The wind howled through the battlements of Forgemire, carrying the metallic tang of the foundries and the distant, rhythmic pounding of the great hammers. Neith stood at the edge of the stone railing, her silhouette small and frail against the darkening sky, yet her presence seemed to dwarf the fortress itself.
"This power of mine... I didn't choose it, Kael," she began, her voice devoid of its usual mocking chime. It was a flat, heavy sound that seemed to pull at the air. "This body I inhabit? It is not even truly my own. It is merely a vessel, a temporary dwelling for a burden too heavy for the flesh to carry."
She turned slightly, her ancient eyes locking onto his. "People seek power for many reasons. Some chase it to protect those they love; others crave it to rule over the weak. But in the end, it is all the same. Once you chase power, once you truly taste it, you become an addict of the soul. You keep wanting more until you reach the summit. But it is lonely up there, Kael. Those who seek greatness should expect to be alone, and they should prepare to die alone."
Kael shifted, his iron signet ring cold against his finger. "Even with someone at your side?"
"Even then," Neith replied with a hollow smile. "Even if you find a partner and chase that horizon together, the power will eventually create a chasm between you.
You will still feel empty. You will still die alone, and the same fate befits them.
Power is a jealous god; it demands everything and leaves you with nothing but your own reflection."
Kael looked at her, seeing the thousand-year-old deity beneath the skin of a child. "Are you lonely, Neith?"
The First Girl
Neith let out a long, weary breath. "Let me tell you a story, Kael. After the four gods parted ways to craft their ideal species, the god known as Creatrix turned his gaze to the Southern continent. We are standing upon his work as I speak: Tellus. After he pulled the land from the deep, he found himself bored. He desired a witness. So, he made a girl."
She paced the stone floor, her footsteps silent. "This was the first being he ever created. Because she was a prototype, she had no limiters in her mind. From the moment of her creation, she was a goddess already. Creatrix wanted a second mind—someone to disagree with him, someone to challenge his thoughts. He called her Neith: the Goddess of Knowledge and the Shepherd of the Human Race."
Neith stopped, looking toward the southern horizon. "But soon, he told her she was flawed. It is ironic, truly. Creatrix realized his ideal species wasn't a goddess; he wanted a normal, magical human. But mana and normality are forces that collide. He believed that humans who were able to love and cry—strong enough to evolve on their own, yet fragile enough to die—were the true masterpiece. He believed that death was what kept life going."
The Ninety-Ninth
"So he made the humans," Neith continued, her voice trembling with a rare flicker of emotion. "He made them strong enough to surpass the limiters in their heads, to move in and out of those states of power we spoke of. And as for the girl? He cursed her to watch them. Creatrix exchanged his divinity for the life of the human race. He took out his own heart and placed it within the first Neith."
Kael's breath hitched. "He gave you his heart?"
"He gave it to the first Neith. But she was still prone to death. When the first Neith died, a random woman in a distant village gave birth to the second Neith. That child was born with every memory, every thought, and every ounce of power the first one possessed. It has been an endless cycle ever since."
She turned fully to him, her eyes wide and haunting. "I, myself, am the ninety-ninth Neith. I have died ninety-eight times, Kael. I have seen the first ages of humanity when the dirt was still fresh, and I am cursed to see its end. I carry the weight of ninety-eight lives, ninety-eight deaths, and the heartbeat of a dead god."
Kael stood in stunned disbelief, his hands trembling. "So... you have actually seen him? The man who created us?"
Neith opened her mouth to answer, but the heavy iron doors of the balcony swung open with a violent clang. A messenger, breathless and pale, stumbled onto the battlements.
"My Lord! Sovereign!" the man gasped, dropping to one knee. "A woman has arrived at the Western Gate. She refuses to give her name to the sentries, but she carries the frost of Kaldaria and demands audience."
Kael and Neith shared a look. The air grew suddenly cold, and the scent of ozone and ice cut through the smog of the forges.
Mikaela had arrived.