"I-it doesn't hurt anymore…"
The boy with the broken arm stared at his limb as warm light pooled over it—light from the goddess's hand. Bones that had once jutted beneath the skin now straightened. The bruises, the swelling… gone. His fingers flexed, stunned.
The goddess—Ruby—knelt beside him, her veil fluttering in the soft breeze as she moved from one wounded soul to another. Her hands glowed with a soft blue hue, the magic seeping gently into skin and bone, mending what pain had broken.
"You're… you're really her," a mother whispered. Her lips trembled as she held her infant daughter to her chest, watching the child's fever disappear beneath Ruby's palm. "You're the goddess who came from the Temple of Moonpetals. I prayed for you every night…"
Ruby looked into the woman's eyes. "You are not forgotten," she said softly. "None of you are. The gods may be silent, but I am not."
A hunched elder, his leg swollen and purple, bowed low before her as she helped him sit against a cart wheel. "We thought the temple had forsaken us," he murmured, breath thin. "We thought the nobles would let us rot outside the gate."
"They would have," Ruby replied, eyes hardening beneath her veil. "But I will not."
Gasps and tears followed her every step. Children clung to their mothers, healed. Men lowered their heads in gratitude, their wounds closing as if kissed by stars. A woman missing two fingers held her hand as they slowly regrew, skin shimmering like moonlight before settling into flesh.
"My baby was crying for days," one father whispered. "She hasn't made a sound since yesterday. I thought I lost her…"
Ruby laid her hand on the baby's chest. The child's eyes blinked open. She gave a soft, startled cry—and then a giggle.
The father broke into sobs.
"Your strength," Ruby said, "is your faith. And your faith has moved me to act."
They gathered around her now, the villagers forming a half-circle as she rose to her full height.
"I do not seek worship," she told them. "I seek justice. For you. For the fallen. For the forgotten."
The old woman from beneath the tree stepped forward last. Her voice trembled. "My grandson… I couldn't save him. I couldn't save any of them."
Ruby turned to her, lifting the woman's chin. "But you survived. You lived… and you still love. That love alone makes you worthy of peace."
And so, the cries turned to hymns. In the rising sun, the villagers prayed—not to a faceless god, but to the veiled woman who touched their wounds and shared their pain.
---
The palace gates finally opened—not to welcome villagers, but to summon the goddess.
In the grand throne hall, King Arthro stood at the base of the golden dais, flanked by Shithal and guards with polished spears. He looked like a king sculpted in pride—robe spotless, crown firm, gaze cold.
Ruby walked in alone. Her veil still covered her face, but the weight of her presence made every noble look down.
"You disobeyed a direct order," Arthro said coolly. "The Dragon Gate was to remain sealed."
Ruby stopped halfway up the hall. "And so it did. But gates do not bind me, Your Majesty."
"You dare address me like this?"
"I dare because your people were starving. Dying. And you did nothing."
Gasps fluttered through the court like birds startled from trees. Even Shithal shifted uncomfortably.
Ruby's voice cut sharper than steel. "What is a king who turns his back on his people? What is a ruler who lets children die while his wine stays full?"
Arthro's eyes narrowed. "Do not speak to me of ruling, veiled one. I have held this throne through war and fire—"
"Yes. And the fire is rising again. Devils are spreading across the borders. The people cry out. If you do not act, you will lose more than the throne—you will lose their faith. And their faith is what holds your kingdom together."
Whispers rose across the chamber.
Arthro frowned. "So you came to lecture me?"
"I came to warn you," Ruby said. "I will fight the devils. I will defend your borders. Not for you—but for those who still believe in goodness. And for that, I must prepare a ritual in the temple."
He laughed bitterly. "You presume much. Why should I let you act in my name?"
"I act in no one's name," she replied. "I am not yours. I am theirs."
And with that, she turned, robes sweeping behind her like a storm, leaving silence in her wake.
---
Temple of Moonpetals — Midnight
Only priests accompanied her now.
Candles flickered as Ruby stood before the ancient altar inside the temple's inner sanctum. Sacred incense curled around her as she lifted her hands in prayer. Silver glyphs shimmered beneath her feet—sigils drawn from ancient texts to prepare the land's protection magic.
The priests chanted softly in the background, their tones blending into the low hum of divine resonance.
Ruby closed her eyes. "Moon, guide me. Light, shield me. Let no child die beneath the devil's claw. Let no soul cry unheard."
The ritual grew deeper—her body humming with celestial energy. The glyphs burned brighter.
Then… the floor shifted.
With a sudden jolt, the stone beneath her cracked and gave way. Ruby gasped as her feet slipped, the light vanishing beneath her. The priests shouted, but she was already falling—down through dust and cold air.
She hit the ground with a grunt.
Coughing, she stood slowly. All around her was darkness.
But not silence.
Torches lit by ancient magic flared to life as she moved forward, revealing marble walls marked with strange carvings. At the center stood a pedestal—dusty but intact—with a circular stone tablet etched with symbols older than any she'd studied.
"A secret chamber," she whispered, running her fingers across the carvings. "Below the altar…"
There was power here. Old. Dormant. Watching.
But there was no time.
She turned quickly, murmured a soft incantation, and the stone stairs rose behind her.
I'll come back. After the battle. After the northern front.
And she vanished up the steps, veil billowing behind her like smoke.
Third Pace: The Northern March
The palace courtyard buzzed with the clank of armor and the low murmur of soldiers.
Ruby stood atop the temple stairs in full ceremonial armor—white with silver plating, moon patterns etched into her chestplate. Her veil remained, though her eyes now glowed faintly beneath it.
A young soldier approached and bowed. "My lady. The battalion is ready."
She nodded. "We ride to the north. We will not let the devils claim another village."
Behind her, two hundred soldiers stood ready—handpicked from the temple's guard and loyal to the goddess alone. Wagons of supplies and scrolls of enchantments waited nearby, their wheels rattling as priests cast protection charms upon them.
As Ruby mounted her steed, a priest approached and handed her a small silver token.
"A blessing from the high priest," he said. "For the battle ahead."
Ruby took it silently and pinned it to her sash.
The wind tugged at her veil as she looked to the horizon. The sky above the northern plains already pulsed with dark clouds—ominous and growing.
"We march not for the throne," she told the soldiers. "We march for those who cannot fight. For children yet unborn. For homes not yet burned."
A unified cry followed.
She raised her hand, and the gates creaked open before her.
The goddess turned to the path ahead—her path—and whispered, "Arthro… the winds have changed. And this time, they blow not in your favor."
And with a final command, she rode into the dawn, the wind howling behind her like a ghost awakened.
---