The gardens were silent when Elan finally moved.
He stood alone among the roses, the moon bleaching his face to chalk, the crushed petals around him stained where he had fallen to his knees.
His hands shook. His breath rattled. His heart felt like a house struck by lightning—charred beams where love used to live.
He whispered her name once.
Only once.
Then he reached for the dagger at his belt.
Not to fight.
Not to flee.
To end the humiliation before the world ended him.
The dagger trembled above his ribs—
And the world stopped.
Not slowed.
Not froze.
Stopped.
Every rose petal hung in the air mid-fall.
Every flame in the lanterns froze mid-flicker.
Even the moonlight seemed suspended like dust in water.
A soft voice breathed behind him.
"Child of mine… do not bleed for a man who corrupts my saints."
Elan turned.
And standing behind him was a statue—no, not a statue—
a woman carved of white fire and moonlit stone, eyes vast and mercilessly gentle.
The Goddess.
