The forest groaned with the weight of an old magic, older than the first breath of man.
In a place between worlds—where time bent and stars forgot to shine—Yeha, the forgotten goddess of the Earth, lay dying.
Her body, once sculpted of root and stone, had begun to crumble. Cracks webbed through her limbs like the breaking of ancient bark. Her skin, once glowing with the lush green of spring, now faded to ash and autumn. Even the wind barely stirred around her—almost afraid to touch a goddess who was becoming myth.
Only one remained by her side.
Aderyn knelt beside her, his form cloaked in twilight and moss, neither mortal nor god. His hands trembled as he pressed his palm to her arm, feeling the pulse that once summoned seasons now thudding faintly—fainter than a heartbeat, softer than a dying flame.
"You don't have to vanish," he whispered, silver eyes heavy with grief. "You can pass it on. There's still time."
"To whom?" Yeha's voice cracked like frost. "The line is broken. My children follow gods who do not walk the soil. Their hearts belong to stone temples and sky kings."
"Not all of them," Aderyn said gently. "There is one. A girl."
Yeha closed her eyes. She'd watched the Kiri family from afar—watched them forget her name. Watched them bow to others. Only two daughters remained unclaimed. One was already turning away, walking the path of Norse war gods.
But the other…
"Aria," she murmured.
Aderyn nodded. "She's different. The earth listens when she walks. The winds shift when she speaks. She's never prayed to you, but she feels you. She doesn't know it yet, but she is you. Your rhythm, your chaos, your silence. She's the one."
Yeha's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she saw Aria—young, confused, alive. Still human. Still free.
"She will hate me," Yeha whispered.
"She will understand," Aderyn said. "Or she will become something the gods have never seen."
A silence fell between them.
Then Yeha said, "Bring her."
---
Nairobi was too loud. Too bright. Too modern to notice the wildness threading its way through a girl like Aria Kiri.
Everyone called her odd, even when they meant it kindly. She had a mind that wandered too far and eyes that saw too much. Teachers labeled her "promising but distant." Strangers complimented her calm voice and careful posture, never realizing how much she was hiding beneath it all.
She lived with a quiet fury. A feeling that she didn't belong in her own life.
Her parents didn't talk about gods unless they were scolding. Her mother prayed with urgency to Yahweh. Her father believed more in systems than divinity. Her elder sister, Debra, had begun whispering the names of Norse gods under her breath. Odin. Freya. Loki. Bold names. Sharp edges.
But Aria? She never believed in gods who needed to be feared. She found the divine in windstorms, in tangled roots, in the stillness after rain. She felt something ancient stirring beneath her skin since childhood, but no one could name it—so she stopped talking about it.
Until the trip.
They were in the Congo Basin for a week-long school program. Aria wandered often, as she always did, trailing behind the group, drawn by something more than curiosity.
She found it beneath a moss-covered stone, hidden in a knot of roots that seemed to shift for her hands alone.
A book.
Rough as bark. Heavy as bone. The title was etched into it in symbols she had never seen, yet somehow understood:
Yeha, the Forgotten God.
It pulsed in her hand.
The moment she touched the cover, the book exploded into light. Blinding. Warm. Living.
The energy surged into her chest, crashing through her like a storm. Voices filled her ears—ancient, urgent. Memories not her own slammed into her mind: gods speaking in tongues, trees roaring, the earth screaming as it bled.
A war. A choice. A name.
Yeha.
Then everything went dark.
---
She woke in silence—but not really.
The forest hummed. Leaves whispered. Trees murmured her name in languages she now understood.
Birds above her weren't just singing—they were speaking. Warning. Calling. Asking.
She blinked up at the sky, dazed. The air tasted different—thicker, electric.
Something had changed.
She had changed.
When she stood, her vision blurred for a moment—then sharpened. She saw lines crisscrossing the trees, glowing like veins—barriers, wards, whispers of another world layered over this one.
The book was gone. But it was also… inside her. Every word, every secret burned behind her eyes.
And somewhere deep in her bones, a voice whispered:
> You are mine now, little seed.
---
Weeks passed, but nothing returned to normal. Aria barely spoke. She moved through school like a shadow. Her senses were too sharp, her emotions on edge. No one noticed when she cried under the jacaranda tree behind the school. No one understood when she said the wind was calling her name.
And then came the dream.
No—the vision.
She saw a gate. Tall. Twisted from living roots. Wrapped in light. It stood in a jungle so old it wept with memory. A voice echoed in her head, pulsing like a heartbeat:
> Come.
She followed it.
She told no one.
No goodbyes.
She took a bus toward the Aberdare Range, then walked. The forest grew thicker with every step. Rain fell without clouds. The birds went silent.
And then… she saw it.
Nestled between two trees that leaned into each other like lovers.
A gate.
Alive.
Ancient.
Calling.
Aria took a breath.
Then she stepped through.