In the Land of Songhai, where gods were worshiped and legends were told, there lived a woman whose beauty and grace made her the admiration of many. Her name was Anna.
Anna was the kind of woman people spoke of with both respect and wonder. Her hair flowed like strands of silk, dark and shining in the light of dawn. Her eyes were wide and warm, brown as fertile earth, carrying both gentleness and hidden strength. Her smile was soft enough to calm an angry heart, and her voice carried a sweetness that lingered in the ears of all who heard it. She was, to many, the embodiment of what it meant to be a true woman of Songhai—beautiful, kind, and diligent.
Yet beneath her beauty lay sorrow.
For seven years, Anna had been married to Davis, a man once known for his charm and ambition. In the early days, their union had been celebrated, their home filled with laughter, and their love envied by others. But as the seasons passed, one blessing did not come: a child.
In Songhai, children were seen as both heritage and honor, a sign of divine favor. And when years passed with Anna's womb still empty, whispers began to follow her through the streets. Some pitied her, others judged her, but none understood the quiet agony she carried in her heart.
Davis, at first patient, soon grew restless. Small matters became cause for conflict. A meal not prepared quickly enough. A word spoken in haste. A glance he misunderstood. Their home, once warm, became a house of constant quarrels, each day eroding the bond that had once tied them together.
Anna tried. She prayed to the gods, she fasted, she wept in silence. But Davis's anger only grew, and with it, his distance.
One night, the breaking came.
While the city slept under a moonless sky, Davis gathered his belongings, his wealth, and even the valuables Anna had kept from her youth. Without farewell, he vanished into the darkness—leaving behind not only his wife but also the crushing weight of debts he had hidden from her. By morning, whispers filled the air: Davis had gone to live with his mistress, abandoning the woman who had once been his pride.
Anna was left helpless. Her home emptied, her table bare, her heart shattered. Yet even in her despair, she carried herself with quiet dignity. For though her tears flowed, her beauty and kindness had earned her the loyalty of friends.
Her neighbors, who had long admired her goodness, came to her aid. Some brought food for her table, others offered clothes to replace what was lost, and a few placed coins in her hands so that she might survive the days ahead. They did not do this out of pity but out of love, for Anna had always given freely of herself to others, and now they gave back to her.
Thus, though abandoned and betrayed, Anna did not sink into ruin. Her beauty still shone, her goodness still spoke, and the people of Songhai whispered of her as a woman too noble to be broken by misfortune.
But in the silence of her nights, beneath the weight of her loneliness, Anna prayed—not for riches, not even for the return of her husband, but for a sign. A sign from the gods, from Zethral, or from fate itself, that her story was not yet finished.