Lilith ran through the forest as the sun began its descent, the sky darkening above her until the world was swallowed in shadow. The dim light made every root, every stone, a hidden snare waiting to drag her down.
She stumbled—her foot catching on a root—and her small body was flung forward, rolling through dry leaves and brittle dirt. Her palms scraped, her arms bled, her cheeks were smeared with soil and blood. She hardly noticed.
The tatters of her dress hung like broken wings, shredded by the clutching branches of the forest.
All she could think of was Isha.
As long as she reached the temple, Ishana would be saved.
Lilith never doubted her. What kind of child would not believe her mother? Even if she was old enough to think better, she placed her faith not in the goddess of Doom—but in Ishana. And Ishana, in turn, had faith in the god of the temple.
