The sky was dark and bruised, and heavy rain poured down. Thunder rumbled across the broken hills. This was the land scarred by the long war between humans and elves. The kings had won, signed peace treaties, and celebrated in their castles. But the common people still suffered, starving and burying their dead in the mud.
One person, Mysa, was struggling through the storm. She was about twenty-four, but hunger and sadness made her look much older. Drenched and trembling, she held a small, limp body—her three-year-old son. His head hung against her chest, but she held him tight, as if she could bring him back to life with her love.
Her cracked lips whispered between sobs, "Not you too… please, not you too…"
A flash of lightning lit up the sky as she reached a large marble temple. The temple's towers stood tall above the ruined city. It was the Temple of the Goddess of Love and Truth. There were no bells or priests. Inside, only the sound of thunder echoed.
Mysa went inside. Rain dripped from her torn dress, making dark spots on the stone floor as she dragged herself to the statue of the goddess. The idol was huge and serene, carved from white stone with a peaceful smile. It looked so calm in a world of pain.
Her knees gave out, and she collapsed, holding her son's lifeless body. Her voice was a broken whisper as she looked at the statue. "O… Mother of all… goddess of truth and love… listen to me…" Her voice trembled, and then she broke down crying. "I… I am a mother, a wife, a daughter… And now, I am nothing. I lost my husband, my friends, and my family—all because of wars I didn't want. And now—my child…"
Tears ran down her hollow cheeks, but her words grew stronger. Her voice rose, filling the empty temple. "I never asked for anything from you. I went through all the suffering, hunger, and grief, believing you were with me. But now… NOW, when I need you the most… when all I ask is for this child to breathe again—you are SILENT."
Her sorrow turned to anger. Her red eyes blazed as she gently placed her son's body on the cold floor in front of the statue. "If you can't give me my child back…" She spat the words like poison. "...then give me the heads of those kings, the war leaders, the murderers who destroyed our lives. Do you hear me, Goddess? If you are real, do something! And if you are just STONE…"
With shaking hands, she grabbed the offering plate next to the statue and threw it up. It spun in the air, but instead of breaking against the idol's face, it fell harmlessly to its feet. A mocking silence followed.
Madness took over. She grabbed the ceremonial temple sword—a long, silver blade meant for peace. Raising it high, she stared at the statue with bloodshot eyes. "Tell people this sword was given to the Ditchans to protect them," she shouted, her voice wild with despair. "Tell them it's the sword of kindness and love. And now tell them—" she pressed the blade against her neck, "—that I cut off my own head to PROVE you are not a goddess at all!"
The blade came down.
Blood splashed across the stone steps in a red arc. Her body fell to the floor, her head to the side, her lifeless eyes still wet with tears.
And then, time stopped.
Mysa's soul rose from her body, pale and floating. She looked down in horror at her dead self as her spirit drifted up. The temple began to glow, and from the statue's lips came a voice—warm and motherly, but full of sadness. "My daughter… this world you see is dying. The hearts of men are selfish. They have forgotten how to love. And so… wars will come. Great wars, to clean this land and burn away what is rotten."
Mysa's spirit cried. "But why? Why do innocent people have to suffer? Why, my child? Haven't they suffered enough?"
The goddess's stone eyes seemed to come alive as the voice echoed again: "Everyone will suffer until the world remembers the truth."
The glow faded. Time started again.
The silver blade had done its job. Mysa's body lay spread out on the altar, her blood running in streams across the cracked stone, gathering at the feet of the silent goddess. The smile on the statue remained, unchanged, as thunder shook the temple walls. Outside, the storm howled louder, as if the world itself was mourning the desperate sacrifice of a mother's prayer.