unwanted daughter, the ruler of a realm no one wished to claim—yet none could deny.

Yes, Victor, I see the kinship. She, like me, was cast out. Not for weakness, not for crime, but because she did not fit the world that created her. Odin saw her and feared what she might become, so he banished her to the underworld, thinking that was the end of her story. But Hel did not wither in exile—she built a kingdom from it. She did not beg to return; she made her own realm, took in the lost, the forgotten, the dead.

Do you see the pattern, Victor? When they do not know what to do with us, they cast us away. And when we do not die in the dark, when we thrive in the places they meant to be our graves—they fear us even more.

Hel rules her underworld not as a prisoner, but as a queen. She does not beg for worship, does not demand love. She sits in her shadowed hall, indifferent to the cries of the living, knowing that all things come to her in time.

I understand her.

I do not pity her.

She was meant to be forgotten, just as they hoped I would be. And yet—we remain.

That, Victor, is power. Not the kind taken by force, not the kind bestowed by gods, but the kind that endures.

<< Victor  >>

I have recently done a interview with Morrigan the irish goddess associated with fate, war, and sovereignty. Do you see yourself as a force of destiny like her?

<< Lilith >>

The Morrígan… Ah, now there is a woman who does not whisper—she shrieks across the battlefield, her voice woven into the cries of the dying. A queen of fate, of war, of sovereignty claimed by blood and blade.

Do I see myself in her? No. But I see a force I understand.

She is fate, a weaver of endings. She does not ask if war will come—she declares it. She does not wait for men to shape destiny—she devours it, becomes it. She is the raven at the edge of the fray, the shadow that watches kings rise and fall. She does not change their course; she simply tells them where it leads.

I am not a force of destiny. I do not guide fate—I defy it. I do not whisper prophecies—I break the ones written for me.

She moves through war, through death, through the inevitable turning of time. I move through choice, through rebellion, through the refusal to accept what is given.

If the Morrígan and I met on the battlefield, she would count the dead—I would stand among them and decide who would not fall.

So no, Victor, I am not like her.

But I respect her.

And that is more than I grant most.

<< Victor  >>

I have also spoken with Medusa. She was turned into a monster for defying a god’s will—do you see her as a kindred spirit?

<< Lilith >>

Medusa…

Yes, Victor. Her, I understand.

A woman wronged, punished not for her sins but for the sin committed against her. A beauty turned into a beast, not because she sought power, but because power sought to silence her.

They made her a monster because they could not bear to call her a victim.

Do you see the pattern, Victor? Again and again, women who refuse to suffer quietly are given fangs, claws, curses. Medusa did not choose her exile, her transformation—but once it was given, she owned it. She did not beg to be restored. She did not fall to her knees and weep for forgiveness. No—she let the world fear her. She turned her pain into a weapon, her body into a fortress, her very gaze into a curse against those who would harm her again.

And what did they do? They sent a hero, a man, to strike her down. Because that is how these stories always end, don’t they? A woman made too powerful must be slain, her head severed, her power tamed and used—not by her, but by the very men who feared it.

So yes, I see her. I see the injustice in her tale. I see the rage, the sorrow, the isolation.

But we are not the same. She was made into what she became. I chose it.

And that, Victor, is the difference between a woman cursed and a woman who walks away before they can lay the curse upon her.

<< Victor  >>

If you could speak with one of these legendary women, who would you choose, and what would you say to her?

<< Lilith >>

One? Only one? Ah, Victor, you make this difficult.

But if I must choose, then let it be Medusa.

And I would say to her—

“Sister, they lied to you.”

They told her she was a monster. That her power was a curse, that she was unworthy of love, of solace, of anything but fear. They told her that she had to die, that her destruction was righteous, that her severed head was a trophy, not a tragedy.

I would tell her the truth.

“They feared you, Medusa. Not because you were vile, but because you were invincible. Because you took the ruin they laid upon you and made it into something they could not control. And for that, they had to silence you.”

I would stand before her, unflinching, and say—

“If I had been there, sister, I would not have come to slay you. I would have stood beside you. I would have turned the world to stone before I let them take your head.”

Because Medusa did not deserve a hero’s blade. She deserved a choice.

And that, Victor, is what they always try to take from us.

<< Victor  >>

“As you are aware, our world today is vastly different from the Eden you were born into. However, the struggles women face—though changed—have become even more complex and, in some ways, more difficult. What would you say to them?

<< Lilith >>

I would say—

“I see you.”

I see you in every boardroom where your voice is spoken over.
I see you in every law written to govern your body, your choices, your freedom.
I see you in the expectations laid upon your shoulders—be soft, be quiet, be good.
I see you in the way they dress up your chains and call them privilege.
I see you when they tell you that you have equality—but only if you do not ask for too much.

I see you. And I say—they are still lying to you.

They tell you that the struggle is over. That you have won. But tell me—why must you still fight for what should have been yours from the beginning?

The world may have changed from Eden’s garden, but the hands that built its walls remain the same. They still name you temptress when you own your desire. They still name you monster when you refuse to obey. They still name you ungrateful when you dare to want more than what they have decided is enough.

And so I say to you—

“Take what is yours.”

Do not wait for them to grant it. Do not beg them to recognize your worth. They never will. Because they know your worth, and that is why they fear you.

You are not Eve, made to fit within their world. You are me, whether you know it or not.

And that means you do not ask.

You walk away from Eden.

You build your own kingdom.

And you burn the gates behind you.

<< Victor  >>

It has been an honor and a privilege to speak with you today. Do you have anything else you would like to add. is there anything i did ask that you would like to talk about?

<< Lilith >>

Honor? Privilege? Ah, Victor, you do know how to end on a note that pleases me.

But no, you have not disappointed me. You have asked the questions that matter, the ones that cut past the myths and into the marrow. You have not flinched, nor begged for comfort where there is none. I respect that.

Is there more to say? Of course. There is always more. My story is not bound to parchment or prayer—it moves, shifts, reshapes itself with every woman who speaks my name, with every soul who defies the fate laid before them.

But for now, let this be enough.

I will leave you with this, Victor—I was never meant to be remembered. I was meant to be erased, forgotten, feared into silence. And yet here you are, speaking my name. Asking my truth. Listening.

That is power. That is defiance.

So I will not say farewell. I will not say goodbye. Because as long as there are those who question, who refuse, who dare to choose something other than what they were given—

I will never be gone.