While the Kingdom of Dawnfall mobilized its legions for a campaign that would shake the continent, a war of a different magnitude was taking place inside the Sect's Forbidden Hall.
The enemy was small, red-faced, and currently winning.
WAAAAH!
Raiking sat on his obsidian throne, a vein throbbing visibly on his forehead. Ezmelral stood at attention, her hand hovering over her sword hilt. Libinea fanned herself, looking at the screaming bundle on the central table with a mixture of curiosity and biological horror.
"Why won't it stop?" Ezmelral queried, her voice strained. "I've searched for curses and checked for spiritual parasites. The target is clear, yet the sonic assault persists."
Raiking looked at Libinea. "You are the eldest. Fix it."
"Me?" Libinea scoffed, snapping her fan shut. "Do not look at me. I am a Phoenix."
"So?"
"My species lays eggs, Raiking. We incubate in divine fire for a century and hatch fully formed, possessing the wisdom of the ancients and the ability to fly." She poked the squirming, crying baby with the tip of her fan. "We do not... ooze. And we certainly are not so unruly."
"It is leaking again," Raiking noted with disgust.
"So we require a mortal," Libinea concluded, stepping back to avoid the splash zone. "This creature operates on logic we have long since transcended."
Raiking stood up. The air in the room grew heavy. He looked at the baby like it was a complex formation he couldn't decode.
"We need information," Raiking ordered, his tone serious and commanding. "Go down the mountain and infiltrate the closest human settlement."
"Should I capture the village elder or maybe intimidate the local lord?" Ezmelral inquired.
"No," Raiking responded, pointing to the wailing infant. "Find a mother. Gather any crucial details you can about the reason for the crying."
Ezmelral didn't walk to the door; she transformed into a blade of pure light.
BOOM.
The sound barrier shattered as she launched herself out of the hall, tearing through the roof and streaking toward the terrified village at the base of the mountain.
Raiking settled back into his seat, casting a stern look at the infant.
"Just you and me," he murmured softly as he lifted her into his embrace.
The baby momentarily stopped, blinked, and then began to scream even more loudly.
"Did you forget about me?" Libinea asked, emerging from the shadows.
Raiking kept his eyes downcast. "Didn't you say you couldn't offer any help?"
"I may not be able to resolve the current situation," Libinea replied, lifting her fan, "but there was a time when this issue didn't exist."
"Are you proposing a reversal of time?"
"My kind undergoes Nirvana to reset our state, returning to the ash to begin anew," Libinea reasoned, golden runes beginning to spin around her fingers. "Why can a mortal infant not do the same? We simply... rewind her to a moment of peace."
It was an alluring proposition. A mere wave of the hand, a small 'Nirvana,' and the noise would cease.
Raiking gazed at the baby. Despite his frustration, he recalled how Maryal had declined his offers of protective formations and spirit guards, favoring the challenges of a mortal life over the comforts of divinity.
Just as Libinea was about to cast her spell, he stopped her.
"No... Maryal wanted a simple, ordinary life, so her child should have the chance to do the same."
Libinea allowed the runes to fade. She glanced around the Forbidden Hall, taking in the obsidian throne, the floating swords, and the God of Death cradling a crying baby.
"Look around you, brother," she said gently. "Is a 'normal' life even feasible for her here?"
Raiking looked down at the child. She continued to cry, but his hand remained steady. "Regardless," Raiking whispered, "we have to try."
---
[Village of Greenhollow - Base of the Mountain]
As Ezmelral descended, she weighed her options. Stealth was necessary for infiltration, but stealth required time—a luxury she didn't have, especially with Raiking back at the Sect enduring the cries of a distressed infant.
Logic suggested a more straightforward approach.
She projected a killing intent so intense that the entire village felt it at once, their eyes darting skyward to see the formidable figure hovering fifty feet above.
The wind roared, whipping her silver hair chaotically around her face, but she remained as unyielding as a blade. She gazed down at the mortals scuttling into their huts and frowned.
"Come out," Ezmelral commanded. Though she did not shout, her voice resonated in every ear, louder than thunder.
They resisted.
In response, Ezmelral raised her right hand.
SHIIING.
The noise made the villagers' teeth ache. The air behind her shimmered, and space itself seemed to crack.
One sword materialized. Then ten. Then a hundred.
In the span of a single breath, the blue sky above Greenhollow was erased. It was replaced by a ceiling of three thousand celestial blades, each one humming with enough energy to level a mountain range. The swords pointed downward, suspended like raindrops of steel waiting for gravity to notice them.
The villagers scrambled out of their hiding spots, realizing that a wooden roof offered no protection against a rain of god-steel.
They prostrated themselves on the ground.
"Great Immortal!" Elder Oryn wailed, shaking so hard his cane rattled against the stones. "Mercy! Which God have we offended? We paid our tithes! We burned the incense!"
Ezmelral lowered herself slightly, the pressure of her presence flattening the grass in the square.
"I do not want your tithes," she stated coldly. "I require a mother."
The village went silent. The wind whistled through the forest of hovering swords.
Elder Oryn blinked, sweat dripping into his eyes. "A... mother?"
"Correct."
"You... you are looking for your mother?" Oryn asked, his voice trembling with confusion. "Did she... pass through here?"
Ezmelral tilted her head slightly. "No. What I need is an individual proficient in maternal duties. The child on the mountain is malfunctioning."
The villagers exchanged glances, each arriving at the same conclusion. When an immortal referred to a "malfunctioning child," they did not envision flesh and blood. Instead, they thought of the rare Athenrail Puppet Babies, alchemical creations given to those unable to conceive. In this village, only one person could tend to such intricate mechanisms, though none dared speak of her true heritage.
Ezmelral noticed the change in their expressions.
The swords in the sky responded to her senses, descending inches closer to the trembling villagers.
"I can help!"
A woman in a flour-dusted apron rose. It was Martha, the village nanny. She eyed the floating swords, swallowed hard, and stepped forward.
"Martha!" Daniel, the blacksmith beside her, lunged to grasp her arm, his face pale with fear.
"It'll be alright," Martha murmured, trying to smile. She looked up at the imposing figure in the sky. She sensed the deadly intent radiating from the spirit, but she knew she couldn't let her neighbors suffer just to keep her secrets safe.
"I have experience in caring for both a real child and a mechanical one."
Ezmelral scrutinized the woman carefully. Something was peculiar about her soul signature, a subtle distortion that seemed out of place in a simple Dawnfall peasant. Her attention was drawn to Martha's hand, where a dull, tarnished ring rested, appearing like scrap metal to anyone who didn't know better.
That sigil... Ezmelral mused. Fascinating.
She directed a finger at Martha.
From the array of three thousand swords, one detached itself, diving toward the woman with the speed and precision of a lightning bolt.
"NO!"
The villagers flinched, bracing for blood.
The sword stopped an inch from the blacksmith's face. Daniel had thrown himself in front of Martha, shielding her with his body, his eyes squeezed shut, expecting death. However, when he dared to open his eyes, he was not greeted by the afterlife. Instead, the sword emitted a soft hum, then flattened, hovering at their feet like a waiting carriage.
"Board," Ezmelral commanded, her voice devoid of patience.
"You cannot trust her!"
Martha glanced down at the razor-sharp weapon lying at her feet, then at the multitude hanging ominously in the sky.
"I cannot let you die for me, Daniel."
"But—"
"Think of our child! If we both perish here today, who will care for her?"
Daniel froze, the resolve in his eyes suddenly wavering under the crushing weight of the truth.
Taking advantage of the moment, Martha slipped past his arms, lifted her skirts, and stepped onto the cold steel.
"Martha!"
Daniel shouted as realization hit him; he reached out to grab her arm once more, but it was already too late.
"Hold on," Ezmelral advised.
"To what—?"
ZOOM.
There was no transition. One moment, Martha and the Goddess were there; the next, a sonic boom shattered the windows of the general store, and two streaks of light vanished toward the mountain peak.
The inhabitants of Greenhollow remained on the ground, coughing in the dust, staring at the void where their neighbor had stood.
"She took Martha," Daniel whispered, collapsing to his knees in the dust.
Elder Oryn stepped forward, placing a hand on the blacksmith's heaving shoulder. He looked toward the capital, his expression grave.
"I will send a scout to the King immediately. They will know what to do."