The sky wept black that evening.
Thunder growled across the shattered hills as heavy rain poured over the broken land—a land still scarred from the long and bloody war between humans and elves. The kings had declared victory, the treaties were signed, songs of peace already promised in their gilded halls. But beyond their castles, the common folk still bled, still starved, still buried their dead in the mud.
One such soul stumbled through that storm.
Mysa staggered, drenched and trembling, her yellow hair plastered against her face. She was young, no more than twenty-four, yet hunger and grief stretched her skin tight against her bones. Her arms carried a small body, limp and pale—a boy of only three years. His head lolled against her chest, lifeless, yet she clutched him as though warmth might return if only she refused to let go.
Her cracked lips whispered between sobs, over and over:
"Not you too… please, not you too…"
Lightning split the storm-dark sky as she reached a towering marble temple. Its spires climbed defiantly above the ruins of the city—The Temple of the Goddess of Love and Truth. No bells tolled. No priests remained. Inside, it was empty, save for the echo of thunder.
Mysa entered the silence. Raindrops dripped from her tattered dress, making small dark circles on the stone floor as she dragged herself to the feet of the goddess's statue. The idol loomed above: serene, smiling, carved in white stone. Too serene for this world of ash and cries.
Her knees gave way, and she collapsed, pressing the small corpse against her breast. Her voice was a rasp, breaking apart as she raised her eyes to the divine image.
"O… O… Mother of all… goddess of truth and love… listen to me…" Her voice trembled, then broke into ragged sobs. "I… I am a mother, a wife, a daughter… and now, nothing. I lost my husband, my friends, my kin—all for wars I did not ask for. And now—my child…"
Tears streaked her hollow cheeks, yet her words burned hotter. Her voice rose, echoing in the temple's hollow chamber.
"I never asked anything from you. Not once. I bore all the suffering, the hunger, the grief—believing you were with me. But now… NOW, when I need you… when all I ask is for this child to breathe again—you are SILENT."
Her cries twisted into fury. Her red-rimmed eyes blazed as she placed the body of her son upon the cold floor before the statue.
"If you cannot give me my child back…" She spat the words like venom. "…then give me the heads of those kings, those novels of war, those murderers who turned our lives to ash. You hear me, Goddess? If you are true, do something! And if you are nothing but STONE…"
With trembling hands, she seized the offering plate beside the statue and hurled it upward. It clattered, spinning, but when it should have shattered against the idol's face, it instead fell harmlessly at its feet. A mocking silence followed.
A madness overtook her. She grabbed the ceremonial temple sword resting against the altar—a long, silver blade engraved with prayers of peace. Raising it high, she fixed her bloodshot gaze on the statue.
"Tell the people this sword was granted to the Ditchans to protect them," she shouted, her voice wild, half rage and half despair. "Tell them it is the sword of kindness and love. And now tell them—" she pressed its edge against her neck, "—that I cut my own head, to PROVE you are no goddess at all!"
The blade fell.
Blood splattered across the stone steps in a crimson arc. Her trembling body collapsed before the idol, her head falling aside, her lifeless eyes still glistening with tears.
And then—time froze.
Mysa's soul rose from her husk of flesh, pale and wavering, yet whole. She looked down at herself in horror as her incorporeal body drifted upward. The temple glowed faintly, and from the lips of the statue came a voice—warm, maternal, yet heavy with sorrow.
"Daughter of mine… this world you see is rotting. The hearts of men grow selfish. They have forsaken what it means to love. And so… wars will come. Great wars, to purify this land and burn away what has been corrupted."
Mysa's spirit wept. "But why? Why must the innocent always pay? Why my child? Have they not suffered enough?"
The Goddess's stone eyes seemed almost alive as the echo thundered once more:
"All will suffer, until the world remembers truth."
The glow faded. Time resumed.
The silver blade had done its work—Mysa's body lay sprawled against the altar, her blood running in streams across the cracked stone, pooling at the feet of the silent goddess. The smile on the statue remained unchanged, unbroken, as thunder shook the temple walls.
Outside, the storm howled louder—as if the world itself mourned the desperate prayer of blood