The sky was bruised and dark. Rain hammered the broken hills, turning mud into a grim river. Thunder growled over the land scarred by centuries of war.
The kings had signed treaties in glittering halls, celebrated in golden castles. But the streets below were full of starving, grieving people. The dead lay unburied, their hollow eyes staring into the storm.
Through the chaos, a lone figure struggled forward. Mysa, twenty-four, but worn to the edge of old age by grief, carried a small body in her arms. Her three-year-old son was limp, his head heavy against her chest.
"Not you… not you…" she whispered through trembling lips. Rain plastered her hair, soaked through her tattered dress.
Lightning split the sky. Ahead, a massive marble temple loomed. Its towers rose above the ruins: the Temple of the Goddess of Love and Truth. No bells rang, no priests chanted—only the storm's fury echoed inside.
Mysa dragged herself across the wet stone floor, kneeling before the serene white statue. Its peaceful smile mocked the suffering around her.
She placed her son on the altar, tears carving lines through the dirt on her face.
"My child… my husband… my family…" she sobbed, voice cracking. "I have given everything… and still, I am nothing. Where are you, Mother?"
Her sorrow hardened into rage. The ceremonial sword of the temple gleamed in her hand.
"If you are real… prove it!" she screamed. "Give me vengeance! Give me justice! Or show me that you are just stone!"
The offering plate spun through the air and clattered harmlessly to the floor. Silence.
Madness claimed her. With a trembling breath, she pressed the blade to her neck. "I will show you—if you are nothing, I will be nothing too!"
Steel met flesh. Blood arced in the storm's reflection.
Mysa's body collapsed. Her eyes, still wet with tears, stared at the ceiling.
Time paused.
Her soul rose pale and shivering. She looked down at herself, lifeless.
Then the temple glowed. From the statue's lips, a voice came—soft, sad, and terrible:
"My daughter… this world is dying. Men have forgotten love. Wars will come… to burn away what is rotten."
"Why… why must innocents suffer?" Mysa cried. "Why my child?"
"Until the world remembers the truth," the goddess replied.
The glow faded. Time resumed.
Mysa's body lay on the altar. Blood pooled in rivulets across the stone. The storm raged, as if the heavens themselves mourned her sacrifice. And somewhere in the distance, a whisper of destiny stirred… a child who would bear the weight of the world.
.