All four of them.
I haven’t spent a moment honoring them since I arrived at the outpost. Not one whispered prayer or candle lit. I’ve been too busy running. Filling every hour with motion and knowledge so the ache in my chest won’t rise up and drown me.
Grief has a way of hollowing you out. Of making room for rage and blame. Somewhere along the way, I think I turned from the gods because part of me held them responsible.
For taking my parents and shattering the only life I’ve ever known. For making methis—the Spiritborn. A title I never wanted. A fate I didn’t choose.
I step closer, the breath caught somewhere between my ribs.
Saela, the Earth Goddess, stands closest. Her stance is wide and grounded, bare feet rooted in cracked stone. Vines twist up her legs and across her arms, as if the earth itself still clings to her. Her head is tilted slightly forward, her eyes lowered—not in submission, but in listening. I feel it in my bones. The quiet strength of her.
The memory of hands in soil. The scent of home.
Beside her is Nerai, Goddess of Water. She’s carved with graceful curves and soft lines, as if sculpted by waves instead of chisels. Her palms are lifted, facing the sky, robes flowing like currents caught mid-motion. There’s a serenity in her face that pulls something loose in me.
Like rain before it falls. Like grief that’s been givensomewhere to go.
Vaerion, God of Fire, towers behind them—broad-shouldered, cloaked in stone shaped like flame. One hand rests on the hilt of a sword, the other clenched at his side. His gaze is carved to face the horizon, stern and unblinking. Even in stillness, he radiates heat. I can almost feel it pressing against my skin.
He doesn’t look like a god of comfort, but rather a god of war.
And then there is Auren, the Air God. Lighter in build, his robes are windswept, his head tilted as if listening to a whisper only he can hear. The edges of his form blur slightly, not with wear—but with motion, as if a breeze moves through him.
He looks like he could leave at any moment. Or that he never truly arrived.
The hairs on my arms rise. And for a moment, I swear the air shifts around me—just enough to stir the vines again.
I step forward, the hem of my training pants brushing against stone and moss. My fingers tremble slightly as I lower myself, pressing one hand to the base of the statue—where Saela’s feet meet the earth.
The stone is cool beneath my palm, solid and rooted, just like her.
I bow my head, eyes fluttering closed. The morning is quiet around me, but something shifts inside—like a door cracking open after being shut for too long. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let my heart speak its truth to the gods.
Saela . . . I’m so angry.I’m so full of pain and I don’t know where to put it. I don’t know how to let it go.I don’t know how to keep moving without it breaking me in half.
Something stirs beneath my hand. A quiet warmth, faint and fleeting. As if the ground itself is reminding me:
You are not alone in your grief.
But then—something changes. Not just warmth this time, buta hum beneath my palm. Low and ancient. Alive.
A chorus of voices speak in my mind. Two female and two male, twined together like roots and flame and wind and water.
You are not alone in your grief.
We see you, Spiritborn.
And we mourn what has been taken.
There’s a pause, and then just a deeper voice—fire, perhaps, or air—
But know this: the path of light does not bloom without cost. Sacrifice is its seed.
I jump back, stunned—my hand springing away like I’ve touched a hot stove. I stare at the statue, at Saela’s stone feet, like they might move.
It’s as if the world is holding its breath with me.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady my racing heart. That voice—thosevoices—they were not imagined.
