There was no pain.

No light.

No sound.

Only stillness—endless and weightless, like the universe had forgotten her.

She didn’t remember how she died—only fragments. A sterile room. A flickering monitor. A final exhale not her own. Her body had gone cold before her mind had the chance to understand it was over.

And yet… something stirred.

A hum—soft, melodic—carried through the void like a ripple across time.

> “Your thread was cut too soon,” a voice murmured, neither male nor female. “So we rewove you.”

Her eyes opened—not to a ceiling or sky, but to light.

Golden mist spiraled around her, warm and alive. She stood barefoot on marble laced with glowing veins, inside a cathedral without walls. Towering arches, spun from starlight, reached into nothingness. Fireflies of light drifted through the air, responding to her breath.

She was not afraid—only hollow, like her name and past had slipped away.

She approached the center, where a mirror hung in the air, reflecting not her earthly form… but someone divine.

A girl, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, dressed in white and gold dress that shimmered with ancient runes. Her hair was silver, flowing like silk in slow motion. Her eyes blue-white with streaks of pink—held sorrow older than time.

> “That’s… not me,” she whispered.

But it was.

Because her reflection bowed.

Then the world turned.

The light peeled away.

The arches dissolved like mist.

And in their place stood a temple—massive, eternal, real.

She blinked, now standing beneath a domed ceiling painted with constellations. Statues of gods and goddesses lined the walls, but all bowed toward one empty throne in the center: hers.

She stumbled forward, heart pounding.

> I’m not a goddess, she thought. Why am I here?

The moment her foot touched the crystal dais, the temple came alive.

Candles flickered. Bells chimed softly. Flowers bloomed in the cracks of ancient marble. Her presence—the soul now bound to this sacred place—was felt, even if she remained unseen.

And below, beyond the grand doors, the people began to whisper:

> “She has returned…”

That same evening, deep within the Temple of the Weaving Star, a lone priestess knelt beneath the altar’s crystal heart.

Liora Elvane, age twenty-one, had prayed every dusk since she was old enough to speak. As a child, she would leave flowers for a goddess she had never seen. As a woman, she offered songs and silence.

But tonight, the silence pressed too heavy.

> “You’ve been gone too long,” she murmured, voice echoing against polished stone. “And yet… I keep feeling you.”

Her fingers curled in her lap. A breeze passed through the sealed chamber—warm and sudden. The flames along the altar flared softly.

She froze. “...My Lady?”

There was no answer.

But the shrine glowed faintly, pulsing with light.

And in that light—Liora felt her.

She stood slowly, eyes wide, lips parted. “You’re here.”

No form. No face.

But the air shimmered with divinity.

A soft whisper followed her heartbeat—not heard, but known.

> “I’m not who you think I am,” came the goddess’s voice, spoken with guilt and wonder. “I’m not… her.”

Liora inhaled sharply. She had heard it. Not with her ears, but her soul.

> “Then you must be someone fate has chosen,” Liora said softly. “And I will follow you.”

Tears filled her eyes—not from fear, but devotion. She knelt again, not out of tradition, but truth. The crystal above her pulsed brighter.

The goddess stood silently in the shadows, unseen. A mortal soul in a divine shell. Her hands trembled.

>" Why do they believe in me? Why trust someone like me?"

But even in her doubt, the temple welcomed her.

And even in her silence, someone heard.

The candles flared once more—this time in rows, lighting the entire hall.

The vines bloomed.

The altar glowed.

And from the highest towers of the empire, the winds changed. Priests stirred in their sleep. Visionaries awoke with tears on their cheeks. The stars, some said, danced above the capital.

A divine presence had returned.

Not seen… but deeply felt.

> The Goddess of Fate had come back.

And with her… a soul not born of stars, but born to change them.

They called her mad.

Not with cruelty—no, the temple priesthood was far too polished for that. But with tilted heads and quiet pity. With sentences that ended in soft sighs.

> “Perhaps the strain of solitude has affected her…”

“Liora has always been a little too… spiritual.”

“She felt something? Yes, well, faith plays tricks.”

But she knew what she felt that night.

She knew the Goddess had returned.

Even if no one else did.

Liora stood alone before the great inner shrine. Morning sun filtered through the stained glass, casting sacred patterns over her face—roses, stars, doves, threads. Her hands trembled slightly as she rearranged the fresh moonblossoms on the altar.

> “You don’t need to appear,” she whispered to the air. “Just… stay.”

The goddess had not spoken since that first night.

But Liora still felt her—soft warmth brushing her shoulder, the way a single petal would float by when no wind stirred, or how the flames in the offering bowls curved toward her when she sang.

> “They don’t believe you’re here,” she said gently, placing one more blossom at the base of the crystal. “But that’s all right. I will believe enough for all of them.”

She remembered her mother’s voice, long ago in the temple nursery:

> “Faith, child, is not the absence of doubt. It is the choice to keep reaching through it.”

And Liora had reached all her life.

First blindly.

Then desperately.

And now… knowingly.

---

The high priest came to her again that day. Lord Vaeron—ancient, robed in red and white, his voice like dry parchment.

> “You’ve been… fervent, lately,” he said. “We appreciate your devotion, Liora, but visions unshared can cause confusion among the sisters.”

She kept her gaze respectful. “I’m not confused.”

> “Then what do you claim to have seen?”

“I didn’t see Her,” she answered. “I felt her. I heard her, in my soul.”

He gave a tight, almost patient smile. “So you heard a voice no one else did, in an empty temple, at midnight. Are you certain it was the goddess, and not… your longing?”

Liora hesitated—then smiled back, but without bitterness.

> “Even if it were just my longing… why would my longing know sorrow? Her voice was not prideful or holy. It was human. Afraid. Lonely. That’s how I know it was Her.”

The high priest blinked—clearly unsettled by her answer.

> “Then let us hope,” he said stiffly, “that your faith bears fruit.”

---

That evening, after all had gone to rest, Liora returned to the altar.

And knelt again.

> “They doubt you,” she whispered. “But that only means I must believe more.”

A soft breeze stirred her hair.

Then—just for a moment—a presence behind her.

Liora did not turn.

> “You’re listening again, aren’t you?” she said gently.

The candles flared.

The wind stilled.

Liora closed her eyes.

> “Whoever you are… whoever you used to be… I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to be here.”

---

And in the shadows, unseen and wordless, the goddess watched the girl kneeling for her.

Not because of power.

Not because of miracles.

But because someone chose to believe in her… as she truly was.

Not divine.

Not destined.

Just… trying.

And in that moment, the goddess—soul reborn, still uncertain—felt her first tear fall in this new world.

Not from sorrow.

But from hope.

Selene Virell did not sleep like others.

She drifted between realms, between time. She had since she was nine, when her first vision came in a dream laced with frost—and she awoke speaking words not yet spoken.

Now at twenty-three, Selene rarely dreamed at all.

She saw instead.

And when she saw, the world broke open.

---

That night, as the sky turned violet and stars veiled the empire, Selene sat alone before the Mirror of Threads.

It was a sacred relic passed down for generations, hidden in the observatory of the northern spire. Its surface reflected not faces, but truths—if one dared to look.

Selene dared.

Her silver-blonde hair hung loose, eyes calm but hollow. A thin ribbon of blood trailed from her right nostril—she’d already had two visions that week, and it was too soon for another.

But something had changed in the world.

She felt it in her bones.

The air trembled with threads unspooling.

> “Let me see,” she whispered. “Show me what the others refuse to feel.”

She placed her hands on the cold rim of the mirror. Its surface rippled, not like glass, but like silk soaked in moonlight.

And it began.

---

🌌 The Vision

She stood in the middle of an open sky. No ground. No horizon.

Only endless space and a figure cloaked in white, floating gently like a feather in still air.

The goddess ELARIA.

But something was wrong.

The figure flickered—divine, then human. Robed, then broken. Eyes that once glowed like galaxies now filled with tears. The goddess turned toward Selene.

> “I am not her,” she whispered.

“I didn’t ask for this body… but I will carry what she left behind.”

The voice trembled—not like a goddess, but a girl trying not to fall apart.

Selene felt the threads around her tighten, tangle, and pull.

A thousand timelines spun past her eyes:

A temple crumbling under flames.

A priestess weeping at an empty altar.

A woman cloaked in shadow, cursing the stars.

A soul—a human soul—trapped in light not her own.

And at the center of it all, the false goddess, arms outstretched.

Not running.

Not pretending.

Choosing to stand where no one else could.

Selene reached for her.

And woke with a scream.

---

🕯️ Back in the Tower

The candlelight shook. Books tumbled from the shelves. Selene collapsed to the ground, gasping.

Blood dripped from her nose, heavier this time.

But she smiled, breathless and shaken.

> “You’re not divine,” she whispered. “You’re real.”

For the first time in her life, the goddess ELARIA hadn’t appeared perfect, mysterious, or distant.

She had appeared… honest. afraid. mortal.

And Selene believed her.

---

✨ Later that Night

Selene sat beside the mirror again, bandaged and pale. She dipped a quill into ink and wrote into her vision journal:

> The goddess has returned… but not as we thought.

She is not made of starlight alone.

She is something rarer—something sacred in its fragility.

A soul who was not chosen by the stars… but one who chose to stand among them.

She closed the book, whispered a soft prayer, and turned her eyes to the sky.

> “You’re not her,” Selene murmured into the silence.

“But you are the only one who can save us now.”