Chapter Text
6,000 Years Ago — The Beginning of the Age of Gods
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
“OSIRA!”
Pain exploded across her stomach as the rider’s blade sliced through her. He galloped past without looking back, leaving her to collapse in the blood-soaked dirt.
Death had always promised peace, sweet, silent, final.
But not for her.
Not for their families.
As her heartbeat slowed and her vision dimmed, Osira saw her, Afon, draped in smoke and gold, her enemy by nation, her love by choice, standing untouched by the slaughter. A child of peace. A daughter of Evren. Yet beautiful and untamed in her madness.
Osira’s grief sharpened into fury. Not just at the blade that struck her down, but at the betrayal of silence. Afon had said nothing. Had done nothing.
She simply looked away, as if the sight of Osira’s suffering cost her more than war itself.
She wore the golden crest of her mother’s peace, yet stood unmoved amid the blood. Her silence cut deeper than the blade ever could.
Osira’s voice broke before her heart did. “You promised me.”
Love, Osira realized, could hollow you just as much as it could make you whole.
If Osira was to die for the one she loved, then everyone would feel her pain too.
With the last of her strength, she pushed herself to her feet. Blood ran freely down her torn robes as she raised her voice, fierce, raw, and full of rage.
“My name is Osira, first daughter of the Abyssal Mother, Ciar, Lover of Darkness, Queen of Madness.
Hear me, oh gods above, far from my reach, and bear witness.
I curse you, Mother of Earth, Evren, Lover of Nature, Queen of Peace:
For every child of mine who dies by the hand of yours, so too shall one of your blood perish.
But unlike you, I will give you hope.
When the time comes, one child from each of our lines shall rise,
And together, they will ascend to glory…
Or descend into madness.”
As her words echoed across the battlefield, the gods, both high and low, fell silent. The air turned thick with silence. The wind stilled. Clouds blackened, coiling above like watching eyes.
Then Ciar, the Abyssal Mother, appeared behind her daughter, not just a goddess, but a grieving sister whose sorrow had long since curdled into silence.
She did not speak. She did not weep.
She only reached out, and from Osira’s bleeding body rose chains of obsidian, dark, sharp, and eternal. They slithered like serpents across the blood-soaked ground and pierced the earth beneath Evren and her firstborn, binding both divine lineages in a curse woven from grief and vengeance.
But the gods, in their arrogance, heard only vengeance, not the warning buried beneath it.
The ground cracked like veins of blood. Birds fell from the sky, hearts stopped, wings broken. Even the stars above flickered, dimmed, and died as silent as Osira’s love Afon had been. The sky cracking like glass under pressure.
The battlefield held its breath. Not with fear but the anticipation of what would come to be.
Two goddesses. Two families. One curse.
It would endure until the last child of both lines rose to glory…
or fell to madness. Together.
But with all great curses, something was always forgotten.
What they did not see was the tear in Osira’s eye as she fell, the part of her that still loved.
And when the wind finally moved again, it did not howl, it whispered her name, over and over, like a wound that never healed.
Between the children of Mother Earth, the Brightwoods.
And the children of the Abyssal Mother, the Nightingales.
They never stood a chance to discover what was left out.
Some say Osira’s scream still echoes in the voids of the world.
Some say she never died at all.
In Awan City, thousands of years later, the wind still whispered her name through rust and rain.
After all… if Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
What mere flame could match the wrath of a goddess daughter betrayed by both love and blood?