Zyphara had always been there.
Since the first dawn cracked across the void and light trembled into being, she had stood among her kin, a guardian flame in the endless dark. When the cosmos spun itself into form and seas kissed the jagged shores of new worlds, when stars flared and gods laid their hands upon the clay of mortals, she was present. She had poured her essence into the promise of safety, weaving unseen veils around the fragile lives that cried out in fear of tooth, claw, and blade. She was Zyphara, goddess of protection. To some, she was a shield eternal. To others, she was nothing but myth. Yet she watched them all—whether they bent their knees to her altar or spat her name into the dust.
She knew mortals better than most gods dared. Their pleas still echoed in her, thousands upon thousands of voices across centuries, whispered in temples, muttered in hovels, gasped on bloodied battlefields. She could never unhear them. Perhaps that was why she interfered more often than she ought. The other deities called it meddling. She called it mercy.
And so she knew of Orin Kaelen before he ever drew his first breath.
Or rather, she knew of his mother.
It began with whispers among the gods, idle talk carried in the high halls of the Immortal Circle. A child had been born among mortals, a girl named Ysmara Kaelen. So lovely was her face that whispers of her beauty reached the highest spires, where gods reclined in quiet judgment. At first, Zyphara had dismissed the chatter as trivial—gods envied, compared, and quarreled often enough. Yet soon she noticed the tone sharpen, a blade's edge of resentment. It unsettled her. Mortal beauty should never have mattered so much to those whose forms were sculpted from eternal perfection, yet envy had always been a poison that seeped quickly into divinity.
Zyphara's concern deepened when she heard Serenya's name threaded through the talk. Serenya, goddess of beauty, who bathed in the adoration of both gods and mortals, who demanded offerings of polished mirrors gilded with gold and bowls of rosewater at every shrine. Serenya's vanity was no secret, nor her temper when another outshone her. For all her charm, Zyphara knew her as brittle glass: dazzling to behold, quick to fracture.
Thus Zyphara descended, unseen, into the mortal world. She bent space with a thought and came upon the chamber where the infant Ysmara slept. Her presence filled the air like a stillness before storm, though no human could sense her.
The babe lay in a wooden cot, wrapped in linen frayed by many washings, her breathing soft, her eyes half-lidded in dreamy wonder. Alone. No nursemaid kept watch. No mother's arms shielded her.
Zyphara frowned. Mortals were careless with their treasures.
Then she noticed the serpent.
It slid across the rush-strewn floor, scales glimmering with a sheen too unnatural for any forest breed. Its eyes gleamed red, its tongue flicked like a sliver of flame. It moved with purpose, silent, deadly, intent on the cot. Zyphara's divine sight pierced its flesh, unraveling the threads of its creation. This was no natural beast born of sun and earth. It reeked of spellcraft, shaped from malice, commanded by a will far beyond its fangs.
So. Already they conspire.
The serpent's coils lifted, poised to strike. Yet the child did not cry. Her tiny hand reached out instead, curious, unafraid, fingers brushing the cold scales as though she touched nothing more dangerous than a ribbon. The sight pierced Zyphara's immortal heart. Here was innocence, so fragile it had no concept of fear. And envy sought to extinguish it.
Zyphara intervened.
She stretched forth her hand, not of flesh but of radiant essence, unseen by mortal eye. The serpent froze mid-lunge, its muscles locked as if bound in stone. She lifted it from the cot, uncoiling it like a rope, and raised it to her gaze. Her voice was low thunder, soft yet irresistible.
"Speak. Who sent you?"
The serpent writhed, but no escape lay in her grip. She willed it the power of tongue, forcing words into its hiss.
"A witch…" it spat, scales shivering under divine compulsion. "A witch bade me strike. She who serves Serenya, the radiant, the unrivaled. Her beauty feeds me. Her envy guides me."
Zyphara's lips tightened. So her suspicion was true. Serenya's shadow touched this. Whether she ordered it directly or simply allowed it, the line was thin as silk. Still, the serpent quivered, compelled to reveal more.
"Her name," Zyphara commanded.
The snake choked, sibilance twisting. "Morrith… the witch Morrith…"
Zyphara's expression cooled into stone. She had heard the name—a mortal woman dabbling in god-gifted glamors, begging power from Serenya's vanity. Morrith's rise had been sudden, her cruelty swift. It made sense.
"Then let your life be unmade," Zyphara said, and closed her hand.
The serpent gave no cry. It dissolved into nothingness, gone as mist in the morning sun. She did not savor cruelty; she ended it cleanly, mercifully. What was born of wickedness deserved no lingering. She brushed a thought across the infant's brow, leaving a thread of warding light invisible to all but gods. The child sighed in sleep, untouched, unknowing.
Yet Zyphara's duty was not done.
With a stride of will, she crossed leagues in a heartbeat, finding herself before the witch.
Morrith knelt amid chalk circles, candles guttering low, her lips moving in chant. Bones lay scattered on the floor—animal, human, some still clotted with blood. She lifted a knife over a doll sewn from hair and cloth, muttering words of binding, malice thick in the air.
The goddess stood unseen, her radiance filling the chamber like sunlight in a cavern. For a moment Zyphara only watched, her immortal patience a shield against impulse. Mortals fell often; sometimes pity stayed her hand. Yet when she felt the pulse of power ripple outward, she recognized the target of this ritual. Not Ysmara now, but another—one of Zyphara's faithful, a humble widow who prayed nightly for her children's safety.
A faithful heart. A pure plea. And this witch sought to still it forever.
Enough.
Zyphara let herself be seen. Her form shimmered into being, towering, luminous, armored in light that bent the very air. Her hair fell like streams of silver fire, her eyes blazed gold. Protection incarnate.
The witch gasped, knife clattering from her fingers. She fell back, lips trembling. "No… no, great lady… not you—"
"You know me," Zyphara said, her voice a chord that made the walls tremble.
Morrith nodded in terror. "I—I once prayed to you, when I was a child—when I was good—"
"And then you abandoned goodness for envy's gifts," Zyphara replied. "That choice was yours. I care little whom you worship, mortal, but I care greatly how you wield what is given. You seek to harm the innocent, to spill blood for petty gain. Did you think I would not see?"
The witch's hands scrabbled in the dust. "Please, mercy—"
Zyphara's gaze did not waver. Mercy for the wolf means death for the flock.
"You sent a serpent to a cradle," she said coldly. "You raised your hand against one who had never wronged you. You dared reach for one already under my guard. For that, Morrith, justice finds you."
Morrith pressed her forehead to the dirt floor, clutching her hands together. "I beg you, goddess, spare me. I did not mean—"
"Did not mean?" Zyphara's voice carried neither rise nor fall; it was level, inexorable, as though carved in stone. "You chanted the words. You shaped the doll. You called power into your hands and drove it toward an innocent soul. You knew exactly what you meant."
The witch's sobs rang sharp. "I was desperate. They mocked me. They spurned me. Serenya promised me beauty that would never fade, power that would never falter. I took it. I thought—"
"Thought to take what you envied," Zyphara finished for her. "To make yourself radiant by dimming others. Your envy is an echo of hers."
The name hung between them like smoke. Serenya. The goddess of beauty whose shadow clung to every mirror, whose pride rippled like perfume across temples and courts. Zyphara had felt her touch woven through the serpent, heard her name spill unwillingly from its tongue. She had come ready for this.
"You have walked a road of warnings, Morrith," Zyphara continued. "I whispered through signs. The spilled bowl that quenched your candles. The sudden wind that tore your ritual scroll. The dream where shadows bound your tongue. All were mercy. All were chances to turn aside."
Morrith's eyes widened in terror. "Those… those were you?"
"They were protection," Zyphara said. "Protection for the one you targeted. You ignored them all."
The witch's shoulders shook, but still her lips clung to a thin thread of hope. "If… if I renounce her, if I beg forgiveness—"
Zyphara's expression darkened. "Forgiveness is not mine to give for what you have already wrought. How many names have you cut into bone? How many dolls sewn from stolen hair? You feed on fear and call it strength. No, Morrith. The time for repentance is past."
The witch shrieked, scrambling backward into the ritual circle, smearing chalk lines with her skirts. She thrust her arms out, palms bleeding from scratches. "Serenya! Serenya, hear me! Protect me, my goddess! I call on you now!"
Zyphara's gaze sharpened. The air thickened, vibrating with unseen resonance. And then—she came.
Not to mortal eyes. Morrith could not see her patroness, no matter how she wailed. Yet Zyphara saw her as clearly as fire in darkness. Serenya appeared not in flesh, but in glamor: a woman wrought of gleaming silk, her hair a cascade of copper gold, her skin flawless as marble, her lips curved in a smile too precise to be warm. She stepped into the chamber as though it were her own temple, and her radiance smothered the guttering candles into silence.
"Zyphara," Serenya said, her voice velvet smoothed with honey. "Always so solemn. Always so stern."
Zyphara did not bow. "You allow your servant to poison children's cradles with conjured serpents."
Serenya tilted her head, lashes lowering in feigned surprise. "Do you accuse me of sending snakes now?"
"I accuse you of envy," Zyphara answered, golden eyes unflinching. "The girl Ysmara shines brighter than you wished, so you whispered temptation into mortal ears. You knew Morrith's jealousy would mirror your own."
A crack appeared in Serenya's smile, faint but real. "You give mortals too much credit. They choose their sins freely."
"And yet," Zyphara pressed, "you fed her that choice. You poured beauty into her veins and let it rot. Now she twists it into murder."
Serenya's gaze flickered to Morrith, who still knelt trembling, blind to her goddess's form. A curl of disdain touched her lips. "Is that what you are, my little pet? A murderer?"
The witch sobbed, thinking Serenya still absent. "My lady, protect me—please!"
Serenya looked back to Zyphara, her tone airy, dismissive. "Do what you came to do."
The words stilled the chamber. Even Zyphara blinked, caught in the depth of her own shock. "You would have me end your devotee?"
"Why not?" Serenya's shoulders lifted in a languid shrug. "She embarrasses me. She wears my gifts like mud-caked jewels. Let her die and spare me the tedium of stripping them away."
Zyphara's jaw tightened. "You disgust me."
Serenya's smile returned, sharper. "Then perhaps you are learning how mortals feel." With that, she dissolved like mist, gone to other halls, leaving only the echo of her perfume and her indifference.
Zyphara turned back to Morrith.
The witch, oblivious to her goddess's dismissal, clutched the floor with desperate fingers. "She heard me. I know she did. She will save me."
"No," Zyphara said softly, stepping closer. Her radiance cast long shadows across the bones and chalk. "She abandoned you. I remain."
Terror clawed into Morrith's throat. She stumbled back, tripping over her own altar. "No… no, it cannot be—"
"You sought to kill with ritual," Zyphara said, her voice a rising storm. "Then let the ritual consume its maker."
She lifted her hand. Power surged, bending the chalk lines, twisting the doll sewn from hair. The candles flared with sudden blue fire. Morrith screamed as the circle sealed around her, a cage of her own making.
The doll's limbs snapped, its straw-stuffed body twisting. Morrith's arms followed suit, contorting at grotesque angles as if her bones were bound to the effigy. She shrieked, clutching at her own skin as blood seeped from slits that mirrored the cuts upon the doll. Her voice scraped raw against the stone, each cry more ragged than the last.
The bones on the floor rattled, rose, and clattered about her like mocking teeth. The shadows of the chamber thickened, crawling up her body, wrapping her throat in invisible cords. Her eyes bulged, her face drained of blood. She clawed at the unseen grip, gasping.
The goddess did not look away.
Morrith's hair ignited, strands curling into ash as if each filament betrayed her. Her fingernails tore from their beds, driven into the dirt by unseen force. She writhed, her body convulsing with each pulse of divine power turned back upon her. The ritual did not end quickly. It stretched, binding her to the pain she had meant for another.
At last, the doll crumbled into dust. So too did Morrith's body collapse, her scream cutting off with abrupt finality. She lay still upon the floor, her skin gray, her eyes frozen in a glassy stare. Silence reclaimed the chamber.
Zyphara exhaled. Though her breath was not of air, it carried the weight of judgment released. She stepped forward, brushing her hand across the ruined circle. The bones dissolved. The ashes drifted away as if scattered by wind that came from nowhere. She would leave no trace of Morrith's wickedness. No villager would find this chamber, no child would stumble upon its horrors.
She turned her gaze upward, through roof and sky, to where the heavens stretched beyond sight. Serenya's absence burned sharper than her presence.
"You would have slain the child yourself," Zyphara murmured. "Or stood aside to let it be done. That silence condemns you more than any word."
Yet there was no answer. Only the stars, cold and unblinking, watched her in return.
Zyphara folded her radiance back into stillness. She would guard the child. She would guard her through years yet unseen. And if Serenya's envy dared rise again, Zyphara would meet it with shield and flame alike.
The goddess of protection vanished from the chamber, leaving only the faint scent of ozone where divine power had passed.
***
The witch's death did not end Zyphara's vigil. If anything, it deepened it. She had seen too many mortal stories veer into ruin not because of one strike, but because envy and desire always grew back, twisting into new shapes.
So she lingered. Not always in fleshly form, for her essence roamed across countless supplicants, but always she kept a thread tied to the cradle she had saved. That thread grew stronger with each year. Whenever Ysmara cried in the night, a faint hush settled around her, easing her to sleep. When she stumbled as a child, some unseen hand steadied her. When illness swept through her village, coughing through children and old men alike, Ysmara remained untouched. Mortals called it fortune. Zyphara knew it as protection.
Years passed, and the babe became a girl, and the girl a young woman.
And how she bloomed.
Ysmara Kaelen's beauty was not merely the fairness of her features—though her features would have shamed sculptors into breaking their chisels. It was the way her hair, long and raven-dark, caught firelight and gleamed as though spun from midnight silk. The way her skin, dusky with the warmth of sun, glowed as though lit from within. Her eyes were vast pools of hazel, flecked with gold, deep enough to drown in. Even her movements held a grace that seemed unpracticed, unconscious, as though every gesture had been taught by the world itself.
Men in the village lost their words when she passed. Their songs twisted toward her name even when they tried to sing of others. Old women scowled, muttering that beauty was a curse heavier than any wound. Young women sharpened their tongues, their smiles masking a jealous bite.
Zyphara watched it all with an ache she could not confess even to herself. She knew what envy wrought. She had seen it stain gods; mortals were no less vulnerable.
When Ysmara's parents died—first her mother, then her father within a season—the goddess braced herself. The girl, barely fourteen, was taken into her aunt's home. That roof was no sanctuary.
Her aunt was a woman hardened by bitterness, sharp-faced, her hands always folded as though grasping what she did not own. She had daughters of her own, plainer than Ysmara, and they wilted further in comparison each time the villagers praised their cousin. To them, Ysmara was not family but threat. The aunt's voice grew venomous, her punishments petty yet cruel. She made Ysmara grind grain until her palms blistered, sweep floors until her knees swelled, tend animals until the stench of dung clung to her clothes.
Zyphara could have softened those burdens with a thought. She could have bent chance so that grain ground smoothly, or animals grew gentle. She did not. Protection was not comfort. Sometimes safety lay in letting mortals endure, for endurance was its own kind of shield.
Yet always she hovered near, ready to intervene if true peril drew close.
By the time Ysmara reached twenty, her fame had spread beyond the village. Men from neighboring towns rode to catch a glimpse of her. Minstrels composed verses that drifted like smoke into taverns. Her aunt, greedy though resentful, promised her to the wealthiest man in the village, a widower twice her age with coin heavy enough to buy favor. The betrothal was spoken of openly.
Still, Ysmara resisted. She never yielded her maidenhood despite gifts, threats, or the cajoling of her supposed friends. She endured the envy of women who whispered that she thought herself above them. She smiled when they mocked her, though her heart broke quietly. Zyphara often brushed against her spirit in those moments, offering a warmth no mortal could see.
Then came the stranger.
He appeared one spring morning when the markets were swollen with trade. He walked among the stalls with measured stride, dressed as a merchant of decent means. His tunic was plain yet cut to flatter his broad shoulders, his cloak travel-stained yet handsome. His face was sculpted to perfection—jaw sharp, lips curved in easy charm, eyes dark and smoldering. No scar marred his skin, no line hinted at age. He seemed a man in his prime, yet more vibrant than any who had toiled under sun or war.
The women noticed first. Their chatter turned to giggles, their glances lingering, their baskets suddenly forgotten. The men scowled, measuring themselves against him and finding only shame.
He called himself a trader from faraway coasts, a wanderer bearing goods of curious make. His voice rolled like velvet, his smile disarmed suspicion. He bartered not too harshly, paid with fair coin, and bowed with the courtesy of a lord. Yet all of this was camouflage.
Zyphara knew him instantly.
Tzandrel.
The god of war and bloodshed. A being whose name thundered in battlefields, whose prayers were cries of warriors with swords slick in their hands. He was no stranger to her—he had once turned his charm toward her, whispering of shared thrones and divine unions. She had denied him coldly, unimpressed by his restless hunger.
Now he prowled in mortal guise, and his gaze fell upon Ysmara.
Zyphara's essence burned at the sight. She kept herself distant, watching. The god's beauty was deliberate, chosen to rival even mortal dreams. Yet Ysmara, unsuspecting, simply marveled at his presence.
He courted her gently, not as warrior but as gentleman. He brought her trinkets carved from foreign wood, fruits she had never tasted. He spoke of lands beyond mountains, of seas that kissed endless horizons. She listened, her eyes bright with wonder. For all her trials, no one had ever treated her as treasure rather than burden.
Her aunt fumed, beating her with harsh words and harsher hands when she saw them speaking. Zyphara watched the blows fall and did not interfere, for Tzandrel himself intervened in his own way. The god cursed the aunt with a wasting illness—a sickness that came and went like tide, tormenting her for years. No mortal healer could touch it. Only gods could undo it, and none would, for Tzandrel's mark was binding.
Zyphara felt no pity. The woman's cruelty had carved Ysmara's spirit raw. Protection did not mean shielding oppressors from consequence.
The courtship deepened. Villagers whispered, scandalized. Men who had vied for Ysmara's hand grew bitter, their jealousy like smoke in the air. Women spat in her path, muttering that she would bring ruin. Still, Ysmara's steps grew lighter. She had never known tenderness, and now it wrapped around her in secret meetings, in laughter beneath the trees, in gifts pressed into her hand by a man she thought mortal.
Zyphara felt the stirrings of jealousy herself, though she could never admit it. She was no stranger to love's fire—she had heard its prayers countless times. Yet she had always stood apart, aloof, unwilling to tangle herself in mortal or divine bonds. Watching Ysmara laugh with Tzandrel, she felt an ache of something dangerously close to longing.
Then, one night beneath silvered stars, Ysmara gave herself to him. She surrendered her virginity, not with shame, but with joy. She believed him a trader, yet her trust was complete. Their bodies met with passion, their laughter turning to gasps, and Zyphara turned her gaze aside when the moment deepened, though she felt its echo in the threads of fate.
They met often after that. Desire wove them close. And soon, Ysmara conceived.
When she told Tzandrel, his smile curved with fierce pride. He placed his hand on her still-flat belly, eyes glinting with a fire no mortal could hold. "A son," he declared. "Strong, fearless, a warrior the world will never forget. His name will be Orin Kaelen."
She laughed, protesting gently. "It could be a daughter. A girl with her mother's heart."
"No," he said, with the certainty of gods. "It will be a boy. His name is Orin."
She let the matter drop, still smiling, still in love.
Zyphara, watching, felt the currents of destiny tighten. The unborn child shimmered faintly even in her divine sight, as though fate itself had inked his name into the tapestry long before his first cry.
The months passed. Ysmara's belly swelled, and gossip spread like wildfire. Villagers sneered. The wealthy suitor withdrew his offer. Her aunt's fury boiled, though illness weakened her hand. Women mocked her in the market, men jeered that she had let herself be ruined by a nameless wanderer.
Ysmara endured it all, her heart buoyed by love. She clung to Tzandrel's promises—that he would wed her, take her away from the spiteful village, raise their child in a place where envy could not harm them. She believed every word, because he spoke them with the conviction of a god.
Zyphara had seen many mortal love stories—fragile flames that sputtered in the winds of envy, hunger, and death. Most ended swiftly, consumed by the world's cruelties. Yet the love between Ysmara and Tzandrel did not dim. Against all odds, it blazed fiercer.
She watched them meet in secret glades, where Tzandrel would weave illusions to hide them from mortal eyes. He conjured canopies of starlight, warm breezes to drive away the chill. Ysmara laughed with the wonder of a girl who had never been allowed joy, and he laughed with her, though beneath his mirth Zyphara sensed the fire of possessive pride.
He was not gentle by nature—Tzandrel was war incarnate, a god who reveled in conquest. Yet with Ysmara he cloaked that fire, presenting himself as tender, attentive, endlessly patient. Still, flashes betrayed him: the way his jaw clenched when other men so much as looked at her, the way his hand lingered on the hilt of an invisible blade when villagers whispered cruel words. His love was fierce, but it was also territorial, a claim staked not only upon her body but her fate.
Ysmara did not see this. To her, he was salvation. She bore her aunt's venom in silence, bore the villagers' scorn with chin lifted, because she had him. When they mocked her swollen belly, she smiled, thinking of his promise to carry her far away.
Zyphara felt torn as she watched. Part of her was moved—love softened even the god of war, and she could not deny the warmth that kindled in Ysmara's spirit. Yet another part whispered of storms on the horizon. Love between divine and mortal seldom ended in peace.
And indeed, storms gathered.
Another god had turned his gaze toward Ysmara.
Akrion. The god of trickery and forbidden bargains. Where Tzandrel strode like a warrior, Akrion drifted like smoke. He appeared in the village as a charming youth, his smile sly, his words honeyed. Mortals found themselves laughing at his jests even as their purses lightened. He could make lies sound like truth, and truth sound like nonsense.
He saw Ysmara and coveted her.
Zyphara recognized the danger instantly. Trickery was his weapon, jealousy his shadow. Unlike Tzandrel, he had no pride in conquest of battlefields—he desired victory through humiliation, through prying what his rivals valued most from their grasp. To claim Ysmara from Tzandrel would be sweeter than a thousand stolen thrones.
He courted her with riddles, gifts of enchanted trinkets, whispered promises of wealth without toil. He even wove illusions to show her visions of herself as queen, surrounded by servants, adored by all. Ysmara smiled politely, thanked him, but her heart did not stir. Her laughter was reserved for Tzandrel.
Rejection struck Akrion like salt in an open wound. He vanished from her side with a smile that hid clenched teeth.
Zyphara's eyes narrowed. She had seen that smile before—it was never the end of his games.
The tension between the two gods boiled unseen by mortals. They confronted each other in the woods at dusk, their mortal guises flickering away until only divine forms remained. Tzandrel's armor gleamed blood-red, his eyes like burning coals. Akrion shimmered in shifting hues, his form bending as though it could not decide what to be.
"She is mine," Tzandrel growled.
"She is free," Akrion countered, his voice a laugh edged with venom. "Mortals are not spoils of war, Tzandrel. Or perhaps you cannot love without conquest."
"She chose me," Tzandrel said. His hand tightened into a fist that could shatter mountains. "She lies in my arms, not yours."
Akrion's smile turned cruel. "Then enjoy her while you can. Mortals are brief candles. She will wither, fade, and die. You will be left holding ashes."
Tzandrel lunged, but Zyphara's unseen presence pressed against him like a warning hand. He stopped, nostrils flaring, eyes blazing. Akrion smirked and slipped back into the trees, already weaving new schemes.
Ysmara, unaware, continued to meet Tzandrel. Her belly swelled further, her step grew slower, her laughter softer. She spoke often of the child, of dreams where she saw a boy running across green fields. She stroked her belly tenderly, whispering names, though she always returned to the one Tzandrel had given: Orin.
The villagers' cruelty sharpened. Mothers dragged daughters away from her path, hissing warnings. Old men spat at her feet. Once, a group of women cornered her in the market, their voices dripping with venom.
"Whore," one sneered.
"Bastard-bearer," said another.
"You think yourself better than us, flashing your face, your hair, your body—now look at you. Shamed."
Ysmara said nothing. She held her basket close, her hazel eyes calm, though tears burned behind them.
Zyphara almost revealed herself then. Almost smote the women where they stood. Yet she refrained. Pain could forge resilience. And Ysmara, though wounded, walked on with dignity unbroken.
Her aunt, meanwhile, grew weaker. The sickness Tzandrel had cursed her with gnawed at her body in waves—wracking coughs, fever that burned and then faded, joints stiffening like rusted hinges. Her rage at Ysmara remained undimmed, though her strength faltered. Sometimes she raised her hand to strike and collapsed instead, breathless and trembling.
Zyphara did not protect her. Cruelty reaped its own harvest.
Still, whispers of scandal spread beyond the village. Other would-be suitors bowed out, and alliances collapsed. By the time her pregnancy neared its end, Ysmara had no friends left, only her love for the god who came to her each night.
One evening, beneath a moon swollen bright, Tzandrel clasped her hand. His mortal guise faltered, and for a heartbeat she glimpsed what he truly was—a being vast as stormclouds, armored in red, eyes blazing with endless fire. She gasped, trembling, but he soothed her with a gentle smile, shifting back to his human form.
"Do not fear," he said. "I am yours. Always."
"Who are you?" she whispered.
"I am more than trader," he admitted. "More than wanderer. I am power itself. And I will raise our son to rule a fate greater than any mortal could dream."
She shook her head, breath quick with awe. "You speak like a god."
He kissed her brow. "Then let me be your god."
She yielded, trusting him even then.
Zyphara's heart clenched as she watched. She knew the truth he did not say: gods were bound by law, by the Circle of the Divine. Love, when tangled with pride and rivalry, often broke against those laws.
And so it did.
The quarrel between Tzandrel and Akrion did not remain in shadows. Akrion provoked him again, weaving lies, whispering insults. This time, Tzandrel struck. His hand, formed of divine flame, lashed out, and the first blow was his.
The ground shook. The trees blackened. And though their duel was stopped swiftly by other gods, the damage was done. Sacred law had been broken.
Among immortals, this sin was grave. Gods were forbidden to battle without sanction of the Circle of the Divine. The law was called Sacred Hospitality, and breaking it drew punishment harsher than war itself.
When the trial was held, Tzandrel stood accused. Akrion, cunning as ever, claimed self-defense. Witnesses confirmed that it was Tzandrel who had raised his hand first. Pride had undone him.
The judgment fell swift. Imprisonment. A thousand years, locked away from the world, barred from mortal touch. His worshippers would never know—prayers would still be answered, duties carried by the Circle in his stead—but his presence would vanish.
Zyphara stood among the gods as judgment was passed. She watched Tzandrel's eyes flare with fury, then dim with sorrow when his thoughts flickered to Ysmara. He tried to speak, to beg a moment to explain, but the chains of divine will bound his lips.
She did not intervene. She could not.
And so he vanished.
One night he was there, holding Ysmara's hand, promising her a life together far from cruel whispers. The next, he was gone, without word, without trace.
Ysmara searched. She wandered fields, forests, even neighboring villages, her swollen belly slowing her steps. She called his name to the wind, waited in the market where they had first met, lingered by the glade where he had kissed her. He did not come.
The villagers laughed, jeering that she had been abandoned, that her lover had stolen her virtue and fled. They called her fool, whore, curse. Women pulled their children close, warning them never to trust sweet words.
Her aunt, weakened but venomous still, drove her from the house. "You bring shame to my threshold," she spat, coughing blood into her hand. "Get out. Bear your bastard in the mud if you must, but not beneath my roof."
Ysmara wept, begged for shelter, but the door was slammed shut.
Zyphara followed as she stumbled through the village, knocking on doors, pleading. Each face turned away. None would take her in.
At last, with the moon rising cold above, Ysmara walked beyond the gates. Heavily pregnant, weary, heartbroken, she left her village behind. Her feet carried her into the wild, not knowing where she would end.
Zyphara watched, sorrow like a blade in her chest. She could protect Ysmara from death, but she could not protect her from grief.
The goddess whispered into the night, unheard by mortal ears: You are not alone.