It was the year 77 PCW (Post Consolidation War), the war that had shaken the continent and ended gods who had once been thought eternal.
The war concluded with the Treaty of Divine Right, which divided both the continent and the calendar into fourteen parts. Fourteen regions. Fourteen months. Fourteen primary gods. Each of the gods whose churches had emerged strongest at the end of the war claimed a region and a month, reorganizing the world into something structured, something measured, something designed—so they hoped—to prevent such devastation from happening again.
In the land of Reval, God of Merchants and Abundance, there lived a man named Cedric.
What made Cedric unusual among the citizens of Reval's Market was not his species—he was human, like most of them. It was not his wealth either. He came from a respectable family, comfortably placed, but nothing remarkable by the standards of a region built on commerce and excess.
What made Cedric different were his prayers.
He did not pray to Reval, the primary god of the region. Nor did he offer devotion to any of the smaller gods who maintained churches within the Market.
Cedric prayed to the Light.
He had been doing so for twenty years.
The last god of Light had been named Soren. Soren had died seventeen years before the Consolidation War ended—ninety-four years ago. The domain of Light had continued, as domains always did. The sun still rose. Illumination still existed. But there had been no god to receive devotion. No presence behind it.
Until one ordinary evening.
Cedric was kneeling as he always did, speaking into silence as he had for two decades—when, for the first time, something answered.
It was not a voice. It was not words. It was simply awareness.
Someone received him.
He wept for an hour.
And then, practical as ever, he rose and began the work of establishing a church. Because if there was a god, then that god required structure. And if no one else would build it, he would.
What was born that night was the religion of Aelith.
By the year 78 PCW, Aelith had her own church.
It was not large. It was a converted building along the eastern road of Vareth, the capital of Reval's Market. The stone still bore faint carvings from its previous purpose. The altar had been built by hand.
By the thirteenth month of her existence, she had thirty-seven followers. Cedric had become Father Cedric—her cardinal, though the title had been chosen with trembling hands and uncertain precedent.
Aelith had existed for one year and four months.
She understood only the basics of divinity. Gods existed within their domains. They perceived the mortal world through the veil. They were sustained by faith. They could, with effort, press small portions of their power into the physical realm.
She knew these things the way a child knows that fire burns—not through experience, but because someone has told them so.
Her domain was light.
Warmth.
Gentle illumination.
She had never known darkness except as contrast.
She had never known loss.
She had never known fear.
Not until that winter night.
She knew it was winter because of the prayers.
Cold sharpened devotion. Mortals prayed differently in winter—more urgently, more practically. There was a particular ache to their words when they asked for warmth.
She was attending Father Cedric's evening prayer—his were the most regular, the most deliberate, shaped by twenty years of habit and a depth of attention she had grown deeply attached to—when she felt it.
Movement near the church.
Not one of her thirty-seven. She knew them by their warmth-signatures. Each soul felt distinct to her, like differently shaped candles. These presences were unfamiliar.
Two people.
Moving quickly through the night with urgency—but not aggression. Not hunters. Not soldiers.
Frightened.
They reached the church door.
It opened.
Cold rushed into the nave, sharp and biting, and for a brief moment she felt the intrusion as if someone had opened a window into her own being. Then the door closed, and the cold remained outside.
They moved forward.
One was a man with black hair and yellow eyes. The other was an elven woman with brown hair and green eyes. Aelith recognized the pointed ears. Sister Sasha had ears like that.
They looked exhausted. Their faces were tear-streaked.
They spoke quietly to one another, then the woman stepped forward and placed something wrapped in cloth upon the altar.
Aelith felt confusion bloom inside her.
No one had ever made an offering at this hour.
Not like this.
The man pulled back part of the cloth.
A pair of red eyes blinked up at the ceiling.
A baby.
The bundle moved.
The baby was placed fully upon her altar.
The couple looked at the child.
Then they turned away.
The man stepped toward the door.
The elf remained.
"Alfira, we have to go," the man said, his voice breaking.
"Bu—but, Soren…" she whispered.
Aelith recognized the tone. It was pleading. Sister Marian used that tone when asking Sister Sasha for apple pie.
Her mind made the connection earnestly. Pie meant comfort. Therefore this must also be about comfort.
She did not yet understand desperation.
Soren did not respond. He only waited.
Several seconds passed.
Tears slid down Alfira's face. Then she ran to him and held him tightly, as though holding him might undo whatever decision had already been made.
Aelith felt sadness rise in her like a dimming of light.
They must not want the baby to see them cry, she thought with the simple logic of someone who had existed for only eighteen months.
Poor family.
The couple separated.
Then they left.
The door closed behind them.
Silence returned.
"Wait," Aelith said, pressing her awareness toward the veil. "You forgot the baby."
They did not come back.
She waited.
Half an hour passed.
The temperature in the church began to drop.
The baby began to cry.
It was the first time Aelith had ever heard a baby cry.
The sound pierced her.
Not because it annoyed her—but because it hurt. It was raw and helpless and impossibly small. The sound carried confusion. Fear. Cold.
Panic bloomed inside her domain.
"I—no—no, please, don't," she whispered, though she knew mortals could not hear her through the veil.
She did not know what to do.
Gods were supposed to know things.
Gods were supposed to be calm.
Gods were supposed to be vast and wise and steady.
Aelith was none of those things.
She was eighteen months old.
Father Cedric would not arrive until morning.
The baby's cries grew weaker.
Aelith felt something tight and frightening inside her—a sensation she had no name for.
She pushed.
She gathered a small portion of her power and pressed it gently through the veil.
Warmth.
That was all she truly understood.
Warmth meant safety.
Warmth meant comfort.
She wrapped it around the baby as carefully as she could.
The crying faltered.
Then stopped.
The baby opened her eyes.
Crimson.
White hair.
Pale skin.
Pointed ears.
And she was looking directly at Aelith.
Not at the ceiling.
Not at the air.
At her.
The baby stretched tiny hands upward, fingers opening and closing as if trying to grasp something just out of reach. Small, delighted sounds replaced the cries.
Aelith froze.
She had not expected this.
She had not expected to be seen.
The panic drained from her like darkness retreating before dawn.
In its place came something bright and overwhelming and almost unbearable.
Joy.
Warmth spread through her domain—not the warmth she was projecting, but something internal, blooming outward.
Flowers began to appear within her realm of light.
Small at first. Then more.
The baby laughed—a soft, bubbling sound.
Aelith laughed too, though no one in the mortal world could hear it.
They remained like that through the night.
A goddess barely older than a year.
A child barely older than hours.
When morning came, Father Cedric entered the church as he always did.
And found something new waiting upon the altar.